Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When I saw him walk in, my eyes lit up.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored designer suit, with his tie slightly loosened. Even though his long legs were wrapped in high-quality suit pants, you could still tell they were muscular. He strode confidently and sat on a high stool at the bar.

"Whiskey, neat." He didn’t even glance at me.

I could clearly smell the scent of Bleu de Chanel mingling with whiskey emanating from him, which told me he had already had quite a few drinks. However, in a small bar like this, as long as you paid for your drinks and didn’t cause trouble, the owner didn't care how much you’d had to drink.

I quickly poured a glass and placed it in front of him. He held the glass with one hand but didn’t drink from it. He just swirled it around, staring at the amber liquid as if deep in thought.

He never once looked at me, but I guessed that even if he did, he wouldn’t recognize who I was. However, I had recognized him the moment he stepped through the door.

My thoughts drifted back to those bleak high school days.

For some, high school might be a disaster, but for me, it was a complete nightmare, an unbearable disaster I wished I could forget.

The time before senior year was manageable. Although I always had a few pimples sprouting on my face, unruly hair that defied any amount of gel, slightly bow-legged posture that was often the butt of jokes, and daydreamed more than I paid attention in class, my grades were always far from an A, barely touching a B. Still, I had a few friends to hang out with. In short, the first two years of high school were ordinary and uneventful.

Then, right before my senior year, I was in a severe car accident. I was in a coma for over a year, and after waking up, I endured painful surgeries and months of grueling rehabilitation before I could return to school. Understandably, that’s when my school life turned into a nightmare.

Imagine a high school senior hobbling around on crutches to support a right leg with a metal pin still undergoing rehabilitation, wearing polarized glasses to protect his light-sensitive eyes post-laser surgery, and sporting braces that wouldn’t come off for another two years. Add to that being visibly older than his classmates at 18 years old, and the word "freak" would certainly come to mind.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly how I appeared when I first stepped into this new school. It was a completely unfamiliar place, chosen by my father to give me a fresh start after my old classmates had moved on to college, sparing us both the embarrassment.

In truth, I didn’t need the crutch anymore, but Mark, my physiotherapist, insisted I use it for at least another year, promising that by the time I discarded it, I’d be running and jumping like any other person without any noticeable issues. I was always obedient, so even if I hated appearing in my new school like this, I went along with it.

The first week was miserable. I had to stand in front of each class while the teacher introduced me, and I repeated over and over that I’d been in an accident, was nearly a vegetable, and miraculously woke up to fight through rehabilitation to be able to stand there. If it were an inspirational speech, I might have gotten some applause. But no, I was surrounded by teenagers who thrived on others’ misfortunes to feel better about themselves. My story, lacking excitement and told in a dull way, made it seem like I deserved my fate. I was met with indifference or disdain and slowly limped back to my seat amidst the whispers.

After that week, I got used to things: used to the crude nicknames, being deliberately bumped into, ignored, overly stared at, mocked, and to being the ultimate loser.

Since I couldn’t walk quickly and had to avoid being pushed, I usually left the classroom last, hobbling to my locker and then to my next class. And that’s when I met him.

The previous owner of my locker must not have cared for it, as it was filled with some disgusting, stubborn substance and covered in graffiti, with a warped frame that made opening it a challenge.

I’ll never forget that day when I used all my strength, but the locker wouldn’t budge. Although people noticed, no one offered to help. When the bell rang, everyone scattered, and someone bumped into me, causing my crutch to fall. If I hadn’t been holding onto the jammed locker handle, I would have landed face-first. But as I sighed in relief, the locker door finally popped open, making me lose balance and land hard on the floor. I couldn’t get up immediately and felt thankful that no one saw my humiliation. Then suddenly, he appeared in front of me.

“Hey, are you okay? Here, let me help you up.” He bent down, grabbed my arms, and I held onto his as I pushed myself up with my left leg. The movement was so abrupt I fell against his chest, our bodies pressing together. I couldn’t tell whose heartbeat I was hearing.

He waited until I was steady before picking up my glasses, backpack, and scattered belongings and packing them into my bag. He glanced at the crutch. “Is this yours?” I nodded, and he quickly handed it over. “Are you hurt? Need the nurse? Or do you need help to your class? Oh, by the way, I’m Jared.”

I adjusted my glasses and looked up at him. He had a face that was hard not to like, with warm, dog-like eyes and dimples that seemed to absorb all the light when he smiled—a radiating, sunny presence.

“I…” My mouth went dry, and my heart skipped a beat. I knew I was blushing. “My name is…”

“Jared, hurry up! The coach is yelling,” someone called from down the hallway, “I don’t want to run ten laps around the field!”

“Sorry, my coach is intense. He hates latecomers. You’ll be okay going to class on your own, right? Take care, bye!” he said as he ran off, disappearing down the hallway.

“I’m… Jensen,” I said softly to the empty corridor, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “and thank you.”

He, Jared Padalecki, just appeared in my life.

Chapter Text

I knew I’d had quite a bit to drink, but when you’ve just accomplished another life goal, isn’t a bit of celebration justified?

My boss Duncan—no, from now on, I should say my partner—announced during our recent celebration dinner that we had signed a two-year legal advisory contract with Monroe Technologies, one of the top five tech companies in the nation, and that I was officially a partner in the firm. This was the goal I’d set to achieve before turning 26, and I did it. Today. Just a month after my 25th birthday.

My life has always followed my plans. By the time I was 12, I had passed the Advanced level piano certification and held two solo recitals. In high school, I captained the rugby team to win two state championships and earned MVP twice. I entered Stanford Law School on a full scholarship with straight A’s and have maintained a flawless winning record since becoming a lawyer. Duncan promoted me to partner within four years, a position that took our other partner George six years to reach.

You might think I’m incredibly lucky, but if you knew that before I turned 12, I practiced piano for four hours daily; that in high school, I woke up at 5 a.m. to run, spent three hours studying after rugby practice every day; or that in college, I practically lived in the library, buried in those massive books that could knock someone out if they fell on your head, you’d realize my success is anything but accidental.

Of course, I don’t deny that I’m naturally gifted. Sometimes, I even wonder if God put all the best traits into me when I was made. Besides an IQ of 167, I have an attractive face, killer dimples, and a lean, well-defined physique (thanks in large part to my hard work). Starting in upper elementary school, I’d find notes and cards in my locker regularly. By high school, the amount of chocolate I received on Valentine’s Day could melt down to form three rugby balls (I say this confidently because I once tested it by slicing open an old ball). If I asked someone out, no girl or woman would say no—in fact, I hardly had to ask; they’d come to me willingly.

And, not to boast, I was born with a silver spoon. My father is the CEO of a construction conglomerate, known for its ultra-luxurious mansions targeting the elite. Every project sold out the moment it was released. So, it’s easy to imagine that I never lacked anything growing up. As an only child, my father’s wealth is essentially mine. Words like “financial constraint” don’t exist in my vocabulary. In fact, there’s nothing missing from my life at all.

Though I am talented and financially secure, I am also a planner. At age eight, I mapped out my life’s path and moved from one completed milestone to the next with full determination. After becoming a partner at the firm, my next step was to get married before 28, have two kids before 32—one boy named Dean, one girl named Samantha—and own two dogs named Sadie and Harley (this part actually happened early; those two dogs are probably snoring on my thick, soft carpet as we speak). By 40, I planned to only take on two major cases per year, lecture part-time at a university, and spend the rest of my time traveling the world, visiting all seven continents. Clearly, my next move was to find a woman to marry.

Finding a woman was never difficult for me. Hundreds, if not thousands, would eagerly say yes. Compared to the goals that required time, effort, or mental energy, this seemed almost laughably easy.

The problem was, I was more interested in men than women.

I discovered my confusing orientation in middle school when I found myself more captivated by the size of the bulges in boys’ swim trunks than by the exposed cleavage of girls in bikinis. When I realized I was looking at boys more than girls, I panicked.

Lacking someone to talk to, I sought answers in the library. After reading various books and taking some casual psychological tests, I concluded that sexual orientation isn’t fully set before adulthood, so being attracted to men didn’t necessarily mean I was gay. Even if I reacted more to Calvin Klein male models in briefs than to Victoria’s Secret women, it didn’t confirm I was gay.

Determined to meet my goal of getting married by 28, I shifted my focus. From the second semester of my freshman year, I dated Andrea, the most beautiful blonde girl in school. By sophomore year, we were the perfect couple: the star quarterback and the hottest cheerleader. Plus, with studying and practice taking up most of my time, my occasional glances at teammates’ muscles and firm butts seemed under control.

College was different. Andrea and I drifted apart due to being at different schools. I dated and even slept with other women, but never felt the urge for a long-term commitment. It was normal for a college guy, but I couldn’t shake my attraction to men.

Then, in my sophomore year, I hooked up with a man at a fraternity party. I had been drinking but wasn’t totally out of control. I barely knew him, having only seen him at a few gatherings, and somehow, we ended up pushing each other upstairs into an empty room. I gave him a blowjob; he offered his backside in return. We finished quickly and left the room without a word. We ran into each other at a couple more parties and had silent, mutual hookups, and that was it.

I must admit, sex with men felt better—more exhilarating, more fulfilling. I developed a habit: after completing a case, I’d treat myself by finding a guy at a bar. I was discreet: no names, no numbers, and always cash for hotel rooms. A few rounds of wild sex, and then I’d leave.

So that’s why, after tonight’s celebration, I didn’t return to my luxury hotel. I wandered into a bar, half-aware, because having reached another milestone, I had every reason to indulge.

Long story short, my purpose was clear.

Tonight, I was looking for a man to take to bed.

Chapter Text

“Have you ever been with a man?”

A voice pulled me out of my memories and back to reality. I looked around and quickly realized he was talking to me—after all, there were only the two of us in the bar. Yet, he wasn’t looking at me, but at the now-empty glass in front of him.

“What do you mean by ‘been with’?” I asked, only to immediately understand what he meant. I stared at him in surprise and finally managed to squeeze out a few words after a long pause, “Are you talking about going to bed with a man?”

He didn’t answer, just nodded and pushed the empty glass toward me, saying, “Another one, please!”

I quickly poured him another drink. Seeing he had fallen silent again, I could only pretend to wipe down the already spotless and dry countertop, trying to guess what he was after.

I had worked in many bars and encountered many people probing, subtly or directly, about my interest in one-night stands. Most of them would look at me with eyes full of desire, and a few would steal shy glances. But he wasn’t looking at me at all, so was he really trying to hit on me?

My mind couldn’t help but drift back to those days in my senior year of high school.

The second time I saw him was three days later during lunch. I was sitting quietly in the most inconspicuous corner, cautiously eating the vegetables I disliked the most. Those green strands always seemed to get caught in my braces, forcing me to spend ages in front of the mirror in the bathroom, baring my teeth to clean them out completely. In the far corner, a group of what appeared to be fourth-year students was engaged in a childish game of tossing food at each other. One of them, whose aim was particularly poor, accidentally flung a hot dog.

Getting hit by a hot dog wouldn’t hurt, obviously, but when the target is someone holding a tray full of food and who’s also intensely nervous, the situation can spiral out of control.

The student screamed, and the tray fell, spilling food everywhere. His face flushed bright red, and he stood trembling as if on the verge of tears or a full-blown outburst. The culprit didn’t apologize but instead laughed with his entire table and even made mocking comments.

Suddenly, he appeared out of nowhere. “You should apologize to him and buy him lunch,” he said.

“And what if I don’t?” The culprit stood up but was noticeably shorter by a head, losing half his bravado.

“Then I’ll buy him lunch, punch you in the face, and remind you that bullying is disgraceful behavior. And food is meant to be eaten, not played with,” He declared firmly, each word resonating with power. He placed a hand on the culprit’s shoulder in that “Listen to me” way some people use to restrain others, only this time it carried a palpable threat, as his toned arm muscles indicated.

“Don’t think being the team captain makes you all that,” the culprit muttered, trying to shrug off Jared’s hand but realizing he couldn’t escape its range. He hesitated, unwillingly fished out a ten-dollar bill, slapped it on the table, and glared at the victim. “This should cover your lunch, right?”

The culprit tried to break free again, but Jared’s grip remained firm.

“You have one more thing to do,” he said, turning the culprit to face the victim.

Gritting his teeth, the culprit spat out a grudging “Sorry” before glaring at Jared, either in humiliation or anger. Only then did Jared release him, not forgetting to add, “There better not be a next time.”

The culprit stormed out, and the cafeteria burst into applause and cheers, igniting a fire in my chest.

That afternoon, I sought out Ruby to find out more about him.

Ruby was the only friend I’d made so far, probably because she was also considered a “weirdo” by others—a term I detested but had come to accept. Like attracts like, I suppose. I was one out of necessity; she, by choice.

Her hair was streaked with purple and black. Piercings dotted her face—her ears, eyebrows, lips, and even her tongue. Dark eyeliner and lipstick were her staple look, her fingers adorned with rings, each unique. She wore only black clothing, her arms and ankles inked with tattoos, giving her the appearance of someone who worshiped the devil—a persona that kept people at a distance.

I met her on my second day at school in the boys’ bathroom. Don’t get any ideas—it’s not what you think.

I was relieving myself when she casually walked out of one of the stalls. I was so startled I wet my pants. As she washed her hands, she glanced at me and said she didn’t want to wait in line for the girls’ bathroom, so she peeked in and, finding no one, came in. She wore a look that said, “How was I supposed to know you’d show up? So, it’s not my fault.”

I thought she’d leave after washing her hands, but instead, she openly stared at my obvious wet spot and said, “Follow me!”

I didn’t know why I complied. Maybe it was her intimidating appearance—like if you didn’t obey, she’d whip out a lash or cast a curse. Or maybe, after months of following the orders of doctors, nurses, physical therapists, my father, my older siblings, and Uncle Bobby, I’d just grown used to obeying everyone.

She led me to a home economics classroom and told me to take off my pants. I clutched my belt in shock. No way—obedient or not, I had my dignity.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. Just take them off so you can rinse them,” she said, walking over to a cupboard to fetch a hair dryer. “I’ll dry them for you.” She glanced at me and handed me a saucepan. “Use this to cover yourself!”

Seeing my hesitation, she added, “Hurry up, or you’ll miss your entire calculus class.” It was phrased as a question, but her tone brooked no argument.

And that was how we met, in a very awkward situation.

Ruby told me Jared was the quintessential golden boy—wealthy, exceptionally talented, and brilliant in academics with straight A’s. Some teachers even insisted on giving him A+s. He was also the quarterback and captain of the football team. Last year, he accompanied his girlfriend, Andrea, as her pianist during her violin performance at the school concert, and even improvised a piece, adding to his perfect image that sparked both admiration and envy.

I’d seen people like him before. My older brother, Jeff, was one: captain of the basketball team, valedictorian, and a full-ride scholarship recipient at Harvard Business School. My sister, Jess, was another: beautiful and brilliant, former president of the debate club, and third-place finisher at the World University Miss contest representing the U.S. Unlike them, who looked down on the weak—especially me—Jared had a kind heart.

After that day, I started paying attention to his every move. I knew his practice schedule, where each of his classes was held, that he had a steady, beautiful girlfriend named Andrea, his game stats, how he could down a whole bottle of water in one go, and that he loved a particular pink T-shirt. But I never spoke to him, never had the chance to tell him my name. I only watched from afar, occasionally fantasizing about him during my most private moments.

In this way, I harbored an unspoken crush on him for a whole year until he graduated from high school.

Chapter Text

What would you do if a man so attractive that he made other men green with envy and women swoon was not only someone you had a crush on and fantasized about years ago but also made a suggestive, ambiguous move while not entirely sober?

My answer was to quickly refill his glass and say, “Drink up, and I’ll clean up so we can go.”

Twenty minutes later, we were in the elevator of a hotel, tugging at each other’s clothes. By the time we stumbled into the room, only my shoes and socks were still in place; my jeans had slipped to my thighs, and my underwear was half-hanging off my hips. My flannel shirt and T-shirt had ended up somewhere between the elevator and the hallway, far beyond retrieval. Not that I could be blamed—I had been all but peeled like an orange by a determined grizzly bear and thrown heavily onto the bed.

As I struggled to kick off my shoes, a sharp, tingling pain wrapped around my neck. For a moment, I thought of vampires and wondered if he was about to sink his fangs into me. That fantasy was quickly dispelled by the invasion of his tongue into my mouth.

His tongue roamed hungrily, wet and warm, making me instantly hard. Sparks shot through my body as his tongue moved like a magic wand, while his hands teased my nipples, nails occasionally grazing the small mounds and making them so stiff they felt capable of slicing marble. I worried for a moment that I might come just from this. Sure enough, as he kissed me breathless and gasping for air, I climaxed.

He chuckled softly, “Baby, I haven’t even started yet.” He scooped up the cum that had landed on his shirt (God, I had come before he even took his shirt off) and smeared it on my lips, murmuring, “Your lips are so soft, feel so good.” Then, with his fingers covered in my release, he commanded, “Lick it clean.”

Obediently, I cleaned each of his fingers with my tongue and lips, feeling every inch of them—fingers that had danced over piano keys, fingers strong from gripping a football, fingers that would soon be inside me.

As if he could read my mind, he used the other hand to explore the cleft between my cheeks, quickly finding my entrance. His nimble fingers circled the folds, while his thumb caressed the slit of my erection.

I shuddered when his lubricated fingers slid inside. He seemed to sense my tension and reassured me, “You’re so tight, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.” His movements were gentle, entering bit by bit, retreating just as carefully. “Okay?” he asked, brushing his lips against mine. “You taste so good...” His tongue tangled with mine again, and my mind unraveled.

His kisses left me weak, except for the part of me that stirred to life again. He released my mouth with a wicked smile. “Not so fast this time,” he said, undoing the tie around his neck and loosely wrapping it at the base of my shaft. I groaned as he inserted two fingers, and when he added a third, my body tensed with anticipation.

Then I saw him position his length at my entrance. Wow. It was much bigger than mine, and certainly larger than I had ever imagined. So, the saying about size correlating with height wasn’t unfounded after all? Now wasn’t the time for biological theories—I needed to worry about whether I could take this.

No matter how much you prepare, reality always hits differently. When he pushed the head inside, my scream was louder than I expected. But when he filled me entirely, I swore I saw stars despite the dark room. Pain seared through me, a scream erupting that even startled me. My body was so tense I couldn’t even tremble.

I must have blacked out for a moment, because when I came to, his head was nestled in the crook of my neck, his voice honeyed as he whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. You’re so tight, but I couldn’t help it. Can I go in again?”

I must have fainted since I hadn’t realized he’d withdrawn entirely. I felt the cool air against my entrance, still processing the burn and the sudden stir of desire. “Come in... but slower,” I croaked, my rough voice contrasting sharply with his gentle tone.

He applied more lube and carefully re-entered. It still hurt, but now there was a tingling that came with it. He pushed in to the hilt and paused, biting my earlobe and letting his breath warm me. “Okay?” he whispered.

“Move... just a little,” I said, my voice trembling not from pain but from a deep-seated need. I wanted to be filled, wanted him as close as possible.

On his third thrust, I saw stars again, but this time from pleasure as he hit my prostate. That long-lost feeling of bliss made me moan involuntarily, my shaft now throbbing for release. I reached for the tie, but he pulled my hands away. “Not yet. Together,” he ordered.

His voice had a hypnotic quality, and I complied. My hands found their way to his chest, tracing the muscles I had watched countless times from the stands. Now they were under my palms, warm and taut.

He was relentless, exploring every inch of my body with his hands, as if memorizing my shape. His fingers left trails of electricity, making me feel like I was drifting on the waves of an endless sea.

He lifted my legs to his shoulders, each thrust now perfectly hitting that sensitive spot inside me. The pleasure waves left me begging for him never to stop, while my constrained erection pleaded for release. I was trapped between pain and ecstasy, unable to stop my broken moans and cries.

Time blurred, stretching long and snapping short. I felt his rhythm quicken, his breaths grow heavier, each thrust deeper than the last. Sweat dripped from his brow onto my chest, and he kissed me again. “Come for me, baby,” he said as the tie loosened, and my release burst out in thick ropes. I felt him climax at the same time, both of us lost in shared ecstasy.

Panting, I lay sprawled on the bed as he lazily moved within me, draining himself until he rested, buried deep. He pulled me close, chest to chest, wrapping his arms around my torso. “You were amazing,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and sexy.

He withdrew and discarded the condom. I expected him to either collapse into sleep or head to the bathroom, but I was wrong. He laid me down flat, straddling my waist, gazing at me in the dim light. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his hand caressing my face. He leaned in, resting against the crook of my neck, and after a moment, I heard his soft snores.

I pushed him aside, using the faint light to take in every detail of his face. For so long, I had only admired him from afar. Now he lay before me, naked and unguarded. He looked as breathtaking as ever.

I guessed that when he woke up, he might not remember me, and we might never cross paths again. But I didn’t want to forget this moment.

I took out my phone and took a picture of his sleeping face, then slowly picked up my clothes and put them on, and left without looking back.

Chapter Text

This was the first time in my life I woke up not knowing where I was.

I was roused by a call from my boss—no, my business partner—reminding me not to miss my noon flight back to New York. Slowly, I started to piece things together.

I lay in bed, trying to recall the events of last night. I remembered drinking quite a bit at the celebration party, then choosing a random bar to walk into. It must have been late, with no other patrons around, so I tentatively made a move on the bartender. But beyond that, my memory was blank.

My head throbbed, and my bladder felt painfully full. I rushed to the bathroom to relieve myself and then knelt over the toilet, dry heaving for several minutes before vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol. Only after a long shower—nearly half an hour—did I begin to resemble my usual self, both physically and mentally.

Except for my memory.

The first thing I did upon leaving the bathroom was check my wallet. Thankfully, apart from a few missing bills—likely spent on drinks and the hotel room—everything was there, including my ID. It seemed I hadn’t been robbed.

I looked around the room. Besides the clothes scattered on the floor and the rumpled sheets, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I picked up my shirt and noticed several patches of dried stains. The tie, too, was similarly marked. Whether it was mine or his, I couldn’t say, but I had a feeling it was his. On the floor, there was a knotted condom filled with what I assumed was my own release. Good—even drunk, I hadn’t forgotten protection.

I tried to recall his face. The darkness in my mind obscured any features, except for one thing: his eyes—big, green eyes. Beyond that, nothing. I struggled to push my memory back to the moment I walked into the bar, but all I could remember were glasses—filled glasses, empty glasses. God, had I really gone to bed with someone without even looking at his face?

I couldn’t picture his features, but for some reason, I could recall the feel of his skin. He must have had full lips, because I remembered the soft, plump sensation of my fingers brushing over them. He probably wasn’t the gym-going type, as his chest felt smooth rather than muscular. I was sure he had a firm backside—the memory of its roundness and resilience still tingled in my fingertips. And yes, I remembered the pleasure of being clenched so tightly that each thrust made me feel even more swollen, pushing deeper with reckless abandon.

Lost in thought, I suddenly realized my hand was stroking my own length. Was this the same motion I’d used on him last night? I didn’t know. All I could see in my mind were those green eyes staring back at me. And then, just like that, I climaxed.

I missed my noon flight. I used the excuse of a last-minute invitation from a local friend to delay my return by a day. In truth, I wanted to find that bar and the man I had been with. I needed to see his face again.

After freshening up once more, I left the hotel. At the front desk, I hesitated before asking the staff if they remembered the man I was with and when he might have left. The woman on duty told me he had left around 3:30 in the morning. She even chuckled, saying she had stopped him as he was leaving because they found his shirt in the elevator. She added that she could imagine how wild the night must have been because she saw the ring of love bites on his neck.

If she noticed the marks on his neck, she must have seen his face too. Her eyes widened as she recalled, then she beamed and said he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with features so stunning they could awaken the basest desires. His eyes, she said, were like emeralds—impossible to look away from. Well, at least I hadn’t misremembered his eyes. But as she gushed with excitement, practically drooling, my mind conjured the image of a wolf pouncing on a green-eyed lamb.

Beauty is subjective, and men and women often see it differently. But hearing this infatuated girl talk made it seem as if I had been with a man of unmatched beauty—a man I now couldn’t recall, whose name I didn’t know, and whose contact information I didn’t have. This, according to the starstruck girl, was my gravest mistake, as she longed for the chance to invite him back herself.

Back at the hotel, I ordered room service—a black coffee and a sandwich—and sat on the small balcony, slowly filling my stomach and trying to clear my head.

Over the years, I had been with a few men. I didn’t have a particular type, though I preferred them to be no older than five years my senior and at least twenty. Skin color and ethnicity didn’t matter, but they needed to be well-groomed. And I always needed to be on top—it gave me a sense of control. I never stayed the night, never exchanged contact information, and there was never a repeat.

From the girl’s description, the man last night must have been in his twenties. Good—he fit my age range. But last night, I had broken my rule by staying and sleeping in. I blamed the alcohol, not the exhilarating sex.

Even though I stuck to my no-contact, no-repeat principle, I always remembered their faces. I never let myself get too drunk to lose that awareness, and I had an exceptional memory. But it never went beyond that. No man had ever left me wanting more, as if seeking them out was just a whim—a fleeting need that left no trace afterward. Yet, for some reason, I couldn’t shake the memory of last night’s intimacy. It felt intangible but brought a deep sense of satisfaction, like I had found something long sought after. Ironically, I couldn’t remember his face.

When evening fell, I returned to the street lined with bars. None of the neon signs looked familiar. I visited eight different bars, had eight different drinks, searching for those elusive eyes. I even asked the bartenders, but no one knew who I was talking about.

I lingered outside the hotel from the night before, hoping to see him again. I waited from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m., watching a few disheveled people leave hurriedly. I wondered if he had left in the same way. But I knew I would never get an answer.

The next day, as I left the hotel, I threw the tie into the trash and told myself to forget everything.

Let that one perfect night stay in Las Vegas, a city built on dreams.

Chapter Text

I noticed something was different about him this morning. From the slight awkwardness in his gait, the ring of love bites around his neck, and the fact that he returned in the early hours, I had a pretty good idea of what he’d been up to last night. Although I was quite surprised, I was secretly happy for him.

Of course, I was curious about the kind of person who managed to help him overcome the shadow of his past from three years ago. But he only smiled, saying he’d felt a connection and decided to give himself a chance. I didn’t push him for details, just teased him, asking if he could still drive. After all, he had to drive all the way from Las Vegas back to New York. Could his backside handle it?

He punched me playfully and rolled his eyes, then went to pack his bags. Half an hour later, he was on his way back.

We’ve known each other for years, since our senior year in high school. When I first saw him in class, he looked like such a mess that girls wanted to avoid him, and guys wanted to kick him. As for me, I felt nothing but sympathy. I know I’m considered a “weirdo” in other people’s eyes, but I don’t care. I like dressing this way, and as long as it doesn’t bother anyone, what’s the harm? But the moment I saw him, I knew he would soon be labeled a freak. It wasn’t his fault, but he didn’t have the strength to fight back.

High school is a brutal place. If you’re not stepping on others, you’ll get stepped on. People like us are there to make other students feel normal, so they don’t mind that we’re around. Anyone who looks odd, acts awkward, has an unfortunate appearance, or is dealing with a tragic situation is quickly labeled a freak. And, unfortunately, he had a bit of each of these traits.

To be honest, his situation was pretty sad. But his communication skills were terrible. A story that should have been moving and inspiring came out as if it were the tale of a born loser, especially when told with his odd appearance. To make matters worse, he had to repeat it in different classes, making everyone yawn. With his strange glasses, the braces flashing whenever he spoke, and the crutch he leaned on, it was only a matter of time before he became a target for ridicule.

I don’t believe that freaks must be friends with other freaks, but one day after school, I saw him limping home alone, and out of curiosity, I followed him. After five blocks and a couple of turns, I realized he was living in an old car scrapyard. It was run by a middle-aged man named Bobby Singer, who lived alone. So, was he Bobby’s son? No, his surname was Ackles, so maybe he became an orphan in the accident and was taken in by Bobby?

My parents died when I was eight, and I was raised by my aunt and uncle. That possible shared experience made me want to get to know him better.

Gradually, I learned everything about him. He wasn’t an orphan, nor was he adopted by Bobby. He had just been “banished.”

He came from a wealthy family but had the misfortune of being born into the wrong circumstances. He had an older brother and sister, much older and exceptionally talented, like Jared, the captain of our school’s football team. He, however, was clearly the black sheep, even to the point of embarrassment. Even his family considered him a freak. He was born weak and spent a lot of time in hospitals. His mother had a difficult pregnancy and, after his birth, her health deteriorated, so he was seen as a curse.

His academic performance was considered a disgrace by Ackles family standards, especially since he only showed interest in the arts. The family even had a paternity test done to ensure he hadn’t been switched at birth. With his “shameful” grades, his parents didn’t even bother attending his elementary or middle school graduations.

During the summer before senior year, he and his mother were in a serious car accident, which left them both in comas for over a year. When he woke up, his mother had passed away. He endured numerous painful surgeries and grueling rehabilitation sessions, wishing it had been him who died instead. That way, the Ackles family’s perfect image would remain intact, and he, the family disgrace, would be gone. But fate had other plans, and he had to continue living as a loser.

When he was ready to return to school, his father arranged for him to transfer to our town. Officially, it was because his physical therapist had moved here, allowing him to continue his therapy. In reality, it was just a way for his father to avoid seeing him, to spare himself the grief of being reminded of his wife’s death.

His father had grown up in this town, and Bobby had been his childhood friend. So, he ended up living with Bobby.

In a way, his situation was sadder than mine. Even though I was an orphan, my aunt and uncle still provided me with a decent home, while he was exiled from his.

We quickly became close friends, sharing everything. People assumed we were a couple, but they were wrong. I like girls, and he likes guys. We were both gay. Since we were already labeled as “weirdos,” we didn’t bother correcting anyone.

It didn’t take long for me to learn about his crush on Jared. He could recount every single game Jared had played, even knowing the strengths and weaknesses of each team member. He’d watched all of Jared’s practices and games. I once encouraged him to confess his feelings, but he always smiled, saying that Jared already had a girlfriend and that he was content just watching from afar. And so it went, all the way until Jared graduated. They never had a single close interaction or even spoke a word. Jensen knew everything about Jared, but Jared didn’t even know his name.

I believe his family situation was to blame for his lack of confidence. Growing up unloved and unwanted, he learned to hide his desires and faced people’s disdain with self-deprecation. He would always say, “Don’t expect anything, and you won’t be disappointed.” But I knew that was just a shell he built to protect himself after countless rejections.

After high school, we went our separate ways but stayed in touch. He attended college for a year, then disappeared. Calls to his cell went unanswered, and it wasn’t until three years later that we reconnected. I didn’t pry into what happened during his absence, but I knew it wasn’t pleasant. For over two years, he hadn’t been with anyone, hadn’t dated anyone. That’s why I was so curious about his one-night stand.

This time, he was taking a summer trip, visiting museums and exhibitions while stopping by to see me. Last night, he helped out at my bar because my coworker called in sick. Around 10 p.m., my girlfriend had an emergency, so I had to leave even though there were still customers. He assured me he could handle the bar, and at 1:30 a.m., he texted me, saying, “The bar is all cleaned up; I’ll be back late. Don’t worry.” I didn’t hear him come in until around 4 a.m.

I didn’t expect to satisfy my curiosity so soon. Tonight, just as I was closing up, a man came in, asking about a handsome guy with green eyes. I recognized him immediately; after all, I’d watched enough of Jared’s practices and games with Jensen.

I was certain that the man he’d spent the night with was none other than his longtime crush—

Jared Padalecki, the man he had admired from afar for an entire year.

Chapter Text

From Jared’s vague description, I could guess that while he did sleep with Jensen last night, he had no idea what Jensen's name was. That’s not unusual; many people don’t reveal their real names during one-night stands. He didn’t know where he’d met Jensen either, so now he’s left wandering around, asking questions like a lost soul. To make matters worse, he doesn’t even remember Jensen’s appearance—only his green eyes. In other words, he was drunk when he hooked up with Jensen and now, once sober, wants to see him again.

I’m not sure who initiated things last night. Knowing Jensen’s personality, there’s zero chance it was him. He doesn’t need to make the first move; there’s no shortage of admirers vying for his attention.

You might think my words contradict what I’ve said about him before—how he was once a high school misfit that everyone avoided. But believe me, a young woman is very different from the little girl she once was, and men can, too. He was just a bit of a late bloomer.

After high school, we went our separate ways. He got into an art school for design, and I set off to roam the world. We stayed in touch, but I didn’t see him again until the Thanksgiving before last. I had come back to town to spend the holiday with my aunt and uncle, and he was also in town to see Bobby. He decided to stop by for dinner and a catch-up.

I barely recognized him when I saw him. He’d had those hideous braces removed a month prior, revealing a set of bright, white teeth that, along with his eyes—eyes I hadn’t truly noticed until he ditched his thick, clunky glasses—made him look stunning. He had long, curly lashes and full, alluring lips. Perhaps the braces used to distract from them, but now, I could see how attractive they were. In short, he’d transformed into a total heartthrob, nothing like his old high school self.

When he caught me staring, he actually blushed. Even I, a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian, felt a spark. I couldn’t resist asking him if he was constantly fielding invitations and date offers at college. He laughed it off, saying he did get some hints, but he was too busy working to spend time on that.

I knew that when he applied to art school, his father had been furious, saying that if Jensen insisted on going into a field with no financial future, he’d have to pay for it on his own. Jensen had chosen art anyway, his one act of rebellion, and so he entered college broke, working hard to support both his studies and his living expenses.

Not that Jared lacks charm. He was a star in high school, and Jensen wasn’t the only one with a crush on him. He was the guy who’d get enough Valentine’s chocolates to last all year, and when he scored a touchdown at a game, the screams from the stands could break glass—luckily, there was none in the stadium. Even now, he has the same energy and confidence and clearly looks like a successful professional. He also seems the type to take the lead, leaving others in quiet hope of his attention. Jensen, on the other hand, waits for people to make the first move, though he usually lets them down gently.

I am curious about how Jared and Jensen ended up in bed together. Jensen is openly gay, but Jared? He dated Andrea from sophomore year until graduation. Did he have a change of heart after college? These days, sexuality is fluid. I’ve seen married men seek out other men at bars, and many people, drunk and willing, will go as far as kiss or grind on others in public. Jared could easily be bisexual—or maybe it was just a moment of fun, without any real attraction to men.

Jensen isn’t the type for one-night stands. Deep down, he’s searching for a union of soul and love. He used to receive so many disdainful looks that he felt constantly reminded that someone with his grades and appearance was worthless. Now, after his transformation, he’s noticed a change in the way people see him. But he doesn’t understand why a change in appearance should suddenly make him desirable. He wishes people could see his heart, rather than viewing him as a sexy plaything. He wants people to appreciate his talent as a designer and not just find an excuse to get him into bed. He yearns for love and acceptance, things he’s never truly had.

In my eyes, Jensen is an amazing person. If you give him an inch, he’ll give back tenfold. Maybe he’s grateful that I offered him friendship when he transferred to a new school. Even though we live our own lives miles apart, he’ll drive for hours to comfort me when I’m feeling down. When he heard about my plans to open a bar, he made unique decorations that now hang on the walls, and people love to take photos with them.

I may not have a great eye for art, but I fully believe in Jensen’s talent. I still have a handmade Christmas gift he made for me during his freshman year. It’s a model of Big Ben made from folded advertising pamphlets. He remembered how much I loved Big Ben from my backpacking trip to England and how I spent a lot on a miniature souvenir. So, he found images online and created a 1:200 scale model just for me. He said it wasn’t worth anything since he made it from discarded fliers at the bar he worked at, but to me, it was priceless because it was one of a kind and made from the heart.

That’s why I love Jensen so deeply—not in a romantic sense, but whether he’s the awkward high school misfit or the dedicated artist he is now, I hope he finds someone who truly appreciates and loves him.

Could Jared be that Mr. Right? I have my doubts.

It seems like they only had a one-night stand, and Jared doesn’t even remember Jensen’s face. The upside is that maybe Jared wasn’t attracted just to Jensen’s looks. The downside is that maybe he was just looking to blow off steam, which would be an insult to Jensen. Or maybe Jensen was just fulfilling a high school fantasy. If so, I’m happy for him. After all, during senior year, he admitted to me, shyly, that he’d dreamed about Jared more than once.

Either way, Jensen is back in New York, and the chances of them meeting again are slim. So, I told Jared that I didn’t know the guy he was looking for. I don’t know if I did the right thing, but as I watched Jared’s disappointed figure leave, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. I thought of Jensen’s gaze in his senior year, full of longing and hurt, and felt like I was standing up for him in some way.

Chapter Text

Today, I won another case. I represented a woman with cancer who was maliciously abandoned by her socially respected doctor husband. I managed to secure a substantial alimony and custody of her children. It was sad, though; a decade ago, this couple’s wedding had made the news because they’d known each other since high school. Both came from families that couldn’t afford to support them through college, so when they were both accepted, she gave up her studies, worked three jobs, and put him through medical school. Five years after his graduation, he married her as a successful hospital doctor. They had gone through so much together, only for him to abandon her once he’d achieved fame and fortune. As I looked at their wedding photo in the case file—so full of happiness—and then at the resentful expressions they wore as they left the courthouse, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion.

In any case, I won, and I won decisively. The verdict was announced in the morning, and by the afternoon, my office was flooded with calls from people specifically requesting me as their lawyer. However, I had my secretary reschedule all my appointments for the next three days. As usual, I planned to take a break to reward myself.

On regular days, I am highly disciplined. I don’t have the habit of sleeping in; I wake up at six every morning without an alarm. Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in workout clothes, ready for an hour-long run in the nearby park. When I get back, I shower, make myself a fresh vegetable juice, watch half an hour of morning news, and head to work. On my way, I buy a coffee and a bagel, which I finish by 8:50, just before logging in at nine to start the day.

On my days off, I follow a different routine. I still wake up at six, but on the first day, I take my two large dogs hiking. When I return, I tackle the mess in my study. While I have cleaning staff to take care of the rest of the house, the study is off-limits because it holds too many confidential client files. Then, I stretch out on the sofa to watch mindless movies or shows until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. On the second day, I indulge in a big brunch, catch up with a friend, and clean myself up before heading to a bar in the evening to find someone to hook up with. On the third day, I hit the gym for an intense workout, and by the afternoon, I’m back to my usual self, ready to dive into my next case.

Structured, but in a different way.

Tonight was the second night of my break. I chose a well-decorated bar and slowly sipped my first drink. Usually, I spend about half an hour observing my surroundings, assessing potential partners. From their glances and body language, I can usually tell if someone’s gay or just looking for a bit of excitement with a guy—like me. Once I identify a target, I’ll buy him a drink and chat for a while to confirm his intentions and gauge his age. In today’s world, younger men try to act older, and older ones try to appear younger. I want to avoid any underage trouble and also prefer not to be met with sagging skin when clothes come off. Once we’re on the same page, we head to a clean hotel room.

But tonight, for some reason, I’d been sitting here for an hour, had two drinks, and received countless flirtatious looks, but none stirred me. I’m not usually picky about looks; I’m more concerned about body type. After all, when the lights are off, touch is what matters. The man across from me had looked over multiple times. He was well-built and dressed sharply, fitting my typical criteria, but I hadn’t made a move. It was as if, subconsciously, I was waiting for someone better.

After my third drink, a man came into view. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat across from me, giving me a bold look as he said, “I want to see if your downstairs matches your good looks. There’s a hotel two blocks away—interested?”

I don’t like it when others take the initiative; I’m the one who likes to be in control. I also don’t appreciate crude language—it makes me feel cheap. So this man was clearly not my type. I gave him a cold smile and asked him to leave. He seemed taken aback, his eyes widening in surprise. “Are you sure?” he stammered, his confidence deflating. Suddenly, I noticed his eyes were green, reminding me of another pair of green eyes. My mind changed in an instant, and I said, “Maybe I’m not so sure.” Ten minutes later, we left the bar together.

Since these encounters are a treat for myself, I usually go for at least two rounds. But tonight, I only climaxed once before losing interest. I tossed the condom and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. When I returned, the man was still leaning against the headboard. “Want to go again? Or maybe I could give you a blowjob?” he offered.

I squinted at him, noting how the light from the bedside lamp highlighted his face. His eyes were a dull green-brown, nothing like the person I was thinking of, and I felt no attraction whatsoever. Shaking my head, I replied, “No, I’d rather go home and sleep.” Quickly dressing, I opened the door and left.

When I woke up the next morning, an unshakable feeling of frustration lingered. It didn’t make sense because the man hadn’t performed badly. Though he’d been cocky at the bar, in bed, he had become the submissive type. The moment I sat at the edge of the bed, he undressed, knelt between my legs, and eagerly worshipped me. He kissed his way up from my toes to my throat, slowly undoing and removing my clothes with his mouth and tongue. But just as he leaned in to kiss me, I turned my face away and switched off the lights, watching him with expectation. I was disappointed immediately.

I felt oddly detached while thrusting into him, even though he moaned wildly. I won’t say he was exaggerating; I know I’m well-endowed. I stroked his lips, pinched his nipples, and gripped his ass, but it all felt wrong. Though I climaxed, I felt no satisfaction.

If it wasn’t his fault, then maybe the problem lay with me? I examined myself—I’d been hard at the right time, ejaculated as usual, and had even woken up aroused. Physiologically, I was fine, which meant it had to be psychological.

I thought back, analyzing the events of last night. I had been picky at the bar, eventually choosing someone I normally wouldn’t have, though his performance wasn’t poor. The reason was simply that he had green eyes, while others didn’t. But since when did eye color matter to me? Then, I realized everything else had felt off: the touch of his lips, the sensation under my fingertips, the feeling of being inside him—it was all wrong. Every cell in my body seemed to reject it, leaving me disinterested.

I sighed. Of course, I knew what they wanted, because my senses weren’t the only ones craving it. My heart also yearned for him… 

For the man I’d had a one-night stand with over three months ago in Las Vegas.

Chapter Text

I’m not someone who gives up easily. In fact, I’ve never abandoned any goal I’ve set in my life so far. But when the person you want to see again is all the way across the country in Las Vegas, and you don’t know his name or contact information, not even his appearance clearly… what else can you do but let it go?

Besides, he has nothing to do with my life goals. Even if I did see him again, what would that accomplish? Another night together? A casual hookup arrangement? I shook my head at the thought. That’s not an option in my life plan. My desire for him was purely a passing physical impulse—if I just stop thinking about it, it’ll fade soon enough.

I decided to push that man out of my mind and focus on my next life goal: finding a woman who meets my standards and getting married before I turn 28.

And Monica is my current choice.

I met Monica last month at a charity dinner I attended with my father. She was there with her mother, and we ended up seated at the same table, with her right next to me. Although the surroundings were noisy, we managed to have a few short conversations.

Her father owns a fleet of yachts for rental, and several famous wedding parties and luxury events have taken place on their yachts, making them well-known in the industry. In some ways, it’s similar to our business of selling luxury homes, dealing mostly with wealthy clients. Since we were both invited to this $30,000-a-table event, it was clear our financial backgrounds were compatible.

Of course, I don’t need to marry into a wealthy family. I’m already well-off and don’t need to add to that, but I believe people with similar financial standing tend to have aligned values and tastes. I’m not fond of excessive luxury, but I value refinement. If someone’s daily diet consists of fast food and they only wear bargain store clothes, they’re unlikely to cultivate a sense of elegance and a broader outlook.

Monica is beautiful, with naturally curly blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, and a look that’s somewhat reminiscent of Jessica Alba—a classic beauty who stands out in any crowd. She also has a college degree, which is one of my criteria. Her major was home economics, though I’m not entirely sure what that entails. She tried to explain it to me in simple terms, and I quickly realized that, assuming she took her studies seriously, her education should make her well-suited to raise children like my future Dean and Samantha.

I quickly called Monica and arranged a dinner date for 7 p.m. the following evening. She didn’t put on the usual coy act—I can’t stand it when women pretend to check their calendar only to say they can rearrange things to fit me in. Her straightforward response earned her extra points in my mind.

Our dinner went perfectly. I deliberately chose a moderately priced restaurant popular for friendly gatherings, rather than a high-end venue, to avoid giving the impression of a formal date. I also wanted to see her reaction to a casual setting; if she looked down on it or frowned at the menu, that would’ve been a red flag. I don’t want to marry someone who thinks only foie gras, escargot, lobster, and abalone make for a proper meal.

She seemed to have looked up the restaurant beforehand because her outfit was casual but stylish and well-suited to the environment. She didn’t seem at all self-conscious; her behavior was easy-going. She even ordered a few signature dishes I’d tried before and enjoyed, which showed she’d done her research and wasn’t afraid to take the lead. In the past, I’ve been with women who would only order the most expensive items or tell me to order and then complain afterward about allergies or dislikes—nothing kills the mood faster. Monica, fortunately, had none of those flaws.

I quickly learned that she’s three years younger than me and just graduated from college last year—also aligning with my preferences of a partner within four years of my age. She’s currently training under her father to learn the family business, though she dreams of marriage. She hopes to marry before 25, have two children, and dedicate herself fully to family life.

I almost wanted to propose to her on the spot; she seemed like the ideal wife for me. Of course, I hadn’t bought a ring yet, and I pride myself on being level-headed, so I just mentally awarded her near-perfect scores on my list of criteria.

As we were about to have dessert, there was some commotion in one of the private rooms. Either the room wasn’t soundproofed well, or the door was left open, because we could hear someone strumming a guitar and singing. The entire restaurant fell silent as everyone seemed to listen to the song drifting from the room.

Our conversation was interrupted as I recognized the song: Elvis’s classic, Can’t Help Falling in Love. The singer’s voice was incredibly tender, accompanied by simple guitar chords that conveyed deep emotion. When the last chord ended, applause filled the restaurant. Then, I heard a cheer from the private room, and shortly afterward, a man carrying a guitar stepped out and closed the door, blocking out the sound.

The man with the guitar had short, dark blond hair. He wore a white casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing bronzed arms. His shirt was tucked into jeans, showing off his long legs, though they were slightly bowed. Still, his tight build fit the image of a handsome guy. After chatting with the server at the front desk, he looked ready to leave, but the server thoughtfully offered him a glass of water, striking up a conversation.

“I have to see his face,” Monica said, giving me a playful wink before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched as she made her way to the front desk, picking up a business card and glancing casually at the man before heading to the restroom. The man finished his water and left the restaurant, while I noticed the server’s cheeks were flushed.

When Monica returned, she stopped by the front desk to chat with the server before coming back to our table. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist asking about him.”

I’m not one for gossip; I can’t stand the type who spreads rumors about everyone. However, in high society, it’s necessary to pick up some tidbits here and there. I joked, “So, was he a total heartthrob, or just good-looking from behind?”

She caught my meaning immediately. “One-thousand percent heartthrob! If he released an album, his face alone would make it go platinum.”

She added more details she’d picked up: apparently, there had been a proposal in the private room, and he’d been hired to sing. As she spoke, she tasted the restaurant’s signature dessert—a layered panna cotta with seaweed mousse. The green seaweed layer on top looked lovely with the white panna cotta underneath and tasted fresh and sweet, like the ocean.

“Oh! You should’ve seen him. His eyes were beautiful, the color of this seaweed green—one of those unforgettable pairs of eyes. I think the server’s still a bit dazed,” she remarked, savoring her dessert.

I glanced at the server, who still had a faint smile fixed on her face, clearly captivated since the man had left.

Green eyes? Unforgettable? Could he have eyes like that man’s? Staring at the green panna cotta in front of me, I suddenly regretted not going to the front desk with her to see for myself.

Chapter Text

It was almost 10 p.m. by the time I wrapped up my last case of the day. I grabbed a burger combo and sat on the steps of the plaza, eating while reviewing my schedule for tomorrow.

I currently work for a company called Helping All, which handles all sorts of odd jobs. As the founder, Ash, likes to say, as long as it’s not illegal, we’ll do our best to meet the client’s needs. Basically, we’re a company that does whatever people need, with typical tasks including bill payments, shopping, food delivery, last-minute transportation, housekeeping, and repairs.

Of course, I’ve also taken on some bizarre jobs—like killing cockroaches.

Don’t think it’s easy. Killing a cockroach isn’t hard—if you can see it. The problem was the client, terrified, told me the creepy thing had crawled under her bed half an hour earlier, and she’d bolted from the room to call for help. Cockroaches crawl, after all. So, I spent half an hour moving every piece of furniture in her room until I finally found it under her wardrobe (thankfully, still in the room, or who knows how long it would’ve taken). I also discovered she rarely cleaned, so I spent an extra hour dusting away a layer of grime nearly a centimeter thick and putting the furniture back. That was the grimiest cockroach job I’ve ever done.

Another odd job was accompanying a client to a cemetery at midnight—not to dig up graves or burn corpses, but to wait for her deceased boyfriend’s ghost. She said they’d promised that if either of them died, they’d return on the seventh day to say a final goodbye. Her boyfriend had died in a car accident seven days prior. We waited from 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. the next day; the sun rose, but not a ghost in sight (which I was pretty relieved about). Three days later, she wanted someone to play with a spirit board to talk to him. Ash refused, citing a lack of available staff, and blacklisted her.

Three years ago, after a brush with death, I chose to start a new life in New York. It wasn’t long before I noticed the job ad for Helping All. Ash only has one hiring standard: a willingness to work hard. He doesn’t care about gender, education, experience, appearance, race, or religion—even a criminal record isn’t an issue. So I got hired on the spot.

Ash runs a 24-hour website to accept various requests. Some tasks are paid per job, while others are paid hourly. For special requests, he works out the details and rates with the client before assigning staff based on availability, skills, or location. He has an extensive network across various industries, so when his friends need help, he arranges for us to step in. I’ve delivered pizzas, served as a substitute driver, worked as a waiter, and bartended—sometimes for a day or two, and my longest stint was a month.

Ash knows our strengths and weaknesses. For instance, May won’t be asked to blow up balloons at a birthday party since she screams when one pops. I often handle romantic setups for dates or proposals because he thinks my singing and guitar playing are emotionally impactful. Tom doesn’t do jobs that require climbing to rescue cats because he’s afraid of heights, while anything involving online gaming or upgrading belongs to Dick, who’s practically fused with his computer.

In my view, Ash’s brain is like a computer, always processing complex calculations. He considers each case’s fair price, time needed, and employee wages before notifying us of the next day’s tasks at 10 p.m. If we can’t do a job, we have until midnight to let him know so he can find someone else. We’re on call 24/7, especially for last-minute tasks, which usually pay better.

Our pay is based on the number of jobs completed. Ash assigns work according to our availability and any special requests. Most employees are students working part-time, so some take on fewer cases during exam season, while others pick up more for extra cash. We interact with Ash mostly online or by phone, with him orchestrating us from behind the scenes. We rarely meet other employees since we’re always running around, but we have a group chat to share work tips and occasionally vent about clients, which Ash mostly ignores as long as it’s harmless.

Since we rely on Ash for jobs, we all follow the rules and do our best. He has a simple policy: if you feel the pay is unfair, you can leave anytime. Also, mess up more than three cases, and you’re out—our business is based on service.

Generally, clients make requests but can’t choose specific staff, and we can’t take on jobs outside Helping All. However, for routine tasks, like driving an elderly client, Masa, to Philadelphia monthly to visit her daughter, Sandy handles it and gets to see her own brother while she’s there. Lisa’s food processor repairs are handled by Hank since she lives just a block away from him.

If a client insists on a particular person, there’s an extra fee, and Ash evaluates the reason for the request. He also has a strict rule against engaging in intimate relations with clients, meaning Helping All offers no such services—a rule that spares me from a lot of harassment.

For me, the flexible hours are ideal, Ash looks out for me, and the income is just enough to get by. In the past three years, I’ve driven my second-hand motorcycle across every street and alley in this city. Though I often endure the elements, I enjoy the freedom to move and breathe. I’ve made friends who save me from long lines, and I’ve picked up skills that make life easier. I even take university courses and work on my art projects.

This is my life now. I spend two half-days each week at the university, and the rest depends on Ash’s assignments. Excluding last-minute jobs, I average 8–10 cases daily. When I need a longer break, I let Ash know, and he clears my schedule so I can enjoy some time off.

I don’t have any plans for my future. The severe accident in high school and my harrowing two-year ordeal three years ago taught me that plans can’t keep up with life’s twists, so I live in the present and pursue my passion for art.

I love creating art from what others see as trash or discarded items, which I owe to Ash. Thanks to his connections, I met Ben, who specializes in resource recycling, and Alex, who deals in scrap metal. The first time I saw Ben’s mountain of recyclables, my eyes lit up. I spent a day working for him in exchange for a bag full of soda cans, which I turned into a series of Harley motorcycles, even gifting one to Ben. Two days later, he asked if I’d consider giving him the entire series. In return, he said I could take whatever I wanted from his collection.

It was similar with Alex. I spent nearly six months building a metal band set for him. Now, I have access to his scrap metal, as well as his large machines for cutting and polishing.

To others, my creations may still look like junk, but to me, they are objects given new life—created with my hands, time, creativity, passion, and the one dream I dare to pursue. Each finished piece changes how I see myself: I am not the “waste” my family sees. I have worth.

As for other common goals like love, family, and money, they feel far out of reach, too extravagant even to think about.

I once had all those things. But in the end, they became scars that cut deep, painful scars.

Chapter Text

Returning to the office after a three-day break, I sensed something unusual—the atmosphere felt tense, and the place was eerily quiet. I observed for a while but saw no new faces or missing ones. The strangeness was hard to pinpoint. After an hour, I couldn’t resist any longer and went to Duncan’s office to find out what was going on.

Every office has a key person—often not the boss who pays you—and our firm is no exception. For us, that person is Tina.

Tina may know the least about law in the firm, but that doesn’t diminish her influence here. She’s an accountant and has been with the company since it was founded. Starting as a fresh graduate, she handled accounting and odd jobs, watching the company grow from five people to a top-notch firm of over seventy. She’s become a savvy and competent powerhouse, with total command of the company’s accounts and even the filing system, which she set up herself. No one dares disrespect her; after all, all expense approvals and reimbursements go through her, and no one wants to risk their finances, right?

It should be noted that Tina is, in fact, a warm-hearted person—a mother hen of sorts. She’s quick to check on everyone’s well-being and doesn’t hesitate to scold us like children if we act improperly. Nobody dares smoke or crack dirty jokes around her. When someone has a cold, she’ll even make a special herbal tea with her “secret recipe.” I’ve had it twice, and it works wonders. She never uses her seniority to lord over anyone; when newcomers make mistakes, she patiently corrects them until they’re too embarrassed to repeat them.

So, how did this respected veteran cast a shadow over the office? The answer lies in a single cup of coffee.

Tina is the type who can’t function without coffee and snacks. Despite her expanding figure, she’s unwavering in her devotion to them, and it’s thanks to her that we even have an afternoon tea break. Every morning at 11, our administrative assistant, Apple, checks everyone’s orders for the day’s tea break. At 3 p.m., everyone stops working to enjoy the treats and catch up. Even those on business trips make an effort to be back by three to avoid missing out, and over the years, we’ve sampled all of New York’s finest foods.

Tina is a fan of hidden gems in alleyways, but with the rise of social media, once-unknown spots sometimes explode in popularity. Her favorite coffee shop recently became such a hotspot after a famous blogger’s endorsement. Previously, Apple just had to call ahead, pick up Tina’s favorite coffee on her way back, and deliver it by 3 p.m. But, thanks to the internet, this task became increasingly difficult, and our tea breaks started feeling incomplete.

When Tina missed her preferred coffee for the third day in a row, she finally lost her temper at Apple. Half an hour later, she left early, citing a headache—a first in company history. Afterward, Apple threatened to quit.

Duncan, a seasoned litigator, was at a loss. He contemplated firing Apple to placate Tina or asking Tina to let go of her loyalty to the coffee shop, but this just showed Duncan’s lack of skill in handling such matters. His secretary, Cherry, gently suggested a solution.

Cherry noted that Apple was fast and meticulous with photocopying and that her paperwork was always flawless. Firing her over coffee seemed excessive, and Tina’s coffee obsession wouldn’t change either. Cherry’s idea was to hire someone else for the job, albeit at an extra cost.

Duncan, a generous boss, readily agreed as long as it kept morale high. So, Cherry selected an outside company to handle the coffee runs, and today was the first trial of the plan. As a result, the tense atmosphere hadn’t completely dissipated, but everyone was anxiously watching to see if afternoon tea would arrive on time.

At precisely 2:56 p.m.—I admit I was glancing at the clock too, along with everyone else—there was a stir at the office door. I doubt even the mayor of New York showing up would cause such excitement. Our tea break—especially Tina’s coffee—had finally arrived after a three-day hiatus.

With that, our office crisis was resolved. Tina happily sipped her perfectly warm black coffee with a fresh cream puff, chatting with Apple about a supernatural TV show supposedly in its twelfth season. The lawyers discussed yesterday’s trademark case verdict, and a group of young women gathered around a department store catalog to plan their weekend shopping spree. Duncan, ever gracious, handed his savory quiche to Cherry to thank her for finding the new delivery company and decided that from now on, Helping All would handle our tea breaks.

Two weeks passed without any delays in our tea service, and the office mood noticeably improved. Gradually, everyone’s conversation at afternoon tea began to revolve around Helping All. One colleague had them pick up dry cleaning along with tea, another sent a tablet in for repairs, and one joked about better sleep since he now had someone to play online games for him. One man, whose wife had just given birth, even hired them to handle his kids’ school pickups and lawn mowing. It seemed the company offered endless services, and colleagues felt they’d discovered a treasure trove. It cost a bit, but it saved them time and energy, and everyone seemed to agree it improved their quality of life.

I’d never paid much attention to who delivered our tea, assuming they had many employees since the delivery person varied each time. Then, I overheard the girls discussing two names: Jensen and Cliff. Some admitted that seeing Jensen each day gave them the motivation to come to work (how they got to work before seeing him, I don’t know), while others said their hearts raced at the sight of Cliff’s muscled arms (may the heavens spare them a heart attack at work). They debated endlessly over the two, unable to choose between the Greek-god-like Jensen and the muscular Cliff, ultimately deciding to alternate—Jensen this month, Cliff next month.

Before long, I noticed the women heading to the bathroom to touch up their makeup after 2:30, then drifting toward the front doors around 3. Duncan noticed too—Cherry became visibly distracted around 2:45 each day. Unsure of how to handle this, he asked me to step in.

Since I needed to rein in these starstruck women, I figured I should at least see what all the fuss was about. So, today, I timed my stroll to the desk closest to the entrance.

And there he was—white T-shirt, blue jeans, carrying a large box, smiling warmly at the swarm of women around him. He stood there, chatting with Apple as he confirmed the order. Then, quite unexpectedly, he looked up at me.

In that instant, our eyes met. I saw a pair of green eyes, identical to the pair I hadn’t been able to forget.

I was absolutely stunned.

Chapter Text

I found myself staring at his face, taking a step forward, wanting to get a closer look. He seemed surprised too—his previously radiant smile faded instantly. Had my expression startled him, or… did he recognize me?

"Jensen, everything’s in order. Oh, by the way, can you pick up a box of the special sale face masks at the XX supermarket when you come tomorrow?"

"Jensen, I lost one of my earrings. Any chance you could help me find the other one?"

"Jensen, after 8 p.m., strange noises come from my wall. Could you check it out tonight?"

The girls bombarded him with questions, diverting his attention. "Sorry, company policy requires all service requests to be logged online or through our automated phone system. We handle requests based on official records, so we can’t accept private jobs."

"But I don’t want a stranger coming to my place. If you’re free tonight, I could make pasta, and you could come over and check it out?"

"I’m free too! How about I make a crème brûlée? Jensen, you could join us for dinner and then help with the wall issue."

I couldn’t listen to their excuses anymore. Did they really have to be so obvious? A noisy wall at night? I cleared my throat. "Ladies, please be mindful of the company’s image. Let’s not crowd the entrance or disturb others’ work."

A few of the girls shot me a big eye-roll, which I returned with a glare, and they reluctantly dispersed. He looked relieved and gave me a nod of thanks before turning to leave.

As the elevator doors were closing, I stepped forward just in time, pressing the button to hold the door and slipping inside. "Sorry, I just remembered I need to go to the first floor." I wondered why I felt the need to explain taking the elevator.

We stood side by side, and with several seconds between floors, I scrambled for something to say. "Those chatty girls back there…they won’t make you late for your next case, will they?" Not exactly a brilliant opener, but it was safe.

"Oh, no worries," he replied quickly.

"By the way, I’m Jared. Thanks for always delivering our afternoon tea on time." I extended my hand, then realized he was holding a box. "Is it heavy?"

He shook his head. "It used to have your afternoon tea. Now it’s just an empty box."

The elevator display showed we’d reached the eighth floor; time was running out. I turned to him, deciding to be direct. "You seem familiar. Have we met before?"

He looked puzzled, his gaze lingering on my face for half a second, his eyes a dazzling green under the bright lights.

I suddenly realized how much my line sounded like a cheesy pickup attempt, so I quickly added, "Oh, don’t get me wrong…I’m not hitting on you." Fantastic, I thought, digging myself into a deeper hole. I sounded as ridiculous as those girls. I nearly bit my tongue in frustration.

He chuckled softly, but somehow his bright green eyes dimmed slightly, almost as if… disappointed? He turned back toward the elevator doors. "No, we’ve never met."

I was about to say more, but the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. He tossed out a quick "Goodbye" and walked out.

Upstairs, I took my afternoon tea to my office and pulled up the Helping All website. It listed all their services, pricing standards, and even a cost estimator for clients to calculate fees. Whoever designed it, likely the founder, was definitely business-savvy.

Twenty minutes before the end of the workday, I called Cherry and Apple into my office. I began empathetically, "I understand why you all seem to get so restless around 3 p.m. Jensen is undeniably a strikingly handsome guy."

"You think so too, right? Especially those eyes—like they can see into your soul, so beautifully unreal. I even snapped a picture of him and set it as my phone wallpaper, so I can see him every time I pick up my phone," Apple said.

"Send that picture to me! Oh, his smile is so gentle. Every time I see him, all my work stress just melts away," Cherry chimed in, immediately joining Apple in sharing pictures on their phones, completely ignoring me.

Clearly, the ladies in this office either spend their day glued to their phones or overwhelmed by work stress.

"I also noticed the other day that he has an amazing backside. I’d love to know what that feels like," Apple added.

"And those eyelashes—so perfectly curled! Not to mention his lips, so sensuous. I wonder what it’d feel like to kiss him," Cherry sighed dreamily.

"Enough, ladies, please restrain yourselves," I interjected, clapping my hands for emphasis. "You’re making things uncomfortable for Jensen, and it’s not good for the firm’s image. I don’t want a law office getting entangled in harassment rumors."

"I’m not harassing him! Jo is worse, always brushing against his arm, and he doesn’t even get upset," Apple retorted, pouting.

"He’s like walking testosterone, so I bet he’s used to it," Cherry added, admiring Apple’s photo. "The angle is perfect—his features are flawless. And those freckles? Adorable!"

Cherry zoomed in and out on her phone, examining the picture, and I had to resist the urge to ask her to send it to me.

Stop! Focus on the matter at hand! At this rate, our firm would be hit with a harassment claim any day now.

Clearing my throat, I put on my managerial face. "I know you specifically requested Jensen for the tea deliveries, and I know there’s an extra charge for that. But if you keep this up, I’ll cut the expense from the budget and ensure Helping All never sends Jensen here again."

They looked genuinely uneasy, so I decided to push a little further. "From now on, take my words to heart and spread the message to the rest of the office as fast as you spread gossip. Starting tomorrow, if I see anyone crowding the entrance again, I’ll make sure Jensen never sets foot in this building."

Cherry and Apple pouted as they left. Satisfied, I turned back to my computer, though my mind was still on Jensen.

Something told me Jensen was the man I’d been looking for. For nearly four months, I’d been subconsciously scanning every man I encountered, looking for those eyes. I’d seen many green-eyed men, but none felt familiar. I’d even started doubting whether it was all in my head, an overly romanticized memory—until I saw Jensen.

I couldn’t say for sure why I believed it was him; after all, I only remembered the eyes. But Cherry and Apple’s reactions reminded me of the starstruck desk clerk back at that hotel. Her infatuated behavior matched theirs perfectly. More importantly, there was Jensen’s expression when he looked at me.

I’d met his gaze twice. The first time, at the front desk, he looked genuinely surprised. I’m tall, and not bad-looking, but I doubt that’s what made his smile vanish—it was the shock of seeing someone familiar without expecting it. That’s the kind of surprise I saw on his face, which suggests he might recognize me.

The second time was in the elevator. From what Cherry and Apple have said, Jensen is used to being hit on, so even if I fumbled my words, it shouldn’t have left him disappointed. The most likely reason for his reaction was realizing I didn’t remember him.

I know my reasoning might sound like wishful thinking. But if I don’t think this way, my only option would be to press him for answers. And he’s already denied knowing me. Pushing him further would just make me seem desperate. More importantly, what if I get the answer I’m looking for? If Jensen really is the man from that night, would we end up in bed again? And if he’s not, would I keep looking into every green-eyed stranger’s eyes until I found him?

I don’t know. All I know is that since I saw Jensen this afternoon, the green eyes in my mind have been completely replaced by his face.

Chapter Text

Ash called to let me know that a client specifically requested me to walk his dog. However, he wanted to ensure that his dog and I would get along, so I’d need to meet him and go through the walking route once beforehand.

I know that assigning specific personnel can disrupt Ash’s scheduling, so I was noncommittal about the request. But when Ash mentioned that the client was him, I hesitated.

The day I saw him at King Stone Law Firm, I was stunned. I never expected to see him again, let alone in the same city.

He had become a lawyer—that much was expected. Choosing Stanford Law must have meant he intended to pursue law, and with his sense of justice, it was a natural fit. From the way he spoke to the women in the office, I guessed he was at least a senior executive. To be so young and already a supervisor at what seemed to be a reputable firm—he was still as exceptional and successful as ever.

At that moment, when I saw his expression of utter surprise (probably mirroring my own), I wondered if he recognized me. But when he asked in the elevator if we’d met before, I knew he had no idea who I was. He didn’t know that I’d had a crush on him throughout his senior year or that I was the person he slept with over four months ago.

To say I wasn’t disappointed would be a lie.

I remember back in junior year, even though I only watched him from afar, I secretly wished he’d at least notice me. Even a single glance in my direction would have been enough. But he was always surrounded by his teammates and cheerleaders, his gaze never leaving his girlfriend Andrea. I was painfully aware that in his world, there was no place for me or the name Jensen.

I knew all along that it was a one-sided crush that would go nowhere. Someone like me—a nobody that even regular people wouldn’t look twice at, or if they did, it would be to mutter “weirdo” under their breath. Even my family wanted nothing to do with me, let alone someone as radiant as him. So when he graduated a year later, it felt like an unspoken end to my crush. I didn’t drown my sorrows in alcohol or cry. I simply tucked my feelings for him away, letting them fade with time.

After that, my life underwent major changes. I ditched the crutches, got rid of the glasses, and braces came off. On the outside, I became what others might call attractive, but deep down, I was still the same insecure person, haunted by self-doubt. Then, I met Mike, a man who made me feel like I was his entire world. I thought I’d finally found someone who loved me wholeheartedly, but it turned out to be a brutal wake-up call—a fall from heaven to hell.

Starting over in New York, I found a job that could support me, enrolled in some classes I was interested in, and focused on my art. I kept a friendly yet distant relationship with everyone around me—whether colleagues or classmates—because my family had always told me I was worthless, that anyone who got close either wanted my money or my body.

Honestly, I don’t think anyone would approach me for money, given that my father cut off my financial support after high school. He thought my pursuit of art was just a way to create more trash and doubted my "stupid brain" could amount to anything. No one knows I come from a family that owns a bank. My family wears designer clothes and drives luxury cars, while I dress in off-the-rack clothes and ride a secondhand bike. So, no one would mistake me for someone wealthy or connected.

I do have a trust fund in my name, but I can only access it if I get married and have kids. My father set it up after I graduated middle school, probably suspecting I would be gay or betting no one would ever want to marry or have children with me. Either way, it ensures I’ll never touch that substantial trust fund. You ask how much is in it? Honestly, I don’t know. Knowing would be meaningless since I’ll never be able to use it.

As for my body, I understand my family’s viewpoint. To them, being gay is disgusting, corrupt, and perverse. I’ll never forget that Christmas dinner in my freshman year of college when I officially came out and told them I was in a relationship with a man. Their expressions—disdain and disgust, as if I were a rat crawling out of a sewer—are burned into my memory. Jeff asked how many men had "screwed me," while Jess wondered if I earned my tuition and living expenses by giving blowjobs. I’d grown used to my family’s cold sarcasm, but I never expected my "outstanding" siblings to say such vile things. That was also when my father informed me of the conditions on the trust fund. He said if I insisted on being "shameless," I could forget about inheriting a penny from him.

The summer before sophomore year was the last time I went home. My father, furious that I was still with a man, tore up every family photo. Not that there were many—they were mostly of my parents with Jeff and Jess. He said he no longer recognized me as his son, that I wasn’t worthy of the Ackles name, and told me to leave and never return.

At that time, I thought that although my family didn’t want me, having Mike was enough. Unfortunately, my family was right. All Mike wanted was my body. He marked every inch of me as his own, then left me broken and scarred.

The year after leaving Mike, I didn’t want any physical contact with anyone. Apart from work and school, I spent most of my time in my cheap basement apartment, throwing myself into my art.

But I knew I couldn’t go on like that forever. I wasn’t devoid of desire; I just didn’t know what kind of person I’d eventually meet.

One night, while I was alone at a bar, a man approached and struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly an hour, and he suggested getting a room. But as we left the bar and he wrapped his arm around my waist, I felt a surge of nausea. I ended up vomiting on the street, and naturally, he took off.

About half a year later, I grew close to a male classmate. We’d occasionally have meals together, discuss coursework, and visit art exhibits. One day, we went back to his place, kissed, undressed each other, and then he asked if I’d give him oral. He said he’d wanted my "pretty mouth" to take him to climax since the day he met me. His words stunned me, and as he tried to push my head down, I shoved him off, dressed quickly, and fled. From that day on, we were strangers in class.

I thought I’d overcome those nightmares, but evidently, I hadn’t. The fear was still there because I’d never know when a seemingly gentle lover would turn into a cold-hearted monster.

Then, over four months ago, I went to Las Vegas to visit Ruby. She insisted that in such a fantastic city, I should let go completely. She gave me a can of pepper spray (yes, not lube) for protection and urged me not to hold back.

I took the spray and stayed aware of my surroundings. I didn’t expect to meet him on the last night. What happened between us was serendipity. Maybe I was ready, maybe I was fulfilling a high school fantasy, or maybe I knew it was my one and only chance. Whatever it was, I let go of everything and gave in.

Since returning to New York, I occasionally think of that night and him. He was amazing—even as drunk as he was. Sometimes, I open my phone’s photo album to look at the picture I took of him sleeping, but I never let myself look too long or think too much. Without hope, there’s no disappointment.

When I saw him again at King Stone, I admit I felt a surge of emotions. Seeing him again and having him strike up a conversation made me a little excited. But knowing he didn’t remember me—I guess I didn’t leave as deep an impression on him as he did on me, or maybe he was just too drunk—left me slightly dejected. In the following days, I delivered to the law firm but didn’t see him again. I told myself to let it go. A week later, he suddenly requested that I walk his dog.

I decided to take the job.

If fate has brought us together again, I want to see what it has in store for me.

Chapter Text

He was lying naked on the bed, his big eyes seemed to shimmer with a thin layer of tears, making that captivating green even more intense. He looked at me with such tenderness, his lips slightly parted, and his Adam's apple bobbed as if hesitating. Then, in a half-complaining, half-joking tone, he asked why I had taken so long to find him, saying he’d waited for me, thought of me every night. He moaned softly as I sucked on his nipples, then wrapped his adorable bow legs tightly around my waist, and when I slid my hand between his thighs, he rasped, "Jared, please, give it to me, come inside now." As his hand grasped me, I climaxed.

I woke up, reaching down to feel the dampness of my underwear. This was the second night in a row I’d dreamed of him, ever since I’d seen him the other day.

Yesterday, I dreamed of him giving me a blowjob. He knelt before me, sliding his lips up and down, his expression one of bliss, as if savoring the finest delicacy, his eyes filled with desire and teasing. I came on his face, and the thick liquid dripped from his curled lashes as he blinked his big green eyes, letting it flow down before sticking out his pink tongue to lick it off. He wasn’t satisfied, though, and said, "I want more, and this time, finish in my mouth." He took me in again, and just as his tongue circled my tip, I climaxed again.

I sighed, realizing if this kept up, I’d be washing my sheets and changing the bed every day.

I’ve never believed in love at first sight, especially since he’s a man. I don’t deny that I enjoy being with men more than with women, but that’s always just physical release. I’d never, and should never, allow myself to fall for a man. But clearly, my actions betray my rational mind, because ever since I saw him, I can’t forget him.

I know he arrives daily before 3 p.m. I know those girls are still eyeing him, and I know they’ve secretly scheduled rotations to “greet” him upon arrival.

I try not to think of him, and I won’t allow myself to walk to the door to watch him. But when I hold a coffee cup, I think of how his hands might have held it in the same way. When I lean against the counter, I imagine his body standing there daily as he waits for Apple to confirm the orders. I find myself checking the Helping All website, browsing through their services, imagining him at work.

I’ve come to understand why that girl at the counter in Las Vegas wanted his contact information. I can’t blame Apple, Cherry, or the other girls at the office for their infatuation, because I feel the same. I even think none of us are wrong—he’s the one at fault, going around with a face like that, practically inviting people to break the law.

I dream of him at night and think of him during the day. This unusual behavior terrifies me, so I’ve been analyzing the root of the problem. In the end, I concluded that the incredible experience of that night in Vegas has been stuck in my mind, but the fact that I couldn’t clearly see his face has gnawed at me. So, seeing him made me uncontrollably excited, like finally breaking through a complex math problem and craving the final answer. I decided my next step would be to find out if he was indeed the man from Las Vegas.

I’m a lawyer; I believe in evidence. Even though he denied having met me, many criminals initially deny everything when caught, so I need to find a way to speak to him and slowly draw out the truth. Since I can’t chat with him at the office, I need an excuse for us to be alone, and the best way to do that is through his work.

Sitting on the sofa, unconsciously pressing the remote control, I looked around, considering what kind of task I could assign to Helping All—no, specifically to him.

I already have a housekeeper for cleaning and shopping, and they come when I’m not home, so even if he’s sent, I wouldn’t meet him. My lawn was just mowed, my car is cleaned and waxed daily, and I pay all my bills via mobile. Ha, it seems I have no need for his services.

The doorbell rang, and I opened the door without hesitation, having waited all night for him. He came in carrying a large bag, and I assumed it was filled with crowbars, lights, insecticides… or maybe even some exorcism tools, given that the strange noises in my walls might be from rats or something supernatural. With their experience, they’d likely come prepared for every possibility.

When he unzipped his bag to take out the items, I was shocked, my whole body heating up… because inside were whips, handcuffs, candles, plugs, gags, and a blindfold.

“I knew as soon as I heard ‘strange noise in the wall’ what you were really after. So, where would you like to start?” He asked playfully, starting to remove his T-shirt, revealing nipple clamps with chains. He licked his lower lip and walked slowly toward me, and I felt all the blood rush downward.

“My nipples are so hard they hurt. Could you help me take them off?” He pulled my hand toward him, and as my fingers brushed his hard nipple, I felt a jolt from my fingertips straight to my core… and I climaxed.

I snapped awake on the sofa, annoyed. Even a quick nap leads to dreams of him. If this keeps up, will I climax every time I close my eyes? No, I have to confirm if he’s the man from Vegas and then… yes, I want to sleep with him again, fully aware this time, to feel him completely, and then, like solving a complex math problem, I can let him go and move on.

As if sensing my frustration, one of my dogs, Harley, jumped onto my lap. Inspiration struck—I’d kept these two dogs around for a reason. Today, they’d finally prove useful and pay me back for all my care. Yes, I’d request him specifically to walk my dogs. That way, I’d have a chance to be alone with him, to verify if he’s telling the truth.

We arranged to meet at 7 a.m. on Sunday. I was up by six, took a shower, changed outfits three times before I was satisfied with the look in the mirror—a well-built upper body, long, toned legs.

He arrived on time on a beat-up old motorcycle that made a bit of noise. When he removed his helmet, his short hair was flattened, giving him a slightly goofy look, but he casually ran a hand through it, and it immediately looked stylish, shining in the sunlight. He grinned at me, and the word “beautiful” flashed through my mind.

I quickly explained why I specifically requested him, saying that everyone at work praised his service, and that Sadie and Harley were like family to me, so I needed someone trustworthy. My two dogs obediently nestled by his feet, wagging their tails like they’d met an old friend. Their perfect behavior made me decide they’d be treated to steak tonight.

We strolled and chatted, reaching our usual park. After freeing Sadie and Harley to run, we sat under a tree’s shade, continuing our conversation. I learned he’d been with Helping All for three years, handling all kinds of requests. He was the one singing love songs at that restaurant to create a romantic atmosphere for a proposal. Not all such gigs end romantically, he said; one time, he serenaded a girl at her door, only to get doused with a bucket of ice water. His client dodged it, but he was soaked. I burst out laughing, and he joined in.

I turned to him, noticing his unbelievably curled lashes. Sensing my gaze, he rested his face on his hand, his pinkie pressing against his full lower lip, eyes gleaming under the dappled sunlight with a barely hidden smile. My mouth went dry…

Suddenly, I realized it didn’t matter if he was the man from Vegas.

Because whatever the answer, the only one I wanted was the man in front of me.

Chapter Text

I was startled by a fleeting thought—did I want him? And what exactly did I want from him?

I tried to find an answer but realized I couldn’t think clearly while looking at him. I suddenly stood up, threw out a quick “I’m going to take a couple of laps; the dogs are in your hands,” and hurried off.

Up until now, love has never been a central part of my life. I’ve had a few relationships, none of which required chasing after or left any deep marks. They usually started when we clicked and naturally came together, only to drift apart without any real conclusion. I’ve never experienced that so-called heart-racing excitement or being swept off my feet. To me, love has always seemed like something easily within reach yet also elusive. So, I couldn’t quite say what I felt for him. I just knew I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

When someone constantly thinks about another person, it’s usually because they either have a serious grudge or… they’re interested. I certainly don’t bear him any ill will, so… could it be… could I actually like him?

No, impossible. How could I be attracted to a man? Men, to me, are just physical outlets for release. I’d only ever consider being in a relationship with a woman, building a family with her to raise my Dean and Samantha. He could never fulfill that for me.

No, I had to stop this train of thought—it was absurd. I told myself to drop it and not think about it anymore.

I suddenly remembered when I was young and other kids were engrossed in video games, while I sat at the piano, practicing the same piece over and over. I loved the piano, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in other things. Once, I got hooked on a video game. In just a few days, I passed multiple levels. I started secretly reducing my piano practice time, even playing the game under my desk during class. After about half a month, my piano teacher caught on. He told me that desire is endless, and if I wanted to succeed, I needed to exercise self-control. He advised me to focus on my most important life goals, while fleeting desires would fade if I stopped indulging them.

I took my teacher’s advice to heart and followed it. Two months later, I gave a successful solo recital. And when I finally had a chance to play that game again, I found it no longer interested me.

So, clearly, Jensen was like a new and captivating game I’d just discovered, one that had clouded my judgment with desire. But I believed that if I stopped indulging in it, I would eventually forget.

Yes, I told myself that if I could practice self-control at ten, there’s no reason I couldn’t now. Starting today, I wouldn’t allow myself to think of him, and I’d avoid contact with him as much as possible. That way, he’d quickly fade from my mind.

With this decision made, I turned back, contemplating an excuse for not hiring him to walk my dogs again.

Before I even made it back to the shade, I spotted two women each holding one of my dogs and chatting with him. One of them was laughing so hard that her cleavage was visible from ten meters away. Without thinking, I called out my dogs’ names, and those two loyal companions immediately pulled him away from the women.

“They said Sadie and Harley are beautiful,” he said, walking over with a smile. “Then they asked about my hourly dog-walking rate, so I gave them a company card and told them to contact Ash.”

I recognized those two women and was sure they’d seen my dogs before, but they’d never complimented them in my presence. It seemed they had the same idea as I did—using dog-walking as a pretext to get closer to him.

“If different clients request you for the same time slot, how does Ash handle it?” I asked out of curiosity.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Ash has his criteria. I trust he’ll arrange things in a way that best meets everyone’s needs.”

I nodded, saying nothing more, though I found myself feeling envious of the unseen Ash. It was as if he were Jensen’s manager, controlling his every move, as if Jensen were exclusively his.

The two women came over, saying, “Jensen, we’ve decided to hire your company to have you walk our dogs every evening.”

Just as I suspected. Those women had looks of predatory intent, as if they wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d devoured him whole. I quickly changed my mind. “Sorry, Jensen’s already booked for that time slot by me. You’ll have to find someone else.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Sadie and Harley look tired. Jensen, let’s go home!” For some reason, I emphasized the word “home.”

“Thanks again for saving me from them,” he said gratefully once they were out of earshot.

“Does that mean you deal with difficult clients often?” I couldn’t help but ask.

He smiled, not confirming but not denying either, which made me suspect the answer was yes.

On the way back, we didn’t talk much. In fact, I was a bit mad at myself—one minute, I was determined to distance myself from him; the next, I wanted to keep him around. This lack of self-control made me uneasy.

That evening, I arranged with Ash for Jensen to take Sadie and Harley out every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon after delivering our office tea. My house was about a half-hour drive from the office, plus 1.5 hours for the dog walk, so by the time Jensen finished, I’d just be getting off work, which meant we wouldn’t have to interact directly. I reassured myself that within a month, I’d forget him entirely.

The next month, I was busy training two new hires. One of them looked a bit like a young Jude Law, and the other clearly hit the gym regularly. Naturally, these new recruits brought some excitement to the women in the office. I’d examined them both closely—they were good-looking, but I felt nothing, neither attracted to their faces nor stirred by their muscles. It seemed I was fine—I didn’t love men.

Of course, I still thought about him occasionally, but I immediately forced myself to think of something else. I even downloaded a Sudoku app to distract myself. I dreamed of him less frequently too, no more than three times a week. In fact, the last time I climaxed dreaming of him was two days ago. That’s progress, right?

This afternoon, it suddenly started raining heavily. When I saw Eddy return, soaked through, muttering about the downpour coming out of nowhere, I suddenly thought of him. I wondered if he’d taken Sadie and Harley out. Had they gotten wet? My fingers hovered over his contact in my phone, a number I’d never used since saving it, but after a few seconds, I shook my head and switched to the Sudoku app instead.

The rain lasted longer than I’d expected, and rush-hour traffic was a complete mess. By the time I finally made it home, it was already 6:30 p.m.—only to find my dogs weren’t home!

I called him without hesitation. He sneezed twice before explaining that the rain had caught them in the park, drenching all three of them. Since his place was closer, he’d taken Sadie and Harley there to wait out the rain before bringing them home.

Seeing no sign of the rain letting up, I decided to drive over and pick them up. Of course, I wasn’t worried he’d steal my dogs; I just wanted to see them. Okay, who am I kidding? I really just wanted to see him!

After battling traffic for an hour, I finally arrived at the address he’d given me. Initially, I thought I’d just open the car door for the dogs and leave. But the water I’d drunk earlier was now pressing on my bladder, and I knew I couldn’t hold it for another hour, so I stepped right into his place.

I didn’t expect him to live in a basement—a small, low-ceilinged space with bare walls, faded wallpaper, and no photos, posters, or decorations. There wasn’t even a window. A single bed, a plywood wardrobe, and a long table that took up half the room like a workbench, piled with various items: a laptop, some small appliances, equipment I couldn’t identify, and what looked like junk. One side of the room was stacked with storage bins, and two buckets on the floor caught water dripping from the ceiling. My dogs were comfortably napping on his bed.

I couldn’t help but frown. Was this really a place fit for someone to live?

A wave of anger surged within me, a fierce, unexplainable feeling of resentment that he had to live in such an awful environment.

Chapter Text

I woke up to the rhythmic beeping of machines, a sound I’m very familiar with, so I knew I was in a hospital. But why was I here? My hazy memory only recalled the last person I saw—was it him? Did he bring me here? It all felt surreal, like I might be dreaming.

Maybe I should start from four days ago, or even a month back.

I rode my patched-up second-hand motorcycle to his house. It was enormous, with neatly trimmed lawns and professionally maintained gardens. The two-story house exuded a subtle luxury, and I guessed it contained rooms with various functions. There might even be a swimming pool or a greenhouse out back. I wasn’t unfamiliar with such layouts; I lived in a house like this until I was 18, and even three years ago, many places I stayed in were similarly ostentatious, flaunting the extraordinary status of their inhabitants.

I knew he was wealthy, but I was glad that I never saw the same haughty expression he shared with my siblings. In high school, he wasn’t like that, and even now, he remained humble. He warmly welcomed me and introduced me to Sadie and Harley, and soon we were each walking a dog along our route.

We chatted as we walked, and when something made him laugh, he’d throw his head back, his deep dimples absorbing all the light, radiating warmth and charm. I’ve always loved that expression on him—even though he never laughed like that because of me, or anything I did. But every time I saw his smile back then, my world felt a little brighter.

We sat side by side under the shade, sharing funny stories from work. This was a scene I had imagined countless times during my senior year. I couldn’t help but turn to look at him, unable to tear my gaze away from his confident, brilliant smile, wishing time would freeze. Then he suddenly stood up, saying he needed to go exercise, and I snapped back to reality, realizing that I was working and my job was to walk the dogs, not chat with their owner. Thankfully, he turned and left quickly, or else he might have noticed my flushed cheeks.

When I was stuck between two women’s endless chatter, I heard him calling for Sadie and Harley. As the dogs pulled me along, I noticed a fleeting expression on his face. A vague thought crossed my mind, one that I only caught when he placed his hands on my shoulders and spoke to those two women. It reminded me of the persistent discomfort I had when I was with Mike for three years.

Back then, Mike often took me to various events. At first, I didn’t understand, but later, I realized he disliked it when I talked to others, especially when he wasn’t around. In fact, I had to stick close to him unless he wanted me elsewhere. I remember at his friend’s wedding anniversary party, I was happily discussing a sculpture with a man when Mike suddenly appeared, wrapped his arm around my waist without a word, and pulled me away. That night, he kept me handcuffed to the bed, teaching me that my world was meant only for him and that I had to keep my distance from everyone else.

It was Jared’s hands and that expression—a look of annoyance at seeing someone else touch something precious—that reminded me of Mike. Thankfully, his grip was only on my shoulders and not tight enough to leave marks, so it likely wouldn’t turn into anything like Mike’s treatment.

On the way back, I could feel his evident displeasure. I didn’t know why. If it were Mike, I would know what he cared about and the punishment I might face. But I didn’t understand Jared at all. Was he upset because I’d chatted with others while working for him—even though it was entirely passive on my part—or did he have a possessiveness like Mike’s?

Later, it turned out I’d overthought it. For the next month, we had no contact. I brought afternoon tea to his office daily, took his dogs out every other day, but never saw him. Which made sense; to him, we’d only met twice. Besides, he was a successful lawyer full of mature charm, while I was just a part-time worker paid by the job. Why would he take any interest in me?

But four days ago, a heavy rainstorm seemed to turn my thoughts upside down.

The rain came hard and fast, and before I could get out of the park with Sadie and Harley, we were drenched. My place was closer to the park, about ten minutes away, so I decided to take the dogs there first.

The late summer evening had a chill to it, and my wet clothes clung to me as I entered my place, shivering and sneezing. I quickly changed into dry clothes and used a hair dryer to fluff up Sadie and Harley’s fur. Just as I thought I could catch my breath, I noticed the ceiling leaking. I set out a bucket to catch the water and sighed, hoping the rain would stop soon.

I could hear the worry in his voice over the phone when he asked about Sadie and Harley, and when he frowned at my place, I guessed he might feel sorry that his dogs were lying in such an environment. But I didn’t care about his hidden emotions; my head was already starting to throb, and I needed to drink some hot water, wrap myself up, and get some rest.

In the middle of the night, I woke with a scratchy throat, the rain still pouring outside, and my two buckets overflowing. I hurried to empty them and mop the floor, only to find that the ceiling above my workbench was also leaking. The items on that bench were practically all I owned. Thankfully, I had waterproof cloths ready and wrapped everything carefully. I shoved a few crackers in my mouth, took some cold medicine, and tried to sleep again.

In the morning, I felt somewhat better, but seeing the day’s schedule made me groan. Besides the five cases already lined up, Ash asked if I could help out at his friend’s restaurant. He said the rain had spiked delivery orders, so he needed me urgently. I spent the entire day running through the rain, only getting home by 11 p.m. Seeing half a centimeter of water on the floor made my throbbing temple explode in pain. At least my bed wasn’t leaking, so after I used every absorbent item I could find, I finally had a place to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up dizzy and feverish. The rain was still pouring, and I groaned along with it, knowing Ash needed help but realizing that if I kept working, I might collapse in the streets. I called Ash, and my coughing alone was enough for him to tell me to rest.

So I lay in bed, feeling as heavy as lead and utterly exhausted. Frequent coughing made it hard to sleep peacefully, and I had to keep an eye on the buckets, checking for new leaks. I decided that after this rainstorm, I’d find a new place to live, though I knew finding something affordable in New York City would be near-impossible.

In my restless sleep, I dreamt of the horrific car accident in high school, my family’s disdain, classmates mocking me, Mike… I thought I heard my phone ring multiple times, but I didn’t even have the strength to reach for it. All my energy was focused on fighting wave after wave of pain—from my head, chest, limbs. I began to worry that I’d die alone in this basement without anyone knowing. Perhaps my family would even be glad, relieved to be rid of the family’s disgrace. They probably wouldn’t care either way.

In a haze, I saw my mother standing in front of me. I tried to run into her arms, but she pushed me away, saying I was an accident, that she couldn’t get rid of me when she found out she was pregnant. She called me the family’s disgrace and said that it should’ve been me who died in that accident, that I was only a source of shame and had no right to live. I wanted to cover my ears, begging her to stop, but I was frozen in place. She looked at me coldly for a few seconds before turning and walking away. All I could do was watch her leave, collapsing to my knees with a pain in my chest that made it hard to breathe. Was I about to die? Like last time? But no one would come to save me now, right?

Suddenly, I heard a commotion. I heard my phone ringing non-stop, a series of loud thuds from somewhere, and someone calling my name. My mother vanished, and in her place was… him? Well, at least before I died, I got to see a face that didn’t despise me. He didn’t hate me, right? But why was he here?

My hazy mind couldn’t process anything, only that my body was suddenly lifted, everything around me blurred, spinning quickly, pulling me into a bottomless vortex.

Chapter Text

Ever since I brought Sadie and Harley home, I couldn't shake an overwhelming sense of anxiety.

I was sitting on the leather sofa in the living room, feet on the plush carpet, watching the oversized television screen, and my thoughts drifted to him. I imagined him holed up in an unlivable, cramped space—no windows, peeling wallpaper, a leaky ceiling—or perhaps still riding that beat-up motorcycle, one that looked ready to stall at any moment, providing various services in the pouring rain. I felt a dull ache in my chest.

I’ve lived a comfortable life since childhood, but I’m not blind to the reality of the world. I know there are people who can freely indulge in luxuries, yet there are far more who, despite working tirelessly, can’t make ends meet. Some people are born lucky, others aren’t. Although I’m mostly surrounded by the wealthy and successful, I don’t look down on the less fortunate. That said, I’m not about to donate my wealth or deprive myself because others are suffering. The world isn’t fair, and I’ve long accepted that.

Therefore, I shouldn’t be troubled by his poor living conditions. We’re only in an employer-employee relationship; he takes good care of my dogs, and I’ve paid him fairly. We’ve visited each other’s homes, but we aren’t even friends. And yet, a single glance at his place left me unsettled. Maybe he was perfectly content with his situation, and I was just overthinking things.

I kept telling myself this, but I couldn’t shake the worry. The rain outside showed no signs of stopping. I thought of his two buckets, wondering when they’d fill, whether he had to empty them while half-asleep. I also remembered hearing him sneeze twice on the phone, then repeatedly in person when I visited him. Was he coming down with something? A basement in the rain must be damp—did he even have a dehumidifier or a heater?

This rain seemed endless, but at 3 p.m. the next day, he was still punctual, delivering my afternoon tea. I purposely walked to the table nearest the door, sneaking a glance at him. He seemed fine, though a bit tired. Had he not slept well, or was he just overworked? Well, tomorrow’s the weekend; he can finally get some rest. Oh, wait, he mentioned that he’s paid by the job, with no fixed hours or days off, so unless he wants to forfeit his pay, he’d be working rain or shine.

Evening rush hour combined with relentless rain had traffic backed up horribly. Stuck in the jam, I saw motorcycles weaving between cars and wondered if he was among them. He’s been doing this outdoor, rain-or-shine job for three years, paid per job, with probably low and unstable income. Had he thought about changing jobs? He can’t keep scraping by in that basement forever. What were his plans?

A honk behind me snapped me out of my thoughts, and I realized, to my surprise, just how deeply he occupied my mind. I’d initially just been drawn to his face, daydreaming about him, but now I was worrying about his job, his health, his life—thoughts that went beyond mere attraction into something oddly caring.

Yes, it was ridiculous. And I didn’t like it one bit.

My phone rang at that exact moment, and for a second, I foolishly hoped it was him. But why would he call me? To ask about Sadie and Harley, or to inquire if I had any job requests for him? I felt ridiculous.

It was my mother, reminding me of the Autumn Crab Feast in a month and a half and urging me to clear my schedule. This annual event is a big deal for our family, and many prominent figures feel honored to receive an invitation. I’d forgotten about it two years ago while preparing for the bar exam, and she’d scolded me for months. Now she reminds me two months, a month, two weeks, a week, three days, two days, and one day in advance until I show up. She ended with a subtle hint that Monica would be attending, suggesting I bring her along. Ha! She must know Monica and I went out.

Speaking of Monica, after our dinner, we went to an opera, and we kissed when I took her home. But that was it. The moment our lips touched, I felt something was off. I wanted fuller, softer lips—a pair I had first imagined on that man in Las Vegas. When I saw him under the shade that day, I felt the urge to kiss him, to press him against the tree and savor his alluring mouth… Ugh! Why was I thinking of him again?

By the third day, the rain still hadn’t stopped. It was Saturday, no work today, and I was listlessly flipping through magazines or switching channels. Sadie and Harley lay on the carpet, whining. In this spacious house, I felt a stifling sense of confinement. How could he endure it in that basement? I remembered that his place started leaking after just a few hours of rain—after three days, it must be flooded. I scrolled to his contact on my phone, thinking of calling him. But wouldn’t that be too abrupt? I could hardly say that Sadie and Harley missed him. Ah, if it were a service request, that’d be more natural. But thinking of that, I remembered his company’s rule against direct requests. I called Helping All, specifically asking for Jensen, but that annoying Ash said they were too busy to handle requests today. So he must have been rushing around in the rain, probably exhausted.

Sunday morning, I was jolted awake by thunder. It seemed like the sky was adding lightning and thunder to the already relentless rain for extra effect. News reports said the storm would last another two or three days, warning residents in mountainous areas to be alert for landslides. I finally couldn’t hold back and called him, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he was out on his bike. Half an hour later, I tried again—still no answer. Another half hour later, nothing. Was he really that busy? Even if he couldn’t pick up, couldn’t he call back?

Around noon, I tried again, still no answer. I told myself that staying cooped up in the house would drive me crazy, so I went out to grab some food—even if it meant braving the rain, despite my fridge being full of microwavable meals.

I picked a random pasta restaurant, and by the time I got there, my pant legs were soaked. I cursed the weather internally. The meal was tasteless, though eating wasn’t my real purpose; I just needed a change of scenery. I sat by the window, watching outside. Every time a motorcycle passed, I tried to make out the license plate, hoping to see the one I remembered. I called him twice more, each time getting his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message—it felt strange to express concern through a machine. It didn’t fit our relationship.

After leaving the restaurant, I decided to drive around. Eventually, I ended up outside his building. I sat in the car, debating, before impulsively running into the dilapidated building.

I knocked on his door for ages, but there was no response. So I called his phone, and hearing the faint ringing inside confirmed he was home. Then why wasn’t he answering? I called again, definitely hearing his phone. I pounded on the door and called his name, but still got no response. A sense of foreboding crept in, and, ignoring the legal implications, I kicked his door. On the third attempt, the lock finally gave.

Entering his place, I was shocked. Despite the faint light from the bedside lamp, I could see various containers scattered across the floor, along with a pile of rags or broken cloths, and the room reeked of dampness and mildew. The worktable was thoroughly wrapped, and I carefully stepped around the scattered items to his bedside. He was bundled up, with only his head showing. His face radiated heat as I approached, and tapping his face, I found his temperature alarmingly high. I called his name; he briefly opened his eyes but closed them almost immediately.

Without hesitation, I scooped him up, blankets and all, and rushed to my car. My hands shook slightly as I started the engine, flooring the gas pedal toward the hospital. I lost count of the red lights I ran, vaguely hearing sirens behind me but unwilling to slow down. After several near-misses and sharp turns, I slammed the brakes at the hospital entrance.

It wasn’t until he was wheeled into the emergency room, and I was cuffed by the police, that I realized the mess I’d caused.

Chapter Text

I've known him for as long as I can remember. We’ve been together practically our whole lives. My house was built by his family, his father’s appendectomy was done by mine. We’re like twin brothers, inseparable from kindergarten through high school. He has clothes in my room, he knows where my dirty magazines are hidden. Our bond is closer than brothers.

He's the most disciplined person I know, having set goals for each stage of life well in advance—even the names of his future children. And he doesn’t just talk; he puts in real effort to achieve those goals.

Sometimes I feel a twinge of resentment because my parents always say they’d be grateful if I had even half of his work ethic. It’s unfair; I’m just a regular American teen, while he’s exceptionally outstanding—almost inhumanly so.

Not that I’m jealous. Picture this: when we were eight, while we were playing video games, he was practicing piano. When we were sleeping in, refusing to wake up even as our mothers shouted at us, he was out jogging at five in the morning. When we won a game and celebrated with a party, he’d go home to study calculus. With someone like that, all I can feel is admiration and respect.

So when I saw him handcuffed by police outside the emergency room, I almost thought I was hallucinating.

It all started with his call.

He told me to prepare medical staff and a stretcher, briefly explaining that the patient had a high fever, was semi-conscious, breathing rapidly, and had a severe cough. He then added that he’d arrive within thirty minutes.

Though he spoke quickly, I caught an interesting detail—he used “he” rather than “she” for the patient.

I know every woman he's dated; they follow a type—beautiful, dignified, with a good family background and at least a college education, just like his standards. His relationships have always seemed boring to me—no surprises. They’re all beautiful, but there’s never any real passion. Jared, at least, never looked lovesick over any woman. Even after breakups, he didn’t seem troubled. From one perspective, you could say he’s emotionally reserved, but from another, you might say he’s never truly been in love.

Love has never been his focus, at least not until now. If I recall correctly, his next step after becoming a law firm partner was supposed to be marriage.

So when he called, sounding anything but calm, it made me curious enough to leave my office and wait in front of the emergency room.

He arrived ten minutes earlier than expected, moving so fast that I thought he might crash his car into the ER. But the real surprise was the police car following him.

It’s not unusual to see chaos at the hospital ER or even a police car or two. But when he’s involved, it’s a rare spectacle. He screeched to a halt outside the ER, jumped out, rushed to the back seat, and pulled out a man wrapped in blankets, placing him on the prepared stretcher. His swift actions reminded me of his peak quarterback days in high school.

After my medical team wheeled the patient into the ER, two police officers ran over, pressing his tall frame against the car and cuffing his hands behind his back, reciting his charges: speeding, running red lights, reckless driving, public endangerment, and resisting arrest.

As I heard these charges, my initial concern faded. Just to clarify, I’m not a doctor; I’m the assistant to the hospital director, who happens to be my dad. When I received his call, I assembled the best doctors and nurses, so once the patient was inside, I focused on the scene outside.

I didn’t intervene. While I’m no legal expert, I know enough about traffic laws—mostly from personal experience contributing fines—that he’d be fine, just fined. When they shoved him into the police car, I kicked myself for not recording this historic moment on my phone.

An hour later, I arrived at the precinct and bumped into his partner, George. I had hoped to see him looking dejected and handcuffed to a bench, but no such luck. We were ushered into the captain’s office and found him casually sipping coffee with the captain. Turns out, King Stone had been providing legal consulting for the precinct, and he’d dined with the captain numerous times—they were practically old pals.

Half an hour later, we left the precinct. Every fineable offense was ticketed, but all other charges were dropped without a record. The captain even escorted us to the door. Jared later told me he could’ve handled it alone, but the captain insisted on protocol—though it was likely just an excuse to offer him some prized civet coffee.

After George left, we drove to that man’s—Jensen’s—place. He didn’t say much about Jensen, other than his name. The door looked worn out, and inside wasn’t much better. It was hard to imagine anyone breaking into such a place. When I asked, he admitted, a bit embarrassed, that he’d broken down the door himself.

He deftly avoided the puddles, grabbed Jensen’s phone, wallet, and keys, while I was captivated by the waterproof-covered worktable against the wall. I would’ve lifted the cover if he hadn’t hurried me along.

Just as we turned to leave, two uniformed officers appeared, asking if one of us was Jensen. My mind instantly flashed to gruesome images of dismembered bodies hidden under that table, wondering how Jared could be tied to a psycho like that. But reality quickly snapped me back; the police weren’t after Jensen.

The officers noticed the forced entry marks on the door and the items in Jared’s hand, which didn’t belong to him, and I wondered if we were about to take another trip to the precinct.

Fortunately, things cleared up quickly. The officers were here on behalf of a concerned friend who’d been trying to reach Jensen all day without success, worried due to the continuous rain but unable to check in person, as they were in Louisiana. Jared quickly explained that Jensen hadn’t answered his calls either, so he’d broken in to make sure he was okay, and that Jensen was now in my hospital. One officer stepped outside to make a call, while the other assessed the door’s damage, eventually deciding to join us at the hospital for further clarification, leaving one officer behind to arrange for a locksmith. Looks like Jared escaped another trespassing and property damage charge.

I suddenly recalled an incident last year when I’d passed out drunk in a private club room for an entire day. When I woke, I had only two missed calls—one from my mom and one from my secretary. I didn’t call back, and when I eventually phoned my mom three days later, she told me she’d wanted my opinion on a scarf color at a mall in Milan, but since I didn’t answer, she skipped the purchase. My secretary, bless her, only needed to know if I was in the office, and since I didn’t answer, she figured I was busy. Smart, but not exactly concerned for my well-being.

Contrast that with Jensen, who hadn’t answered his phone for just one day, and it prompted Jared—usually calm even during state finals—to break down a door, while a friend in Louisiana dispatched New York police to check on him. My curiosity about this mysterious Jensen skyrocketed.

"Chad, hurry up, we’re leaving!" Jared’s urgent voice snapped me back to reality. One officer was already in the back seat, the other coordinating with the locksmith. I took another look at the shabby place, making a mental note:

I would ensure Jensen stays “under observation” a few extra days.

Chapter Text

From the moment I carried him out that day, I decided he needed to move. I asked his landlord about the rent, which was $500 a month. I wasn’t sure if I should praise the landlord for his kindness in offering such a low rent, but a basement isn’t meant for people to live in, is it? In any case, I couldn’t—no, I refused—to tolerate him living in such an environment any longer.

But first, I hired someone to help clean up the mess from the water leaks. While May—the cleaner I arranged through Helping All—worked, I carefully inspected the place again. I didn’t uncover the waterproof cloth on his workbench; I recalled it contained small appliances, tools, and what seemed like scrap metal. But I couldn’t resist opening his storage boxes, only to find…well, I wasn’t sure whether to call it trash or recyclables. There were plastic bottles, aluminum cans, glass bottles, metal pieces, screws, and cardboard—each box categorized with different items. So…was he supplementing his income by recycling?

“Wow, Jensen would be thrilled to see this,” May remarked, glancing into the boxes.

Jensen? Could she mean him? It was possible since they both worked at Helping All, though she likely didn’t know this was his place.

“Why do you say that? Jensen likes collecting trash?” I asked, curious.

“To you, it’s trash; to him, it’s treasure,” May said, then suddenly asked, “Hey, do you know Jensen? Are you a regular client?”

“If you’re talking about the green-eyed Jensen with a shy smile who doesn’t seem to realize he’s charming, then yes, we’re talking about the same person.” I immediately thought of his face.

May gave me a knowing look before nodding, “Yep, that’s him. I know a lot of the women he’s served can’t forget him, and it seems he has quite the appeal with men, too.”

“He’s walked my dogs before. My dogs love him,” I said evasively, though it was true—Sadie and Harley always ate well after he walked them. Since May seemed to know him well, I took the opportunity to learn more. “So, you’ve worked together? I thought you all took individual assignments.”

May shook her head, “Some cases need extra hands. I’ve worked with him twice, once at a kid’s birthday party and once at a wedding anniversary.”

“What did he do at the birthday party? Dress up as a mascot?” I asked, pretending not to care.

May rolled her eyes, “That’d be a waste of his good looks. He was in charge of inflating balloons and even making creative shapes out of them—the kids loved it. As for the mothers gathered around him, they were there for more than just the balloons. At the wedding anniversary, he worked as a bartender, and several women gave him their phone numbers that night.”

“He can mix drinks?” I suddenly remembered the bartender from Las Vegas.

May immediately looked smug. “You shouldn’t underestimate us. People at Helping All are talented; it’s how we handle all kinds of requests,” she said, adding, “Jensen can also play guitar and sing. His voice is beautiful—he performed at our year-end party, melting countless hearts in the room.”

I could believe that. “By the way, you mentioned he treasures this stuff?” I turned my focus back to the boxes.

“Yep, Jensen loves creative design, making art from recycled materials. I’ve seen photos of his finished pieces; they’re stunning. You’d never believe the things we throw away become art in his hands,” May said, glancing at the boxes again. “These aren’t yours, right? But if you introduce your friend to Jensen, he might walk your dogs for free a few times.”

“Thanks for the tip, but Ash might not be too happy about that,” I joked.

“Who knows? After we work with clients for a while, we often become friends, and then it feels awkward to talk money. Ash has to turn a blind eye. But this job is temporary for most of us. As far as I know, Jensen’s been here almost three years—that’s pretty long. But he’s the top-requested employee; Ash accidentally let that slip,” May said, skillfully cleaning the small space.

“All done! Anything else?” May looked around, ensuring the floor was dry.

I shook my head, pleased with her work, and considered giving her a tip for all the extra information.

May waved her cleaning kit, “Then I’ll be off. Call Helping All if you need anything.”

“Wait, do you know if Jensen has a…uh, never mind…” I stopped mid-sentence.

May, however, casually said, “As of three months ago, no girlfriend.” Seeing my surprised look, she quickly added, “I mentioned women gave him numbers at that anniversary party, right? I later asked if his girlfriend ever reacted to that, and he said he didn’t have one. As for a boyfriend…that, I don’t know!” She left with a grin.

Was I being that obvious? May’s hints were hardly subtle. I decided to call Ash and say I was willing to tip May, though I wasn’t sure if Helping All had a policy for that.

After putting the lids back on the boxes, I remembered my first impression of this place. The long table was likely his creative workspace, no wonder he’d wrapped it so thoroughly.

***

I visited him in the hospital twice, but both times he was asleep. I quietly sat by his bed, gazing at him. I noticed his long eyelashes, fanning out below his closed eyes. Flecks of freckles dusted his nose, as enticing as chocolate sprinkles. His lips…I couldn’t resist reaching out to touch them but pulled back quickly, as if shocked.

What was I doing? Was I really sexually harassing a sleeping patient? I couldn’t stay here any longer—it was too risky.

After leaving his room, I instinctively reported to Chad’s office.

“So you left so soon? Had enough?” Chad asked, a bit surprised.

“He was asleep; I didn’t want to disturb him.” I couldn’t exactly say I’d left to avoid doing something illegal.

“You could try the Sleeping Beauty kiss; maybe he’d wake up,” Chad joked.

I glared at him, and with his knowing expression, I realized he was waiting for me to confess. But I didn’t know where to begin.

Chad was my best friend; I’d never hidden anything from him—except my orientation. He’d met every girlfriend, knew my plans for marriage and family, but he didn’t know I’d been with men, nor that I preferred it.

“So, when did you start liking men?” Chad asked directly when I didn’t speak.

“If I said since high school, what would you think?” I looked him in the eye.

“Then I’d say I must not be your type; otherwise, with all the time we spent together, you’d have given me a princess carry by now,” Chad joked. Seeing my surprised expression, he shrugged, “I don’t know why I’m so accepting—maybe I just admire you too much, so everything you do seems natural.”

I suddenly wanted to hug Chad, like I’d finally found an outlet for a long-held secret.

“It’s not exactly what you think. I don’t really like men; I just enjoy the thrill of conquest with them. So, I only have one-night stands with men—it’s purely physical,” I tried to clarify, as if emphasizing my long-held belief.

“So you’ve slept with Jensen?” Chad’s question missed my point entirely.

“To be honest, I’m not even sure if I have or haven’t.” I finally admitted the question that had plagued me for so long.

And at that moment, I realized my mind had shifted entirely from the bartender in Las Vegas to Jensen.

I no longer cared about that bartender, no longer noticed any other man’s eyes, nor felt the urge to seek out someone else…

All I could think of was Jensen.

Chapter Text

I hate waking up in a hospital, especially when I’m connected to various tubes, helpless and disoriented, unable to decide whether staying unconscious forever or waking up to face pain is the better option.

When I woke up in the hospital at 18, I discovered that my life had gone from bad to miserable. My father had aged, my mother had passed away two weeks prior, and I’d been lying in that bed like a vegetable for a year and a half, with atrophied muscles and every organ sustained by tubes. My waking brought no joy to my family; if they had a choice, they would have preferred my mother waking up instead of me. The endless surgeries and rehabilitation that followed made me want to give up many times. If my family hadn’t been wealthy, I might have been freed long ago. Or if they’d put the money they spent on my treatment into caring for me, I’d willingly go through that accident again.

At 23, when I woke up in a hospital, I thought I was in heaven. But seeing my body in casts and bandages, immobilized and dependent on machines for breathing, I knew my suffering hadn’t ended. That time, I spent a full month in the hospital, with no family by my side—only a few doctors and nurses coming in and out. They didn’t even call me by name. Outside the room, I was known as “Room 103, John,” and inside, they simply called me “you.”

Compared to those experiences, waking up at 26 in this room—still a private room, but far more luxurious—with only an IV in my wrist and no other machines, I couldn’t help but think: finally, my life had made some progress.

As I tried to recall what had happened, a middle-aged nurse quietly approached. When she noticed my open eyes, she broke into a smile and said, “You’re finally awake. I’ll call the doctor right away,” and disappeared from my sight.

Two doctors soon arrived, carefully checking my vitals and discussing my numbers on a sheet of paper. “There shouldn’t be any major issues. Do you feel any discomfort?” one doctor asked.

I wanted to say I had a headache, sore throat, and chest pain, but all I could manage was a hoarse hiss. “Besides your headache, sore throat, and chest pain, is there anywhere else that hurts?” the doctor asked kindly. I shook my head, and the doctor reassured me, “Don’t worry, with rest, these symptoms will pass.” After I nodded, the doctors gave some instructions to the nurse and left.

Ellen, my caretaker, told me I had acute pneumonia and had been unconscious for a day and a half. She mentioned that Jared (noting how tall he was) had left about half an hour ago and would likely return after work.

She was clearly chatty and, seeing that I couldn’t speak, kept a monologue to keep me entertained, though she was very professional, frequently checking on my condition. Whenever my eyelids grew heavy, she’d say, “You should rest,” and I’d fall asleep as if hypnotized.

Every time I woke, she’d immediately pepper me with questions: “Would you like some water?” “Should I massage your muscles?” “Do you need the bathroom?” “Would you like some pudding?” “Shall I adjust the bed?” I just had to nod or shake my head. But when she asked, “Is Jared your boyfriend?” “Have your lashes always been so long and curly?” and “Has anyone told you your features are perfectly proportioned?” I didn’t know how to respond, so I pretended to be exhausted and closed my eyes.

After a day and a half, my voice finally returned. During that time, he’d come twice, but I’d been asleep each time. Ellen said he’d sat by my side for half an hour each visit and added, “Your boyfriend is deeply in love with you. Every time he looks at you, his eyes are incredibly tender.”

I didn’t know how to explain our relationship. I’d had a crush on him in high school, we’d slept together once, and seeing him made my heart race. But now, I was just a hired dog walker. Of course, I had many questions—why did he bring me to the hospital? How did he get into my apartment?

I checked my phone, which had over a dozen missed calls, mostly from him and Chris, all on the same day. No wonder I’d faintly heard my phone ringing as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I could understand Chris calling. He often checked in on me, especially during disasters in New York—earthquakes, riots, or serious accidents. He’d call as soon as the news broke, sometimes even before I noticed. Our conversations were always brief, usually just enough to confirm I was okay. I never called him first, but I never ignored his calls. He’d visited me a few times since I moved to New York, often offering me money to move to a better place.

I knew he felt he owed me, but without him, I might still be in hell—or even dead. I’d once hated him for being Mike’s lackey, watching over me. But after my near-death experience, I came to understand he’d just been doing his job. I’d long since forgiven him, though our distant relationship remained, as he’d seen me at my lowest, making me feel ashamed in his presence.

On the fourth morning of my hospital stay, I finally saw Jared. He immediately explained, knowing that the rain would continue for days, he’d tried to contact me about walking his dogs. When he got no response, he came to my place, heard my phone ringing inside, and broke in, finding me unconscious and bringing me to the hospital. After he finished explaining, I summarized, “So you couldn’t reach me about the dogs, so you came by, broke in, and took me to the hospital?”

He nodded. “Exactly,” he said, apologizing for breaking my door and explaining it had already been repaired. He pulled out a set of new keys but hesitated before handing them to me, saying, “I spoke to the doctors about your condition. They said damp, poorly ventilated places are bad for your health, so I think you shouldn’t return there after you’re discharged.”

I looked at him, debating whether to bring up my question. I knew he was well-off; he probably had a private doctor and, if needed, would choose a VIP hospital room. Meanwhile, when I was sick, I’d just take some cold medicine, sleep it off, and sweat it out. Of course, I was grateful he’d saved my life, but didn’t he realize that if I was living in a leaky basement, it meant I couldn’t afford this luxurious private room and a personal nurse?

On my first day awake, though I couldn’t speak, I immediately asked Ellen for paper and wrote down my request to move to a regular room. She only smiled and said not to worry. As if I could avoid worrying—after years of scrimping, I’d saved just over ten thousand dollars, and if I estimated correctly, this room’s cost alone would drown me in debt. Now he was suggesting I move. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up homeless.

“Jared, thank you for saving my life, but you really shouldn’t have arranged for me to stay in this VIP room,” I said, sounding ungrateful, but since he’d seen my place, there was no point hiding my financial situation. So I decided to be blunt. “I feel much better, so I’d like to be discharged. Also, my income only covers rent under $500, so I can’t afford to move…”

“I know, so I’ve already found you a place,” he interrupted. “After you’re discharged, come stay with me.”

Chapter Text

I didn’t expect to receive his call because he never initiates contact with me.

He thanked me for sending someone to check on him and said he was fine, likely to be discharged in two days. After hesitating for a moment, he mentioned that he might move to the place Jared—the man who broke in to save him—had offered. However, he wasn’t sure if that would be yet another mistake.

I knew what he was afraid of.

I’m a police officer. During the first two years of my career, I worked in a small town handling trivial cases, bored out of my mind. I spent my time combing through newspapers and internal police systems, looking for controversial cases and individuals. That’s how I noticed Mike.

I’m convinced his file at the precinct stacks at least a meter high. On the surface, he was a charming playboy and an entertainment tycoon, owning yachts, hotels, clubs, and casinos. But in the shadows, he was said to be involved in everything from smuggling to drug trafficking and prostitution. Despite being implicated in these crimes multiple times, he always walked away unscathed. Rumors suggested that he had close ties with influential people. It’s not hard to imagine why—when someone offers money, sex, and luxury, a little help in brushing aside charges seems almost natural. Human corruption is often so blatantly exposed.

Among the files, I also found mention of a precinct chief named Jim who was determined to take Mike down. After a couple of days of consideration, I reached out to Jim.

Seven months later, I finally got the chance to meet Mike in person—five months after I infiltrated his criminal network. Back then, I was just a low-level runner under Max, one of Mike’s deputies. Another five months later, I finally had the opportunity to get close to Mike, assigned to protect and monitor him—what Mike referred to as his “Jenny.”

Mike, on the surface, was a sophisticated gentleman, bearing a striking resemblance to George Clooney. Approaching 40, he maintained the appearance of a man in his early 30s, exuding the charm of a mature man. He was never short of partners—men and women alike. In every public appearance, he always had a different companion on his arm—until Jensen appeared.

The first time I saw Jensen was on a yacht during a three-day, two-night gambling-themed event. The event provided a host of attractive men and women to ensure even unaccompanied guests could indulge. But every time I saw Mike, one of his hands was always on Jensen. They were inseparable, like conjoined twins.

The second time I saw him—still glued to Mike’s side—was over a month later at the opening of a new hotel Mike had invested in. The entire event, including the ceremony and cocktail reception, lasted about two hours. During that time, they disappeared for around thirty minutes. When they reappeared, Jensen’s hair was a bit messy, and his lips were slightly swollen. It was obvious what had transpired, but neither of them seemed to care about the stares they received.

Mike’s insatiable sexual appetite wasn’t a secret, but his devotion to a single partner was unheard of. Of course, the brothers in the crew only gossiped in private. Some even opened betting pools, predicting when “Jenny”—mistakenly thought by some rookies to be a busty blonde bimbo—would fall out of favor and become a commodity under Mike's prostitution ring. You must know that Mike has a good taste, and the lovers and mistresses who have been with him have both good looks and superb skills, so some people can't wait to have a taste of him.

Nearly a month later, we heard that he was scratched on the arm by a woman named Lulu while accompanying Mike on a tour of the club. Lulu was once one of Mike's mistresses, and their relationship lasted for two months. Of course, during this period, Mike also had multiple mistresses and mistresses. After being dumped by Mike, she worked as a high-end escort in the club, and occasionally Mike came to visit. He will also have a rough and tumble relationship with her. However, since he appeared, there was no one else around Mike, which aroused Lulu's jealousy. She actually hid a fruit knife and pounced on him unexpectedly. Mike originally thought that the person Lulu was going to assassinate was himself, so he instinctively stepped back, but Because he had one arm around Jensen, Jensen also moved back, causing the knife that originally struck Jensen's face to leave a ten centimeter long but not deep wound on his arm.

The commotion was quickly resolved. Mike rented a room, summoned a doctor to disinfect and bandage Jensen’s wound, and gave him a sedative to rest. He stationed Max at the door, instructing him to prevent anyone from entering but to monitor any sounds from inside. Only then did Mike head to the basement to deal with Lulu, who had already been tied up.

Mike had never been a kind man. While running gambling and drug operations, he also managed prostitution rings. Though most of his workers were willing participants, many were forced into it due to gambling debts or drug addiction. For those who tried to escape and were caught, severe punishment awaited. His establishments—casinos, hotels, and clubs—all had special rooms dedicated to disciplining uncooperative individuals. Although Mike rarely carried out punishments himself, no one doubted his cruelty.

No one knew exactly how Mike dealt with Lulu in that soundproof basement. But according to the cleanup crew, she was found naked, hanging from the ceiling. Her body was mutilated, and her face was slashed beyond recognition. The scene was so grotesque that the cleaner vomited, adding his mess to the already horrifying room.

The day after this incident, all betting pools about Jensen disappeared without a trace. Three weeks later, Max asked if I would be interested in becoming Jensen’s bodyguard. I wasn’t sure if Jim would laugh at the irony of me spending a year and a half infiltrating Mike’s organization only to become the bodyguard of his lover. But I couldn’t deny it was the closest I could get to Mike, so I agreed without hesitation.

My job as Jensen’s bodyguard was simple yet tedious—so much so that it made my earlier years as a rookie cop feel like an exciting adventure by comparison. When he and Mike were out or in public, I had to keep an eye on anyone making advances toward him—whether that meant lecherous glances or direct flirtation. The former was common, but the latter less so, as Mike always kept Jensen close. To outsiders who didn’t know Mike’s dark side, he appeared as a charming entertainment tycoon. However, those unaware of Mike’s possessiveness often risked crossing the line.

There was one incident where Mike was busy entertaining a film producer, while the director accompanying the producer struck up a conversation with Jensen. By the end of the event, the director even placed a hand on Jensen’s arm. At the time, I had been on the job for less than a month and didn’t know how far I should intervene. Honestly, I didn’t see anything wrong with the director’s behavior. After the party, Mike called me aside and handed me the director’s business card, instructing me to teach him a lesson. After struggling with my conscience, I ended up breaking the man’s left wrist—a minor injury that should heal without lasting consequences. Mike was pleased and commended me for handling it beautifully.

Over time, I learned how to operate within Mike’s unwritten rules. If a situation required immediate correction, I’d physically remove the offender and deliver a stern warning. If a public confrontation wasn’t ideal, I’d handle it later with more severe consequences. However, such incidents were rare, as Jensen himself made an effort to avoid attention. His demeanor suggested that his world revolved entirely around Mike, following him closely and interacting minimally with others.

The more challenging part of my job was when Mike wasn’t around. I had to stay by Jensen’s side at all times—even when he used the restroom. At first, I didn’t understand why; I didn’t believe anyone would attempt to harm him. But as I observed how frequently strangers approached him, even for something as simple as a street-side coffee, I began to grasp the reasoning behind Mike’s strict supervision.

Inside Mike’s house, the rules were even stricter, especially when Mike wasn’t home. Jensen wasn’t allowed to lock any doors, including the bathroom. This rule baffled me, as it seemed unlikely that anyone in Mike’s heavily secured residence would pose a threat to Jensen. That was until one day, Mike discovered a fork hidden at the bottom of Jensen’s wardrobe. Enraged, Mike scolded the kitchen staff for failing to account for the missing utensil, berated me for being inattentive, and finally turned his ire on Jensen. He didn’t yell at him but instead dragged him into a room and slammed the door shut. That was the first time I heard Jensen scream.

After more than two hours, Mike emerged, saying he had to attend a meeting and ordered me to keep an eye on Jensen until he returned. When I entered the room, Jensen was lying in bed, facing away from me, his bare shoulders trembling slightly. Judging by the clothes scattered on the floor, he was completely naked under the blanket. I didn’t know what to do, so I stared at the back of his head. After about half an hour of silence, I assumed he had fallen asleep. I quietly walked to the other side of the bed and saw his pale face streaked with dried tears.

At that moment, my heart inexplicably ached.

Chapter Text

"After you’re discharged, come live at my place!"

Had my fever fried my brain, or was I hallucinating? We weren’t even close enough to call ourselves friends, and yet he was suggesting I move into his home? As roommates?

I must have had a giant question mark floating above my head because he quickly added, “I really don’t think you should keep living where you are. It’s not good for you. Besides, my house has a spare room, and it’d be more convenient for you to walk my dogs every day.”

He was referring to that mansion of his, wasn’t he? Was this some kind of joke? Even if I walked his dogs every day, I couldn’t possibly afford the rent.

“I’ve calculated it. You charge $50 each time you walk my dogs. After deducting Helping All’s fees, if you work five days a week, it’d cover the rent,” he explained.

I did the math in my head. By his logic, 22 workdays in a month (excluding weekends) would amount to $1,100. After the company’s cut, I’d get about $800. Considering the value of his mansion, I couldn’t even afford the garage.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you sleep in the garage,” he said, as if reading my mind. “I’m suggesting this as a friend. Uh, we are friends, right? You need to move, and I have a spare room. Plus, you’ll be walking my dogs every day. This seems like the best solution.”

Wow, such an elaborate plan for my living arrangements. Should I feel grateful and weep with joy? The problem was I never said I wanted to move, nor did I agree to increase my dog-walking days. Are lawyers always this good at answering their own questions? And how could he seem to read my thoughts so accurately? Was it written on my face?

“If that’s settled, I’ll arrange for movers to help you pack so you can move in right after being discharged.” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he asked, “Oh, I forgot to ask—do you prefer a view of the pool or the garden?”

I could choose? What kind of landlord is this? Wait, I hadn’t even agreed yet! Finally finding my voice, I stammered, “Wait, I… I don’t think this is a good idea…”

He interrupted me before I could finish, “Give me one reason why not.” He looked at me with an expression of childlike confusion, like a kid who’d solved a math problem only to be told his method was wrong.

What? This was all his idea—why should I be the one justifying it? But those puppy-dog eyes made it feel like rejecting him would be a crime. I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

His expression quickly turned into a radiant smile. No wonder he wins all his cases—what jury could resist a lawyer like that?

“See? You can’t think of a reason, because it’s perfect. It’s settled then. Rest well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stood up, ruffled my hair, and leaned in close, his gaze so tender that my heart pounded and my face turned red. Was he about to kiss me? But I was still sick—what if I infected him?

“Your face is all flushed. Are you running a fever again? Let me call Ellen to check your temperature.” He turned to summon Ellen.

I didn’t stop him because, honestly, I did feel overheated. Ellen came in quickly, touched my forehead, and then used an ear thermometer. “Slightly warm, but no fever. Don’t worry,” she said, clearly addressing him.

He sighed in relief. “That’s good. Please take good care of Jensen. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Then, looking at me again, he asked, “Do you have a favorite color?” Before I could answer, he smacked his forehead. “Never mind, we can figure that out later. See you tomorrow.”

Colors? Were we picking wallpaper or bed linens? Even if I moved in, I’d just be a roommate, not redecorating a new place. What was the point of picking colors? I couldn’t keep up with his questions.

“He’s so thoughtful. You’re really lucky,” Ellen said as she helped me lie down and tucked me in. “Get better soon so he doesn’t have to worry so much. He’s juggling work and visiting the hospital—it’s exhausting.”

She made it sound like I was deliberately getting sick to trouble him. I sighed, closed my eyes, and avoided responding to Ellen’s overactive imagination.

I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep. Tossing and turning, I kept thinking about his offer and what it meant. Maybe my fever had scrambled my brain, but when someone drives through a storm to tell you not to walk his dogs the next day, kicks down your door because you didn’t answer your phone, arranges for you to stay in a luxury private hospital room, and then invites you to move into his home—what other explanation could there be besides him liking you?

But once, someone had done even more for me. He bought me a house and moved me in, only for me to pay a terrible price in the end.

My thoughts drifted back to when I was 20.

Mike was a customer I met while working at a bar during my first year of college. He would always come in half an hour before closing, usually when it was just me and maybe one or two other patrons left. He always chose a seat at the bar and said he liked watching my focused expression as I worked. That was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. Others usually just complimented my looks and asked if I was interested in a one-night stand.

Mike was charming, polished, and successful. He’d share stories about the fascinating people he met through his business ventures, while I could only offer my limited life experience and vague artistic dreams in return. But he never laughed at me. Over time, he started waiting for me to finish cleaning up after closing, then walking me and my bike back to my dorm.

He traveled frequently for work and often lived out of hotels. Every time he came to see me, he brought small, exquisite gifts—designer trinkets, little treasures. Three months after we met, he confessed his feelings.

He said he had liked me from the moment he first saw me, but the age gap had held him back. He was nearly twice my age and felt that someone as young as me shouldn’t waste my youth on someone already entering middle age. But the more he saw me, the more he couldn’t help himself. He asked if I’d be willing to try being his boyfriend, to give him a chance to love me. If I ever wanted to leave, he promised to let me go without hesitation.

I’ll never forget that confession. For someone who had always been treated as an unwanted extra and had never felt loved, it all seemed too beautiful to be true. Especially since he was such an outstanding man, while I was nothing but a shy, insecure, and broke college student. I couldn’t believe someone like him would fall in love with me, so I shook my head and turned him down. He looked disappointed but quickly said he would prove his love through actions.

About a month later, he brought me to a charming garden bungalow with three bedrooms and two living areas. One of the rooms was a workshop custom-designed for me, complete with a long and spacious workbench, small cutting tools, display shelves, and storage cabinets. It had the best lighting and was the largest room in the house because he said I would spend most of my time there. His own bedroom was the smallest, but it had an impressively large bed.

He told me to quit all my part-time jobs, move out of the dorm, and focus on studying, creating, and enjoying his love. He said he was tired of living out of hotels whenever he came to the city, so he decided to buy a house. He knew I didn’t like extravagant mansions, and I wasn’t looking for luxury—I wanted a home. So he chose this small but beautifully designed place. Then he knelt on one knee, held out a key, and asked if I was willing to be the master of this home.

I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I could barely see through my tears. How could I possibly say no? So we moved in together.

He spent over half of each month traveling for business, often in different cities or countries. I never asked about his work or whereabouts. He told me not to worry about him and always made sure to text or message me goodnight, no matter where he was. He opened a bank account for me, ensuring the balance never dropped below six figures. He took me to various creative design exhibitions, and my display shelves were filled with little trinkets he’d given me. He even told me he’d build a gallery someday to showcase my work.

He cherished me like a treasure, filling the void left by years of neglect. Because of Mike, I experienced love for the first time. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t worthless but was someone’s most precious possession. When I officially broke ties with my family—or rather, when they threw me out—he was there for me. I cried in his arms, and he promised to love me for the rest of my life and be my family forever. I thought I had finally found true happiness.

At the end of my first year of college, he suggested we spend the summer on his yacht and enjoy life. I thought we’d only be gone for two months. I never imagined we’d never return—or that it would mean saying goodbye to my university, the home I thought I’d found, and the happiest time of my life.

I once trusted someone completely, only to endure two and a half years of living like a prisoner. Now, another person is inviting me to live with him. I don’t know what he truly thinks of me—he hasn’t said he loves me or even likes me. All I know about him is my high school crush when I was 18. But looking at it from another perspective, wasn’t Jared always the righteous, helpful person back in high school? Maybe he genuinely just wants to help me… Besides, what is there to fear after having already been through hell?

The final push that helped me make my decision came from Chris—just because of what he said:

“Go forward bravely! I’ll protect you and never let anyone hurt you again.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes people suddenly get obsessed with something, throwing themselves into it without rhyme or reason, unaware of how deep they’ve gone until they’re jolted back to reality and regret it. Of course, that’s not me. I’m not that far gone—am I? Bringing someone to live in my house is just a little lapse in judgment, right? Right?

Since carrying him out of that dilapidated basement, my only thought was not letting him return there. Especially considering his acute pneumonia—living in a damp, moldy, poorly ventilated space would almost certainly lead to a relapse. Since he needed a new place and I had an excess of empty rooms, giving him one seemed perfectly logical, didn’t it? Besides, Sadie and Harley adored him, so it felt like all members of the household (whether they wagged tails or not) wholeheartedly welcomed him. Living together should be harmonious. We could even take weekend walks, each of us with a dog, enjoying family outings. Isn’t that perfect?

Chad didn’t think so. He claimed I didn’t know the first thing about Jensen. I had to disagree—I knew he’d worked at Helping All for three years, had a bit of skill in everything, loved artistic creation, and was single (no boyfriend or girlfriend, or someone would have shown up when he was sick—besides that friend in Louisiana). Oh, and he was dead broke yet annoyingly attractive.

“Great. So, do you know where he’s from? His education? Any criminal record or wanted status? Is he drowning in debt and hiding in the basement from debt collectors? And most importantly, is he gay? Does he sleep with men? Didn’t you say you’re not even sure he’s that bartender, and he claims he doesn’t remember you at all?” Chad fired off a string of questions, and seeing my blank face, he concluded: I was either bewitched or insane.

Chad didn’t care that I slept with men or that I was concerned about Jensen. But when he learned I planned to have Jensen move into my house, he ordered a large pot of coffee, instructed his secretary not to take calls or schedule meetings for two hours, and sat me down for a long talk.

He said he was thrilled that my life was finally going a little off track. Even if I got scammed out of money or my heart, he didn’t mind. After all, I had plenty of money, and losing some wouldn’t hurt. Besides, getting Jensen into bed—whom he had peeked at during rounds in the hospital and deemed “too good-looking to be fair”—would be worth it.

Then he asked how long I planned to keep Jensen around. If it was just a fleeting crush, I could easily rent him a separate place. After all, inviting him in was easy, but getting him out could be a headache if I got bored and he refused to leave. If I intended to keep him longer, was he going to be a secret lover, or would I come out publicly? And if I come out, And if I came out, who would I turn to help me have a baby—my Dean and Samantha?

His endless chatter boiled down to one point: I shouldn’t recklessly let Jensen move in. Doing so would be worse than just buying him a house outright.

Chad’s words were a wake-up call, but it was already too late. Jensen had agreed and even asked to see the room in advance. For a moment, I wondered if he was playing dumb while scheming, luring me into a honey trap and tricking me into letting a wolf into my den.

I took half a day off to show him around my house. I opened every spare room for him to inspect, but he barely glanced inside. I even opened my own room—the largest and best room—and silently vowed that if he dared to choose it, I’d pin him to the bed and punish him for his greed.

Sadie and Harley, having not seen him for a while, followed him around the house like they were on something. When I opened my bedroom door, Harley bolted onto my bed while Sadie pressed her head insistently against his leg, seemingly urging him to step inside. Wow, I never realized how strong my dogs’ telepathy with me was.

“Take a look inside! This room has the best view.” My tone was like a realtor desperate to close a deal, except I hoped he’d head for the bed rather than the window. Though the window wasn’t a bad option either…

“What’s that room by the greenhouse used for? Can I see it?” His question interrupted the image in my mind of stripping him down.

Following his gaze, I realized he meant the small outbuilding that used to house the help. I’d almost forgotten it existed. Why did he want to see it? Oh, right, he needed a workspace. How bold of him to expect a buy-one-get-one-free deal. I’d dug a huge hole for myself, but no matter—I’d make him pay, perhaps by wearing only an apron while bent over that long workbench…

It took me a while to find the key. I hadn’t opened that outbuilding since moving in. Apart from being thick with dust, it was practically empty. After sneezing twice, we quickly retreated. If he wanted to create—or anything else—there, I’d need to get it thoroughly cleaned first.

On the way back to the hospital, he mulled it over before saying he’d like to rent the outbuilding. He said he didn’t want to intrude on my private life and often needed to hammer or drill things, which might disturb me. The outbuilding was perfect for him. He added that he’d handle furnishing and cleaning it himself after discharge. Regarding the dog-walking job, he’d talk to Ash directly and stop billing me through Helping All. Finally, he brought up the hospital bill and asked if I could cover it if his savings fell short, promising to repay me in installments.

I nodded without a word, but in my mind, I thought: of course, I’d hire someone to clean the place before he moved in. How could I let him jump straight into a dusty mess after being discharged? That wouldn’t be good for his lungs—or my plans. As for the hospital bill, repayment was fine, though I didn’t care about the money. What I wanted was…

I shook off the thought. Ever since the house tour, my mind had been in the gutter. Little Jared kept trying to rise, and I’d already gotten honked at for drifting into another lane. Focus on driving, Jared Padalecki. You don’t want to die before you’ve even had a taste.

Everything was settled, but I secretly made a lot of arrangements that caused him to roll his eyes multiple times on the day he was discharged.

First was the bill. It totaled $1,000, covering a seven-day stay in a VIP room, a private nurse, and all medical treatments and medications. He stared at the bill for quite a while, seemingly unconvinced, counting the digits with his finger to ensure there were only three zeros after the one—not four or more. That action and expression were absolutely adorable.

“Are you sure this is the total cost?” He looked up at me with a face full of doubt.

“I think they might have made a mistake too, but they insist it’s $1,000. Maybe you happened to be their 100,000th patient and got a special discount,” I offered what I thought was a perfectly reasonable explanation. But he rewarded me with his first eye-roll.

When he realized the car wasn’t heading to his old place but directly back to my house, I earned my second eye-roll. And when he opened the door to his new living space and saw everything already set up—right down to the long workbench he’d covered with waterproof cloth, with all the items placed exactly as he’d left them—he looked at me again.

“I thought we agreed,” he said with a mildly annoyed expression but sighed softly afterward. “I… I can’t just accept so much help from you for no reason. I…”

Don’t worry, this help definitely isn’t free. I’ll make sure you repay me bit by bit every day… “I didn’t lift a finger for the moving or cleaning. It hardly cost me anything. Think of it as a little gesture of goodwill from your landlord. You’ve just been discharged and haven’t fully regained your strength. If you overexert yourself with dusty, heavy work, you might relapse. And if that happens, you won’t be the 100,000th patient anymore—no more discounts on the hospital bill!” I teased him lightly.

“I owe you too much already…” He paused, then firmly said, “I’ll take excellent care of Sadie and Harley to repay you.”

Three imaginary crows cawed as they flew past me. That was absolutely not the kind of repayment I wanted, but it didn’t matter. Time was on my side. Seeing each other every day from now on, I refused to believe I couldn’t eventually get him into my bed.

My eyes wandered to the long workbench, and I couldn’t help but evaluate its height and suitability.

Chapter Text

Moving here didn’t change much about my life. I still weave through the streets and alleys for work every day, still spend two half-days a week attending classes at the university, deliver afternoon tea to King Stone at 3 p.m. sharp, and then take Sadie and Harley to the park for exercise.

The difference is that living here has drastically boosted my creative energy. The course I’m taking requires submitting a practical project, but I fell seriously behind due to my illness and hospitalization. I thought I wouldn’t be able to catch up, but to my surprise, I not only completed it at the last minute but also made it even better than I had imagined. I think I owe it to the beautiful greenery at his house—the expansive view and the fresh air. Whenever I feel exhausted, just looking out the window completely relaxes me, and I instantly feel recharged as if my energy levels were restored. Compared to the dark, sunless basement, this place is paradise.

As for my relationship with him, we’re like ordinary neighbors—living close but rarely crossing paths.

He told me his schedule is very regular: jogging at 6 a.m., leaving for work at 8, and returning home at 6 in the evening. Mine, however, is completely different. Because of work or sudden bursts of creative inspiration, my sleep schedule is never fixed. Often, when I wake up, his car is already gone, and sometimes when I return, the lights in his house are already off.

The only interaction we’ve had since I moved in was dinner together on my first night.

He said he ordered a light meal to celebrate my discharge and welcome me to his home. We ate casually and chatted. He told me some things I already knew, like how he was from Virginia, his family was in business, and he was an only child. He graduated from Woodberry High School, where he served as the football team captain and won MVP twice. He went on to study law at Stanford and passed the bar exam in less than two years after graduation. He’s never lost a case and is now a partner at King Stone.

Compared to his straight path to success, I shared only a very reserved version of my uneventful past: also from Virginia, I attended Peddie High School (before transferring in my senior year), loved art and creative design but dropped out of college after my freshman year, wandered from place to place for a while, and finally settled in New York three years ago. Now, aside from working, I take a couple of university courses. I didn’t tell him about the serious car accident I was in, the year I secretly crushed on him, that I’m gay, or the painful relationship I went through. Naturally, I didn’t mention my family either—not because I was ashamed, but because they had abandoned me long ago.

When I first toured his house, I noticed the pristine white grand piano. He must have noticed my gaze because he asked if I wanted to hear him play and what I’d like to hear. Beethoven and Schubert pieces—those complex and showy ones my sister loved to flaunt—flashed through my mind. But I smiled and said anything would be fine. He moved his fingers to try a few notes, then began to play. His long, slender fingers danced fluidly across the black and white keys, his expression focused yet gentle. Sitting half-perched on the armrest of the sofa, I listened as the moving melody flowed gracefully from his fingertips, marveling at how someone could be so perfect. I felt lucky to be so close to him.

I recognized the piece as “Canon.” It was a song I’d loved since watching the Korean film My Sassy Girl. Then I remembered Ruby once told me that in his junior year of high school, he had accompanied his girlfriend Andrea’s violin performance with this song as a solo gift for her birthday. Andrea had been overjoyed, and countless girls in the audience were moved and envious.

Suddenly, my thoughts were in disarray. I remembered he had a girlfriend—or at least he dated one steadily for over two years in high school. So does he like men? But didn’t he sleep with a man before? That means he doesn’t reject the idea, right? Did he pick this song for a special reason? I looked at him, and as his gaze met mine, my throat went dry, and my heartbeat quickened. Did he always look at people this tenderly, or was I just imagining things?

“It’s been a while since I’ve played. Luckily, I’m not too rusty. Next time, bring your guitar, and we can play something together. Or I’ll play, and you sing—how about that? I’ve heard your voice before—it’s very gentle and beautiful,” he said with a smile after finishing the piece, walking over to me.

Oh god, who could refuse that smile and invitation? I nodded eagerly, too happy to form words. Suddenly, he blurted out, “Don’t move—you’ve got an eyelash on your face!” He reached out with two long fingers and touched my cheek. I couldn’t help but worry if my heart might leap out of my chest. “Got it. Let me see if there’s anything in your eye.” His fingers brushed my lashes, his face drawing closer. I blinked, feeling my lips instinctively close and pout slightly. Was he going to… kiss me? My fingers gripped the armrest tightly to avoid losing balance and tumbling into the sofa. Would my nails scratch the leather? Worrying about that seemed out of place—should I close my eyes now?

The sound of his phone ringing made him pull back abruptly, like waking from a dream. I straightened up, trying to steady my breath as he casually answered the call and sat on the opposite couch.

“Mom, I know. I promise I’ll show up at the front door on time. Last time, I was just busy preparing for exams and forgot. Didn’t I show up on time last year? Don’t worry—I swear I won’t forget,” he reassured the caller—his mother.

“Monica? Oh, I haven’t asked her yet… What? You and her mom have already agreed? When did you two become so close? Chanel’s fashion show? Oh, fine, I get it. Yes, I think she’s very pretty and well-mannered. No, I’m not being picky—I just forgot because I’ve been busy. I’ll contact her later, okay? Yes, I’ll bring her home with me. Happy now? Bye.” He stuck out his tongue playfully before hanging up.

He gestured apologetically to me, signaling he had to make another call, and stepped out onto the balcony.

Monica… going home together… pretty and well-mannered. Of course. Someone of his status should be with a wealthy socialite, attending fashion events and galas. Like how Jeff’s wife is the heiress to a department store chain, or Jess’s boyfriend is an MBA graduate from Harvard. Perfect golden couples with matching backgrounds, looks, and education. Why was I foolish enough to think I belonged by his side, let alone hope he’d like me? I looked down at my cheap T-shirt and faded jeans, then at the luxurious surroundings—the crystal chandelier, calfskin sofa, grand piano, high-end home theater system, and marble flooring. I realized how out of place I was, just like I had been in my family home—a glaring mismatch. I didn’t belong there, and I didn’t belong here either.

Silently, I cleared the dishes from the coffee table, washed them in the kitchen, and returned to the living room to see him still on the phone. Judging by his tone, he’d be busy whispering sweet nothings for a while. I gestured to indicate I was heading back to sleep, patted Sadie and Harley on the head, and left his house.

I walked back to the outbuilding, shut the door, and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. My chest felt tight, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Perhaps I was feeling lost, or maybe I had foolishly let my guard down and expected too much.

I thought about leaving, packing up my things and disappearing before I let myself sink any deeper. But where would I go? Back to that dark basement? Or to another place where I didn’t belong? My hands unconsciously clenched into fists. Why did I always end up in situations like this, with no control over my life or my emotions?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and turned toward the long workbench. If I couldn’t figure out what to do with my life, I could at least focus on my art. The tools and materials were exactly where I had left them, thanks to him. The sight was comforting, familiar. I took a deep breath, trying to let that comfort replace the lingering bitterness in my heart.

Just a week after being discharged, Ash asked me to cover a month of night shifts for a friend of his. His friend, a bartender at a high-end club, had family matters to deal with back home in Texas, so Ash needed someone to fill in. I didn’t want to take this case because during my time with Mike, I had often accompanied him to countless clubs—those exclusive, high-end venues that touted membership and exorbitant costs but were also dens of filth and corruption. I hated everything I had witnessed there, and even more, I hated my own helplessness in the face of it.

However, I already felt bad about dropping Jared’s dog-walking case, and the club offered an excellent hourly wage for what would only be a month-long commitment. After half a day of deliberation, I reluctantly agreed. That’s how I ended up coming home at 3 a.m. every night, sleeping until 9 a.m., continuing my creative work during the day, picking up occasional odd jobs in the afternoon, delivering tea and walking the dogs, and then heading out to work again at 7 p.m.

After accepting the case, I sent him a text message to inform him about my new job. I hesitated for a long time before hitting send. Technically, I didn’t need to report my comings and goings to him, and strictly speaking, we weren’t even roommates. But I felt he should know what time his “neighbor,” who shared the same front door, would be returning home every day.

I had always thought lawyers, as elite professionals, worked a standard nine-to-five schedule. But since moving in, I had never seen him come home before 7 p.m. Either he was extremely busy with constant overtime, or he had a lot of after-work social engagements. Surely, he wasn’t deliberately avoiding me? But didn’t he say he was usually home by six?

I admit I was overthinking things. Just like when he asked me to walk his dogs, broke into my apartment to save me, invited me to live here, or leaned in so close to me—each time, I couldn’t help but let my imagination run wild, only to feel like he was keeping his distance right after. I often found myself leaning against the window, lost in thought, gazing at someone who seemed so near yet so impossibly far away.

“Got it.” That was his response to my message—cold and impersonal, without a hint of warmth or even a token show of concern.

Chapter Text

Two days ago, George, another partner at the firm, found out his wife had been infected with a super virus, forcing him into home quarantine. As the news spread, panic swept through the office. A single cough would send everyone scattering, and anyone with a fever had to get tested and self-isolate for several days. This revolving door of absences threw the office into chaos.

George was handling a major case set to go to court next week, but with his quarantine expected to last longer, Duncan assigned me to take over. George had spent three months meticulously preparing this case, and it was a must-win. Realizing he couldn’t argue it himself, George arranged intensive video meetings with me. In just one week, I had to absorb all the information he had collected over three months, and I also needed to confirm details with clients and witnesses. I could tell how much this case meant to him; his earnest appeals made that clear. Duncan’s instructions were equally direct: only victory was acceptable.

For me, this was a high-pressure assignment, but I was just as determined not to tarnish my undefeated record. I spent an entire week buried in George’s office, following his guidance and poring over every detail with the same diligence I had when preparing for the bar exam. Today, after the first hearing, I estimated we had over an 80% chance of winning, which finally allowed me to catch my breath—and then I remembered him.

How many days had it been? Ten? Yes, ten days ago, we had a wonderful conversation. I learned he, like me, was from Virginia. He was a year older than me, had dropped out of college during his freshman year, and had been wandering until he settled in New York three years ago. I could sense he was holding back about those years. Wandering for five years, from 19 to 23? That seemed far too aimless. Was it an artist’s romantic inclination?

I had played “Canon” on the piano that evening—a song I loved back in high school. I remembered a Korean movie was trending at the time, so I quickly learned the piece and performed it impromptu at Andrea’s solo recital. Back then, it was purely to show off, driven by childish vanity. But that night, it earned me an unforgettable reward—Andrea was so moved she expressed her gratitude with unparalleled passion.

As he perched on the armrest of the sofa, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that was both entrancing and distracting. Those incredible green eyes gleamed like jewels, and I found my fingers, which had initially stumbled over the keys, moving with newfound grace. Good heavens! I could have played all night just to keep those eyes on me, just to hold him in my sight.

When the piece ended, I walked over to him. He seemed a bit uneasy, shifting slightly. As I leaned in toward his face, his expression carried a mix of uncertainty and shyness. His head tilted up slightly, and his lips pursed just a little. Did he even realize how provocative that look and posture were? I needed to remind him later—this behavior might be acceptable toward me but absolutely not toward others. Right now, though, all I wanted was to taste those tempting lips. Everything else could wait.

Damn it! Why did my phone have to ring at that moment? Next time I’m with him, I swear I’ll turn it off beforehand. The call was from my mom, another reminder about the Autumn Feast and Monica. Ah, Monica—I had completely forgotten to contact her. I needed to handle that immediately to avoid another relentless reminder from my mom.

I gestured to him apologetically and stepped out onto the balcony. Monica and I quickly set a time to meet, but she started asking me legal questions. I couldn’t very well tell her to make an appointment at the firm, and I thought it wouldn’t take long. I was wrong. One question turned into another, and when I glanced inside, I saw him signaling that he was heading back to sleep. Damn it! I hadn’t even kissed him yet!

The next morning on my way to work, I noticed his curtains were still drawn. He was probably still asleep. I thought about having dinner with him that night, but as soon as I arrived at the office, I learned about George’s situation, and that marked the start of ten days of emergency operations.

When I returned home tonight, I didn’t see his motorcycle. It was already past 8 p.m., and I remembered the text he had sent me two days ago, saying he’d be working at a club for the next month. At the time, I was busy debating witness testimony with George and his assistant, so I hadn’t thought much about it and only replied with “Got it.” Thinking about it now, I should have stopped him. He said the job ended at 2 a.m., meaning he wouldn’t get home until 3. The work was far away and the hours were unhealthy—surely not good for his body.

I knew his schedule was erratic. Sometimes, I heard his motorcycle when I was half-asleep; other times, I’d come back from a morning jog to find him already gone. Given Helping All’s wide range of cases, irregular hours were inevitable. I wondered how much he earned. If I found him a job at the firm with stable pay, he wouldn’t have to run around all day. But our firm’s minimum hiring requirement was a college degree. Without one, would he end up cleaning bathrooms? Was it financial strain that made him drop out of college? Where had he gone during those five wandering years, and what had he done? Five years is enough time to accomplish so much, yet he spent it wandering and ended up penniless. Shaking my head, I realized how little I actually knew about him.

No matter—I didn’t have to work overtime starting tomorrow, so I could finally have dinner with him and learn more.

Today, I planned to leave work early and pick up some food to eat together after his dog-walking shift. But Monica showed up at the office with her friend Vandy.

Monica explained that the legal questions she’d asked earlier were on behalf of Vandy, and my advice had resolved her issue. They were here to thank me. Vandy expressed newfound respect for the importance of law and asked for my suggestions on where to learn more. I recommended a few introductory courses offered at local community colleges. Our chat ended up lasting an hour, making me leave work half an hour later than planned.

Monica suggested dinner, and Vandy chimed in, saying she’d been meaning to treat me and that now was as good a time as any. Figuring he would already be heading out by the time I got home, I agreed.

We chose a burger joint—not just any fast food place, but a popular spot known for its eight-layer burgers, with juicy patties, double cheese, and handmade buns. The quality elevated the dining experience far beyond a typical burger, though the price reflected that.

Monica and Vandy, who were college roommates, had a close bond and bantered playfully throughout the meal. Midway through, Vandy got a call from her boyfriend and left. Monica and I ordered desserts and beer, continuing to chat.

She mentioned how her mother and mine had hit it off at a Chanel fashion show and were now enthusiastically matchmaking us. Monica straightforwardly admitted she liked me but didn’t want to rush things or make either of us uncomfortable. She proposed we present ourselves as friends for now, maintaining a united front against nosy onlookers. Her candidness and understanding of social dynamics—especially in our upper-class circles—impressed me. Still, I wasn’t ready to settle down, especially with a certain name haunting my mind. Marriage, after all, was a lifetime commitment.

“Speak of the devil, I just saw that handsome green-eyed guy again!” she exclaimed suddenly. I followed her gaze and saw him.

“Jensen!” I couldn’t help but call out his name as I got up and walked toward him. He turned to me, first surprised, then breaking into a shy smile. “Hi, long time no see!” he greeted.

It felt strange, we lived so close, yet it had been so long since we’d crossed paths. He looked well, though, and I nodded in satisfaction. “I’ve been caught up with a case recently…” I started to explain, but Monica interrupted with a cheerful “Hello!” I caught her glance and realized I should introduce them. “This is Monica, a friend of mine. Monica, this is Jensen.” I deliberately avoided defining my relationship with him, “friend” felt too ordinary and wasn’t what I wanted.

After exchanging brief pleasantries with Monica, he apologized, saying he was in a rush. Picking up a takeout bag from the counter, he added, “Have a great evening!” and left in a hurry.

“The last time we saw him at the restaurant, you didn’t seem to know him. So how did you two meet?” Monica asked curiously.

“Through walking dogs,” I replied vaguely.

Watching his figure disappear into the distance, I felt a strange sense of melancholy.

Chapter Text

So she’s Monica? The beautiful, well-mannered girl whose mother gets along so well with his mom that they’re pushing him to bring her home? Her wavy blond hair, tall figure, and confident smile remind me of Andrea from high school—radiant, attention-grabbing, and perfect. Standing next to him, they’re a picture-perfect match. So, is this why he’s always out after work? Meeting her every night?

I gave a bitter smile. Isn’t this normal? Work during the day, date in the evenings, then naturally get married, have kids, and raise the next perfect generation. It’s the ideal trajectory of a winner’s life—just like Jeff and Jess’s paths, completely unrelated to a loser like me.

I’ve been working at the club for four days now. Frank, the manager, and Tod, the golf coach, are both food lovers. When they learned about my job, they asked me to bring them famous takeout dishes during my shifts, earning me a little extra cash. That’s why I ended up at that expensive burger joint and saw him, shattering my naive fantasies once again.

When he introduced me earlier, he didn’t say anything at all. Of course, I'm just the guy who walks his dogs and the tenant he kindly took in. Not even a friend.

I shook my head, telling myself to stop overthinking. He was never mine in the first place, why keep entertaining these futile fantasies?

This club isn’t much different from what I expected. From the way couples—heterosexual or homosexual—interact, I can tell most of them aren’t spouses or romantic partners. They’re either secret lovers or involved in financial transactions. It’s like Mike and me, no, not exactly. We were openly together, never involving money. So, we were a couple—except he was a terrifyingly twisted partner.

I’ve never been able to define my relationship with Mike. I once saw him as the person I trusted most, following him onto a yacht without even packing a suitcase. He said that if we were going to have fun, we might as well leave everything behind. Whatever we needed, we could buy as we went. He wasn’t wrong—I never lacked anything. He provided food, shelter, clothes, and even chose my outfits to match his for events and parties, all while gradually introducing me to his world.

On the surface, he managed clubs, hotels, and casinos. But I quickly sensed something was off. I began seeing familiar faces—both men and women, impeccably dressed—showing up at different events with different people. I saw them openly dividing lines of white powder on coffee tables and engaging in debauched behavior after taking drugs.

As for Mike, he never touched drugs and forbade me from trying them. I wouldn’t have anyway—I was terrified. So, when I discovered he wasn’t just an entertainment mogul but the head of a criminal empire, I told him I wanted to leave—just one month after boarding the yacht.

That was the first time I saw him show such a sinister expression.

He said he could drop me off at any port, but he doubted I’d get far without a penny to my name. He also said he’d already taken care of my college withdrawal and sold my apartment, so leaving would mean I had nothing. I stared at him in disbelief as the happiness I thought I had crumbled before me. My mind went blank. After a long silence, I stammered, “I still want to leave.”

He sneered and took out his mobile phone to click on the photo album and motioned for me to go over and take a look. I took one look and immediately felt dizzy. It was a picture of a naked man lying on messy sheets, his face and chest covered with fingers. Pictures of marks and semen. I scrolled through the phone with trembling hands. The next picture showed a man wearing a mouth gag and a telescopic rod fixed between his knees with his legs spread wide. The next picture showed a huge dildo inserted into the red and swollen hole, and the image of wearing a hanging chain nipple clamp, every photo clearly shows the obscene and erotic posture and face - my face.

I know these photos are not composite, because I have indeed worn those things and done those things. He has a strong need for sex. We have sex almost every night and have several orgasms. He also likes to use sex toys for fun, so I I've tried breast clamps and vibrators, I just don't know when he took these photos.

I stammered, asking why he had those photos. He shrugged casually. “Because you look stunning like that. You’ve no idea how irresistible you are after you pass out post-climax. Take your time, I have hundreds of these. If you dare leave me, I’ll post them online. Oh, and there’s one more photo you must see.” He took the phone back, scrolled quickly, and showed me a group picture: my father, my brother, my sister, and him.

“This was at a gala. Your father was proudly showing off your siblings, acting as if you didn’t exist. Should I send these photos to remind them they have another family member? Though I doubt they’d care, considering how disappointed they are in you. I just wanted you to know, I know who they are, where they are, and I can take care of them anytime.” He made a throat-slitting gesture, smiling coldly.

He knew my family had disowned me, yet he still used their lives to threaten me. Even if they no longer acknowledged me, they were still my family. “You… you can’t… don’t hurt them…” I stammered, my entire body trembling.

“Oh, I can. But as long as you stay by my side, I won’t dirty my hands. The only person I care about is you.” He wrapped his arm around my waist. “Now, stop sulking and change into this green shirt. Tonight, we’re attending an eco-themed party. It’s vegetarian, so prepare yourself.”

He kissed me, but I couldn’t respond like before. Pulling back, he studied me. “What’s wrong? Don’t like vegetarian food? No problem. We can eat something beforehand, how about bacon quiche and braised beef shank? You mentioned wanting those a couple of days ago. I’ll have the chef prepare them.” He pinched my cheek, acting as if nothing had happened, as if he was still the man who once adored me.

“No! I don’t want to go. I don’t want to eat anything!” I pushed him away, my stomach churning. Those photos disgusted me, his threats terrified me, and his feigned tenderness revolted me.

“Fine, then stay on the yacht and rest. I’ll return after the event.” He left with a sinister smile.

I never thought he would let me off so easily, and that night became the first evening I spent alone since boarding the yacht. Standing on the deck, gazing out at the sea, I tried to piece together how things had spiraled into this situation. Could my family have been right? That no one would ever truly love me, and all they wanted was either my money or my body. Mike had plenty of money—though it seemed all of it came from questionable sources—but it was glaringly obvious he wanted my body. Just the thought of those photos of me on his phone made my skin crawl. If those pictures were leaked online, could I sue him? But so what? My humiliation would be broadcast to the entire world, and my family would only despise me even more.

I wanted to get off the yacht and breathe some fresh air. Staying on board, surrounded by every corner filled with memories of him and me, was suffocating me. That’s right, even if I were penniless, I didn’t want to stay by his side. I didn’t believe he would truly harm my family. There are laws in this world, aren’t there?

I returned to the room and searched through the closet and drawers, but I couldn’t find a single penny. Even my wallet, passport, and phone—the only things I had brought with me when I boarded the yacht—were gone. No matter, I could go to the police and report him for illegally withholding my documents. Everything could be dealt with after I left this yacht.

But I was naive. His guards stopped me. “Mike said you’re not allowed to leave,” one said politely but firmly. I yelled, accusing Mike of drug dealing and trafficking. The guard smirked, amused by my ignorance. When I tried to push past him, he remained unmovable. “Mike told me I could cuff you if necessary, so don’t force my hand. You’re not leaving this yacht,” he said with calm authority.

That night, Mike didn’t return until almost midnight. As soon as he stepped into the room, I told him that no matter what he wanted, I had to leave. Without a word, he pulled out his phone again. This time, he didn’t show me photos but a video.

In the footage, a man was kneeling on the ground with his back to the camera, his arms tightly held by two other men. Another man stood holding a baseball bat, staring directly into the camera. Then the camera angle shifted, revealing the kneeling man’s face—it was Jeff! He was shouting frantically, “Let me go! Who are you? What do you want? You’ve got the wrong person, haven’t you?”

The man holding the baseball bat put on a mockingly sympathetic expression. “You’re Jeff Ackles, right? We have no personal grudge against you; our boss just wants to give someone a little reminder. I know this might hurt a bit, but bear with it—grit your teeth, and it’ll be over soon,” he said.

As he finished speaking, he signaled to the man on Jeff’s left to straighten Jeff’s arm. Then, without hesitation, he raised the bat and struck Jeff’s elbow with full force. Jeff let out a blood-curdling scream, and at the same time, I couldn’t help but cry out in horror.

“Don’t worry, his arm is just fractured. I heard he’s already been taken to the hospital. A month in a cast, and he’ll be fine,” he said, walking toward me as he slowly unbuttoned my shirt. Leaning close to my ear, he whispered softly, “Please don’t say no to me again, alright? It makes me sad.”

His voice was sweet and gentle, like honey, yet it sent a chilling dread through my entire body, making me tremble uncontrollably.

From that night on, I became his prisoner.

Chapter Text

Chad came to me, looking serious, and asked me everything he could about Jensen and the progress of our relationship.

I told him the truth. After all, he’d done me a huge favor this time—providing top-notch medical services for barely 10% of the cost. Plus, as my best friend and someone who knows all my secrets, I felt he had the right to know everything.

Unfortunately, my understanding of Jensen was extremely limited, and there had been no progress in our relationship. Since he moved in, we’d only had one meal together—a perfect first half ruined by an annoying phone call that left the second half unfinished. We had met only once afterward—at a noisy burger joint where we barely exchanged three sentences.

“That’s for the best, buddy,” Chad said, letting out a relieved sigh. “I’ve always hoped your life wouldn’t be so perfect all the time, that you’d go crazy or lose control occasionally, maybe fall for someone completely wrong for you and have a relationship you’d laugh at ten years later. But now, I’m begging you, don’t let it be Jensen. He’s not worth it.” He spoke seriously, with none of his usual carefree attitude.

I raised my eyebrows, questioning Chad’s sudden change of heart, but he ignored my expression and began explaining.

Chad, a wealthy heir, wasn’t exactly a playboy but had certainly frequented many such places. He’d tried drinking, gambling, and women—not out of indulgence but often out of social obligations or curiosity, and he never got addicted. As a result, his wallet was filled with at least a dozen VIP cards to various establishments, including the club where Jensen recently started working.

Chad said he had gone there last night with some friends who made low-budget B-movies without big-name casts. He specifically chose this club, which charged a $30,000 annual membership fee. In addition to its sports facilities, high-end food, card games, and spa services, the club was known for its unique and high-priced sex services. Every employee—whether a trainer, caddie, masseur, bartender, valet, or dealer—was a stunningly attractive man or woman. If two people clicked and agreed on a price, they could immediately book a room and enjoy whatever they wanted.

So when Chad saw Jensen mixing drinks behind the bar, he was shocked. But the worst was yet to come—one of his friends, Peter, recognized him.

Peter said he had met Jensen at a party years ago and was struck by his stunning looks. He’d even asked Jensen if he was interested in joining the entertainment industry, only to be rejected outright. Despite this, Peter kept an eye on him and tried to learn more.

Peter soon discovered that Jensen was a kept lover of a wealthy entertainment tycoon named Mike. No one knew how Mike had amassed his fortune, but he had more money than he could spend and was always surrounded by beautiful faces—both men and women. Mike owned several hotels and clubs rumored to offer high-priced sex services. During his inspections, if someone caught his eye, he would keep them as a short-term lover. These “lucky ones” would enjoy a period of luxury and indulgence but often ended up staying in the industry, selling their looks and bodies after Mike got bored. While Mike was generous with his money, he changed lovers as frequently as his clothes and often had several at the same time, rarely keeping any for more than a month.

Peter claimed to have seen Mike three or four times over about six months, and each time, Jensen was glued to his side, completely unbothered by public stares and often whispering intimately with Mike. It was clear Mike adored him. Now that Jensen was here, it must mean he and Mike had parted ways. And since this club offered sex services, it was likely that Jensen was now selling himself.

To verify Peter’s claims—and because Jensen might recognize Chad or Peter—they sent another friend to chat him up. Unfortunately, before the conversation could go anywhere, the manager called Jensen into the back. He returned nearly 30 minutes later, his lips noticeably swollen, and his eyes glistening as if with tears.

Based on Peter’s judgment and experience, Jensen had probably gone to earn some extra cash. Peter even joked that Jensen’s lips were criminally attractive, capable of arousing anyone just by looking at them. He added that he had once walked into a bathroom at a party and accidentally witnessed Jensen kneeling in front of Mike, who was leaning against the sink. He swore that the Jensen behind the bar now was the same Jensen he’d seen then.

Chad admitted that Peter wasn’t the most trustworthy person, so he took his descriptions and opinions with a grain of salt. To be thorough, Chad looked up Mike online and discovered that Mike had been sentenced to prison three years ago for drug trafficking, prostitution, and smuggling. This matched the timeline Jensen had given about coming to New York three years ago, leading Chad to speculate that Jensen might have resumed his old trade after Mike’s empire fell apart.

Chad concluded that if Jensen was just a prostitute, it was fine to spend money on him but warned me not to get emotionally involved to avoid ruining my reputation. He also expressed concern about whether Jensen had picked up a drug habit during his time with Mike. In short, Chad urged me to be cautious, emphasizing the importance of protection if I ever slept with Jensen, as there was no way of knowing how many men he’d been with or what diseases he might carry.

Chad’s words felt like a bucket of ice water. Jensen, a prostitute? Impossible! His shy, blushing demeanor didn’t match someone in that line of work. Or was that how he lured people in? With his looks and personality, plenty of people would surely pay to sleep with him, allowing him to live a glamorous life without needing to reside in a leaky basement or scrape by with $30-an-hour jobs. Chad said the club’s rates started at $800 a night, so there had to be some misunderstanding. Maybe Peter was just bitter about not getting Jensen’s attention and decided to spread rumors.

Despite my attempts to convince myself otherwise, Chad’s words had a profound impact on me. I looked up Mike online and found that he did exist, and Jensen had been evasive about his past while admitting to drifting aimlessly. It seemed entirely possible that he had been with Mike during that time.

Determined to keep my distance, I avoided him even when I knew he was home. But every time I heard his motorcycle return late at night, I couldn’t stop imagining what he had been doing at the club, how many men he had serviced, how many had taken him. These thoughts kept me awake, only for me to wake up from vivid dreams of him.

Nearly a week later, he came to me.

That evening, he rang my doorbell, holding a pizza box and a bottle of soda. He said he had no cases or club work that night and wanted to see if I’d join him for dinner. He thanked me for all I’d done—covering his medical bills, giving him a place to stay—and said he wanted to repay me. Then he handed me an envelope, explaining that he had earned some extra cash recently. Though he knew I didn’t care about the money, he insisted on paying some rent. The envelope contained $2,000.

Extra cash? Was this the money he’d earned selling himself? $2,000? I laughed bitterly. He’d been working at the club for over ten days, easily earning $10,000 or more, yet he offered me just 10%. Generous indeed. Anger bubbled within me. Even if he gave me $20,000, I wouldn’t touch such dirty money.

“I don’t want it,” I said firmly.

“Is… is it because it’s too little?” he asked hesitantly, his hand holding the envelope awkwardly midair. His cheeks flushed, either from embarrassment or uncertainty.

That expression! I finally understood. Those green eyes, filled with confusion, combined with that blushing, shy demeanor, were irresistibly seductive. Peter had been partly right, it wasn’t just his lips that were criminal. His eyes, his entire face, were weapons of temptation.

I shook my head, and before I could stop myself, the words spilled out:

“I don’t want your money. If you really want to repay me, then sleep with me.”

Chapter Text

Since moving in here, I feel like my luck has turned around.

First, there’s my creative work.

I was already behind on my assignments, and then a week in the hospital put everything on hold, making me almost give up entirely. But living in a place filled with the fresh scent of grass, the sounds of chirping birds and insects, and plenty of sunlight has given me an inexplicable sense of joy, even with less sleep. It’s also fueled my motivation to create.

The moment I completed the project—a replica of the Metropolitan Museum of Art made from plastic bottles, which had taken me four months to conceive and construct—I was so emotional that I almost cried. I was proud of myself for persevering, convinced this was my best piece yet. When my professor showered it with praise, I was even more certain.

Then came the job at the club.

I still dislike the environment, and by the second night, I realized the club was rife with sex work. A customer bluntly asked how much I charged for oral sex. I didn’t panic, just politely declined and seriously considered quitting after that night. But Frank, the club manager, persuaded me otherwise.

Frank told me not to turn my back on money. The hourly wage here was nearly triple the market rate, and as long as I stuck to bartending and avoided extracurriculars, I’d be fine. The club was all about mutual consent, and no one would force me into anything. Thanks to this conversation, Frank and I quickly became friends.

Frank’s boyfriend, Tod, also works at the club as a golf coach. Their shared passion is food, so when they found out I could fetch takeout, they started asking me to bring food during my shifts. They weren’t stingy either, always going through Helping All to place their orders properly. They said paying a little extra was worth it as long as their meals arrived exactly as they wanted.

Frank isn’t just a foodie—he cooks too. One day, when the bar was slow, he called me into his office and proudly presented a glass container of his signature spicy meat lasagna. Tod said Frank rarely cooks, let alone shares his dishes at work. Only people he considers friends get to try his cooking.

I have to admit, Frank is a fantastic cook. The lasagna was incredibly flavorful and spicy enough to make my lips tingle and my nose run, but I couldn’t stop until the plate was empty. Frank joked that my face looked like someone who’d just finished a steamy makeout session. Laughing, I playfully punched his shoulder before returning to the bar.

I’m grateful to have met Frank and Tod—they’ve taken great care of me. Frank is always ready to rescue me from clingy customers, and Tod, who’s passionate about Harley motorcycles, got excited when he saw a photo of a miniature Harley I once made out of aluminum cans. He joked about commissioning me to make one for him, even offering to pay. While I took it as a joke, I was happy to agree because to me, finding people who appreciate my work is invaluable. Meeting them has been the best part of working here.

Then, two days ago, my professor, Adam, called me.

He said he had displayed all his students’ works in his studio, where a friend of his noticed my piece, immediately loved it, and asked if I’d be willing to sell it.

Creating art is purely a hobby for me. I enjoy taking discarded items and transforming them into something new, fully under my control. I never consider whether others might like the finished product; the process alone brings me immense joy and satisfaction. But I can’t deny that seeing people’s surprise and delight when I gift them my pieces gives me a sense of accomplishment. My only hope is that these creations don’t end up forgotten in storage or, worse, the trash. Thankfully, the ones I’ve gifted to Ruby’s bar and Ben and Alex’s recycling center are still prominently displayed.

I rarely buy art myself, mainly because I can’t afford it. Mike used to buy me lots of creative trinkets, some of which stayed in the house I once thought would be ours forever, while others moved with me until they were eventually left behind. I don’t want to see those things again—they’re reminders of my time with Mike. Looking back, I often wonder if, in his eyes, I was no different from those objects: beautiful and manipulable, with the only difference being that I could move, speak, and walk on my own.

My professor negotiated a price of $2,000 for my piece. When I received the check this morning, I stared at the amount for ages, finally realizing my work could actually make money. For a moment, I felt like I could prove my father wrong. But then I thought $2,000 probably means nothing to him—he might even say only a blind fool would spend money on junk like this. But why should I care about his opinion when he doesn’t even acknowledge me as his son anymore?

Then I thought of him. Without his help, I wouldn’t have been able to complete this project. I wanted to share this joy with him. After much deliberation, I decided to use the entire $2,000 to cover my rent and repay him for his help. I wasn’t naive enough to believe that a week of hospitalization only cost $1,000—it was either mostly paid by him or heavily discounted because of his connections. Either way, I didn’t want to take his kindness for granted.

I didn’t expect him to respond with, “Sleep with me.”

I stared at him in shock. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, only raw desire.

“I… I’ve been running errands all day…” I stammered, saying something that didn’t even sound like a refusal.

“You can take a shower first. I’ll wait for you in bed,” he interrupted, quickly pushing me into his bedroom’s bathroom.

I shut the door and collapsed onto the tiled floor, taking a deep breath I hadn’t realized I was holding since he said, “I’ll wait for you in bed.” Finally, my brain began to function again.

Wasn’t he dating Monica? Why would he want me? Does this mean he’s bisexual? No, he only asked to sleep with me—he didn’t say he liked me. So, is he just like Mike, being kind to me because he wants my body?

I stood and looked into the mirror, recalling the way people described my eyes, lashes, lips, and body. Mike had praised me sweetly but also insulted me crudely. I’ve endured countless lewd stares, knowing exactly what those people were thinking. No, they didn’t think at all—they were driven by lust, scheming to have me.

Of course, I wouldn’t say I hate this face or this body. But I wish more than anything that people would see the person inside, truly appreciate, validate, and love me—not just treat me as an irresistible plaything they can’t wait to drag into bed.

I let out a deep sigh, slowly shedding all my clothes as I stepped under the shower. The water ran over my body, and I traced my skin with my hands, remembering how his fingers had once roamed here too. Even though he was so drunk he forgot, I still remember—the warmth of his fingertips was undeniable. My fingers brushed over my lips, recalling how his thin lips had pressed tightly against mine, soft and tender. I touched myself, remembering the feeling of his strong, firm hand wrapped around me. My fingers moved to my entrance, and I couldn’t help but think of the pleasure of him moving inside me… I can’t deny it—I haven’t forgotten that night, and I crave his body.

After that night in Las Vegas, I couldn’t help but think of him more than once. But I would quickly remind myself that having experienced that one night and keeping that single photograph was already enough; I shouldn’t expect anything more. Then I met him again in New York, and every glance or gesture of his sent my mind spinning, just like it did during my senior year of high school. Back then, every time he turned my way, I’d hope he was looking at me or had noticed me—but he never did.

And just now, he said he wanted to sleep with me. That means it’s no longer just my one-sided longing—he wants me too, even if it’s only my body.

If that’s how it is, then so be it. I owe him, but he doesn’t lack money. He wants to sleep with me, and I enjoyed the experience last time. So whether I see it as repaying a debt or indulging myself, I’ll stop overthinking and just give myself to him.

I quickly took a shower, grabbed a towel from the cabinet, and dried myself off. As I reached for the door handle, I took a deep breath, then pulled off the towel from my body, walking out of the bathroom completely bare.

Chapter Text

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. But he didn’t refuse; he only said he’d been running errands all day. So I quickly pushed him into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed, replaying everything that had just happened in my mind.

Did he really just come to share a pizza and pay his rent? Normally, if someone suddenly asked you to sleep with them, you’d either punch them or slap them across the face, then curse them out. At the very least, you’d think they were crazy or joking and change the subject. But he didn’t even raise his hand—instead, he gave a lame excuse that sounded like half rejection, half invitation. It felt as though he was using that $2,000 as a subtle hint. So… is he really moonlighting as a prostitute?

Suddenly, a wave of anger surged within me. I was furious at him for degrading himself—choosing not to finish college and pursue a respectable career, and instead selling himself. But I was even angrier at myself for being so foolish—yearning day and night for a man who trades his body for money. He can shamelessly kneel in a public restroom to perform for others, yet I’ve treated him like a treasure, caring for him with such devotion. I’ve fallen harder than I ever imagined.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Bringing a prostitute into my home was already stupid enough—I absolutely cannot let him climb into my bed. Chad was right: he isn’t worth it, and he doesn’t deserve me.

I decided to make him leave my house immediately, and if possible, move out altogether. I could accept his poverty or lack of education, but I could never tolerate someone who debases themselves for money.

I stood up, ready to head to the bathroom, but before I could reach it, the door opened. And there he was—walking out completely naked.

I’ve seen plenty of naked men. Hell, I’ve slept with countless of them. But no body has ever left me utterly speechless like his. He wasn’t muscular or powerfully built—he likely never stepped foot in a gym. Yet there wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on him. His frame was almost delicate, even a little thin, but his broad shoulders and narrow waist were perfectly proportioned. His slightly bowlegged stance added an endearing touch, and paired with his exquisitely sculpted features, I could only describe him as stunning—not in an aggressive way, but with a serene, understated beauty.

It didn’t seem like he spent much time in the sun either. Apart from his arms, his skin was pale, and after his shower, it looked smooth and supple. Unable to help myself, I reached out and touched his chest. The moment my fingertips brushed over his nipple, I felt myself harden. His cheeks flushed slightly, and his transparent green eyes met mine with an unwavering gaze. It was as if I was under a spell—I completely forgot my earlier resolve. All I could think was: I want him.

I pulled him into my arms and kissed his lips. A flash of recognition struck me—those soft, full lips! My hands began exploring his body, sliding down the curve of his back to his firm, taut buttocks. I cupped them with both hands, and the sensation confirmed it: he was the man from Las Vegas!

I pushed him onto the bed, stripping off my clothes as I climbed on top of him. “It’s you, isn’t it? The bartender I slept with in Las Vegas?” I traced his face with my fingers. Before he could answer, I slipped my thumb into his mouth. His lips sucked on it, his tongue swirling around the knuckle. The velvety softness electrified every nerve in my body. I withdrew my thumb quickly and replaced it with my mouth, biting down on his jelly-like lips. My tongue dove into his mouth, entwining with his in a frantic dance. Our lips clung to each other like magnets until we had to part for air, gasping.

“Do you know I looked for you? Do you know how much I missed you?” I whispered in his ear. “Why did you pretend not to know me in the elevator?” My fingers pinched his nipple harder than I intended, as if punishing him for lying to me. When he cried out in pain, I immediately let go.

“Sorry! Did I hurt you?” I quickly apologized. I wasn’t actually angry—it was more like I lost control. Something about touching him made me completely consumed by desire. His watery green eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words, making me both reluctant to see him cry and desperate to lose myself in their depths.

He lay pliant beneath me like a docile kitten, his responses so perfectly aligned with mine that it felt like we were in sync. I could feel the shivers I elicited as my fingers brushed over his every pore. I could hear his soft moans as my lips kissed every inch of his skin. I didn’t stop to wonder if his reactions were born of professional instinct. I didn’t care—I just wanted to merge with him completely, to make him entirely mine in this moment.

When I finally entered him, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over. Those large, glistening teardrops made him breathtakingly beautiful, but they also made me fear I might break him. I froze, unwilling to move. I knew my size was daunting, even though I had prepared him thoroughly. I could feel his taut muscles and the pressure of his fingertips digging into my skin. I didn’t dare ask if he wanted to continue—if he said no, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from finishing anyway.

No! I’ve craved this body for too long—since I left Las Vegas, since the first time I saw him at the office, since he moved in. I couldn’t count how many times he’d appeared in my dreams. Awake, I could force myself to stop thinking about him, but in my subconscious, I longed to drown in his eyes and body.

I looked at him uncertainly. His dazed eyes, his lip caught between his teeth, one hand on my chest and the other on my thigh—everything about his body language seemed to give permission, even encouragement. I took it as a yes and began to move, slowly at first, then harder and deeper with every thrust. His legs wrapped around my waist, his hands searched my body for purchase, and his head pressed against my shoulder. He emitted broken moans and gasps, and then suddenly, he bit my shoulder. I cried out, and an electric jolt shot through my body. I felt the heat and stickiness on my stomach, realizing we had climaxed together.

We were drenched in sweat, sticky and exhausted, but I didn’t want to pull out. I guided him to lie down, covering us both with the blanket. Post-orgasm, he looked dreamily languid, his green eyes like deep pools, mesmerizing and impossible to resist. I knew I couldn’t share him with anyone else. The thought of someone else touching him was unbearable. From now on, he would be mine.

“Don’t go back to the club. I’ll take care of you,” I said, running my fingers through his damp hair, voicing the thought in my heart.

"What did you say?" I felt his body noticeably stiffen. The hazy look in his eyes instantly sharpened, and the finger tracing circles on my chest came to a halt.

I lightly pinched his earlobe between my fingers. "I know what that club does. I don't want you earning any extra money there, and I especially don't want anyone else touching you." I could overlook his past as a sex worker, but from now on, absolutely not.

"How do you know which club I work at?" He pulled his hand away, his expression and voice filled with shock.

"Chad, my best friend. The hospital where I arranged for you to stay? His family owns it. He saw you at the club," I replied candidly, even as I sensed his defenses rising.

He pushed me away, and my length slid out of him with a faint squelch. He sat up, his face pale and lips trembling slightly. "So you think my side income comes from..."

I didn’t want to hear the word "prostitution," so I quickly nodded and cut him off. "Yes, I know. I even know your starting price. Whatever they’re paying you, I can pay too, as long as you belong to me from now on."

He suddenly stood up and stormed into the bathroom. When he came out, he was already dressed in his T-shirt and jeans. "I have to go. Goodbye... Jared," he said vaguely, avoiding eye contact as he strode out the door.

I didn’t stop him because my own mind was a mess. It had just hit me how abrupt my proposition must have sounded. Confronting him about his sex work so directly must have been a blow, and I figured we both needed time to cool off.

Feeling a bit lost, I walked into the bathroom. But when I saw the envelope of cash lying neatly on the toilet lid, I realized I might have made a terrible mistake.

Chapter Text

How did things turn out this way? Did he really think I was a male prostitute just because I worked at that club?

Chad? His buddy? I remember now—they were inseparable in high school. Right, his father is a doctor—how could I have forgotten?

I recalled my time in the hospital. Once or twice during the doctor’s rounds, there was a man wearing a mask who followed along but never participated in the discussions. I couldn’t see his face clearly and didn’t think much of it at the time. I also remembered that night at the club, the day Frank treated me to spicy meat lasagna. I felt like a group of customers kept pointing and whispering about me. By now, I was used to it, and Frank had told me to simply reject customers directly if necessary. But there was one person in the group who seemed oddly familiar—now I’m sure it must have been Chad. No wonder. That hospital belongs to his family, which explains why Jared took me there and why the medical fees were unbelievably low.

I don’t know whether to break down and cry because he sees me as a prostitute or to feel overjoyed that even if he thinks I’m one, he hasn’t kicked me out and is even willing to “support” me.

Is my life truly this pathetic? Either people avoid me like a freak, or the ones who treat me well only want my body. Mike was like that, and so is he. Beyond this face, do I really have nothing else of value?

My family always said I’d never amount to anything. And maybe they’re right. I get ridiculously happy over selling one piece of artwork. Meanwhile, a private room in one of Mike’s hotels brings in tens of thousands in a single night, and Jared earns hundreds of dollars just for an hour-long conversation with a client. I spent months battling with recycled materials to make something worth $2,000—probably less valuable in their eyes than me lying naked beneath them.

He said he knew the starting price at the club—how much was it? $500? Was that for a single blowjob, one orgasm, or a whole night of being used? He said he didn’t want anyone else to touch me, just like Mike. He told me to quit the club, and he’d take care of me, which was exactly what Mike said when he made me leave the bar. So was I “kept” by Mike? Except for the money that once existed in a shared bank account, he never gave me a dime. But he did cover all my food and living expenses, though he decided everything I ate, wore, and did. We never talked about money or terms because he said I was “priceless.”

***

After that night when everything came to light, Mike didn’t change his behavior outwardly. He still professed his love for me, but to me, those words sounded nothing but ironic.

I lost all passion for him, but his demands for me only increased. Every night, he used me until I passed out, and every morning, I’d wake up to find him still on me. I didn’t understand where he got all his energy, but I quickly learned the consequences of not complying.

He wouldn’t hurt me—at least not in the beginning, and not physically, but he knew how to manipulate me psychologically.

One time, I accompanied him to inspect one of his hotels. He wanted me then and there, but we had just left the house, where he’d had me on the dining table for over an hour. When he pushed me into a room, I broke free of his grip and sternly refused. For a moment, his face registered shock—just for a few seconds—before he pulled out his phone. I was terrified he was about to order someone’s hand to be broken again.

“Bring Pet here and bring the tools,” he said, hanging up. He turned to me with a regretful expression. “I won’t force you if you’re tired. Take a break,” he said, gently pushing me into an armchair. “But I want you to know, Jenny, that you’re the only one I desire.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but a chill ran down my spine as I shrank into the chair, too scared to move.

A few minutes later, a boy no older than fifteen entered, carrying a box. He was frail and pale, like a child who’d endured long-term abuse.

“Put it on the table,” Mike ordered, his tone commanding, starkly different from the gentleness he used with me. “Strip and get on the bed.”

A terrible foreboding filled my chest. I had a vague idea of what he intended to do, and the boy’s quick compliance—stripping completely naked and assuming a submissive position on the bed—made me feel deeply uncomfortable.

He walked over to the box and opened it. I stole a glance and noticed some items I recognized and others I didn’t. He quickly pulled out three belts and a gag. “I don’t want to hurt you. Promise me you won’t struggle too much, okay?” he said, almost pleadingly.

It wasn’t until the two belts tightly secured my wrists to the armrests that I realized the person he intended to tie up was me. He then used the third belt to bind my ankles together. Before I could even ask what he was doing, he fastened the buckle of the gag behind my head. “This is for your own good. I don’t want you to hurt your throat,” he said softly, placing a light kiss on my forehead before turning away.

He knelt on the bed and unbuttoned his belt and zipper, and then pointed his erect penis at Pet's pussy. I was horrified and shouted in my heart: No! Don't do that to that kid! I'm very familiar with Mike's size. Even though he helps me fully expand every time, I still feel swelling and pain the moment he enters. The child is still so small and there should be no preparation in advance. Mike doesn't seem to have applied lubricant...

My guess was confirmed by Pet's shrill cries. Mike pulled out without mercy and then pushed in. I saw that Pet's knuckles holding on to the railing turned white. His head hit the bed board more than once, but Mike always held on to him. His waist was pushed forward hard, his screams were endless, and I had long forgotten Mike's warning just now. I struggled desperately in the chair and my mouth made a vague guttural sound.

Seeing Mike's thrusts getting harder each time and Pet crying until his voice became hoarse, I could only close my eyes tightly and pray for this torture to end as soon as possible. I don't know how long it took before I heard Mike let out a low growl, which I knew meant he had arrived climax.

I mustered up the courage to open my eyes and saw Pet lying limply on the bed as if he had passed out. I also saw red and white liquid flowing out of his posterior hole. Mike put on his pants and walked towards me slowly, then squatted in front of me and looked at my face, "Why did your face look so messy?" He looked quite puzzled.

I struggled hard again and tried to speak, "Don't move, I'm going to get a towel first." He stood up and walked into the bathroom, while I slumped on the chair, facing the sweat, tears and saliva dripping from my face. The wet thighs were in a daze.

He twisted a warm towel and came out and wiped my face while saying, " Pet’s father had gambling debts so he sold Pet to me. He was only fourteen years old at the time. We are a high-end hotel here and the products provided are absolutely must-have." To satisfy the customer, this Pet has been trained for a year but he just doesn’t understand why. I heard that he bit the customer last time, so we broke his jaw to teach him a lesson. It just so happened that I had a friend who was the best. He likes to play with underage people. His previous boy died for some reason last month. Two days ago, he asked me if I had any suitable items to sell to him. You probably didn't see clearly when he came in just now, but he also had some. He has green eyes, but of course he is not worthy of comparison with you, so what do you think? Should I leave him here to help with the chores or sell him to my friend? "

He untied my restraints and slowly unbuttoned my shirt, his hand caressing my chest. “Tell me, what do you want me to do?” he asked.

Of course, I wasn’t naive enough to think he was genuinely asking for my opinion. I slumped in the chair, closing my eyes, unwilling to speak or react to his touch. The only thing functioning was my mind: He used hurting Pet to punish me, just as he had broken Jeff’s hand to force me to stay by his side. But I didn’t understand—Jeff looked down on me as his brother, and Pet was a complete stranger to me. Why should I sacrifice myself for them?

Yet my conscience whispered to me: If it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t have suffered. And deep down, I knew that no matter what I did, Mike would find a way to make me comply.

The internal conflict within me was abruptly interrupted by a sharp scream. I opened my eyes to see Mike holding a whip—clearly taken from the box—and striking Pet's back mercilessly. At first, I was too shocked to move, but after a few seconds, I managed to summon the strength to stumble toward Mike. I grabbed the hand holding the whip and stammered, “Please… please…”

“What are you asking me for, Jenny?” he asked, stopping his assault on Pet and instead tracing my lips with the handle of the whip.

I knew he didn’t want to hear me plead for Pet’s release, and I also knew I had lost again. “Please… I… I want you…” I whispered, tears streaming down my face as my hands reached for his arousal.

He immediately dropped the whip, his face lighting up with a triumphant smile. “That’s my good Jenny,” he said, planting a quick kiss on my lips before scooping me into his arms. “Let’s move to another room.”

That night, Mike climaxed on me multiple times. Just before I drifted off to sleep, he told me that, in his eyes, everyone had a price—but I was priceless. He solemnly swore that he would love me forever. All I wanted to tell him was that this wasn’t love and that I hoped his version of “forever” would end as soon as possible.

***

I walked into the bathroom, removing all my clothes, and stared at myself in the mirror. The taste of him still lingered in my mouth, and my body bore traces of him—kiss marks and fingerprints. I admitted to myself that I had enjoyed the sex earlier, but I couldn’t understand why beautiful things always seemed to turn sour in the end.

I collapsed onto the shower floor, overwhelmed by a sense of despair for the future.

Chapter Text

I thought about it for a long time but couldn’t figure out where I went wrong. If not for money, who would willingly sell their body for others to use at will? Now that I was willing to support him so he wouldn’t have to serve anyone else, and since I was certain he enjoyed sleeping with me, I couldn’t understand what he had to refuse.

No, he hadn’t rejected me outright, he was avoiding me entirely. Ever since that night when he left in a hurry, he had been keeping his distance. Was it because I hadn’t made the financial arrangement clear, or was it some sort of tactic to play hard to get?

The next day, when I left the house, his curtains were still drawn, and his motorcycle was parked outside, so I assumed he was still asleep. I sent him a text, asking to meet at home at six in the evening, but he never responded. At three in the afternoon, as he was leaving after delivering afternoon tea, I followed him into the elevator and asked if he had seen my text. He apologized, saying he had too many cases that day and needed to walk the dogs before heading to other commitments. That evening, I waited until 3 a.m. and still didn’t hear the sound of his motorcycle. By 4 a.m., I couldn’t resist any longer and called him. From the groggy tone in his voice, it seemed I had woken him up. When I asked where he was, he only said he was working and couldn’t talk before abruptly hanging up.

Working at 4 a.m.? So now he wasn’t just sleeping with clients, he was staying overnight? Anger surged through me. How much money could he possibly need to stoop so low? Fine, if he dared to name a price, I wouldn’t believe I couldn’t afford it. So, I texted him: How much would it take per month for you to quit the club?

When I left for work in the morning, his motorcycle was still gone. By noon, I still hadn’t received a reply, and he wouldn’t answer my calls. I decided to go straight home and wait for him. He could avoid me, but he would have to walk the dogs eventually.

I deliberately took a taxi home. When he saw me with Sadie and Harley, the look of surprise on his face felt like vindication.

“Why are you avoiding me?” I demanded angrily, holding back the dogs, who were eager to run to him. My expression made it clear that he wouldn’t get near them until he gave me a proper answer.

“I’m not avoiding you, it’s just… work has been busy,” he stammered, clearly trying to cover up his guilt.

The dogs wouldn’t stop barking, and their noise grated on my nerves. I dragged them into the house, closed the door to block out the sound, and turned back to him. Pinning him against the door, I asked, “Tell me, how much money do you need per month?”

He shook his head and looked at me pitifully. “Don’t… Jared… I’m not…”

My phone rang at the worst possible moment. Damn it! Why did I forget to turn it off? With one hand, I fished the phone out of my pocket, while the other, seemingly acting on its own, slipped under the hem of his T-shirt. He flinched but didn’t resist.

“Monica? What’s up? An hour later? Fine, I understand. I’ll meet you at 8 a.m. tomorrow in front of your building.” Damn, I had completely forgotten about tomorrow’s plans to return home.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket, then reached for his waistband. The way he bit his lower lip set me ablaze.

“No!” he turned his head sharply, avoiding my attempt to kiss him, and pushed against my chest with both hands. “I have other things to do. If you don’t need me to walk the dogs today, I-”

“You’re not going to the club tonight!” I pulled the envelope from my pocket and slapped it against his chest. “Two thousand dollars should be enough to buy you for one night, right?” I pushed my leg between his, yanking up his T-shirt to bite his nipple, unable to contain my urgency.

His body stiffened abruptly. “Let go of me!” he shouted, shoving me away with such force that I stumbled several steps back. The envelope fell to the floor as he stood there, tears brimming in his eyes, his face flushed with anger. I could see his chest heaving as he glared at me. “I don’t need your money!” he spat before running to his motorcycle and speeding off.

What just happened? One moment I was certain he wanted it too, and the next, he pushed me away and ran off. Where did I go wrong? He needed housing, so I gave him a place to stay. He needed money, so I paid for his time. I didn’t judge him for selling his body, yet he claimed he didn’t care about my money. Does he really think I’m the kind of person who needs to pay for someone to sleep with me? “If you’ve got the guts, don’t bother coming back!” I shouted at the empty yard, then turned and slammed the door shut with all my might.

That evening, Sadie and Harley were unusually restless. Even though I prepared them a feast of steak, they only took a small bite, chewed for ages, then spat it out, listlessly lying on the carpet. It was as if they were blaming me for not letting him take them to the park, which had ruined their appetites as well.

Honestly, I barely touched my own dinner before dumping it into the garbage disposal. Instead, I grabbed half a dozen beers, sank into the sofa, and started watching my favorite Lord of the Rings trilogy. But even after finishing all three movies, with the clock on the wall showing 3:30 a.m., I still didn’t hear the motorcycle sound I’d been waiting for. Stumbling back to my bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed and buried my head deep into a pillow—the same pillow he had used that night—and inhaled deeply. I had changed the bedsheets after that night but hadn’t replaced his pillowcase. The faint scent of him still lingered, and I pathetically imagined him lying in some other man’s arms while I was left here clinging to a pillow that smelled like him, unable to sleep.

I forced myself to fall asleep, hoping that at least in my dreams, I could have him.

The next morning, as I left the house, his motorcycle was still gone. I almost wanted to call my family and say I had an urgent matter and couldn’t make it, but then I thought of the relentless phone calls from my mother that would surely follow. Reluctantly, I pulled up in front of Monica’s building at precisely 8 a.m. I told myself that as soon as the dinner ended, I’d come back. Tomorrow, tomorrow I’d find a chance to set things straight with him.

On the drive back to Virginia, I remained silent. Monica seemed to sense my gloomy mood and stayed quiet as well. At a rest stop around noon, we bought some simple sandwiches. She asked me if I hadn’t been sleeping well or if work had been too stressful, even kindly offering to take over driving so I could rest.

Looking at her concerned expression, I was reminded once again of how good of a woman she was. She was smart, beautiful, cheerful, and understanding, with an impeccable family background. Not like him—no money, no education, barely scraping by with a job that only paid the bills while doing something far less reputable on the side. Maybe I really should propose to her right away, I was 100% certain she would say yes. She wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as he was, even when I was offering to take care of him. If I married her and settled my heart down, wouldn’t that put an end to all my troubles? Wouldn’t it finally stop me from obsessing over him?

I forced myself to stop thinking about him and made an effort to chat with her. She was kind enough to match my energy, chatting and laughing with me along the way. For a few hours, I managed to push him out of my mind.

***

This year's autumn banquet was as glamorous as ever, filled with distinguished guests. Appearing with her, as expected, drew plenty of attention. Perhaps it was because we truly had such good chemistry and taste that even the colors of our outfits matched flawlessly. Some even speculated that we might announce our engagement on the spot to make the evening more exciting.

Of course, that didn’t happen. With her, I was far more rational than I was with him—perfectly composed, confident, and never impulsive or out of control, just like I had always been.

This year’s banquet had some new faces, one of whom was a bank CEO in his early thirties, though, admittedly, the bank was owned by his father. He cut a striking figure, proudly escorting his beautiful, pregnant wife through the event. But what truly caught my attention was his name: Jeff Ackles. Sharing the same last name and also being from Virginia, I casually asked if he knew a Jensen Ackles. Jeff’s expression immediately changed, and instead, he asked why I would bring up that name. I evasively replied that I had heard it somewhere before but couldn’t recall when or where. Jeff then asked if I had attended Woodberry High School. When I nodded, he broke into a triumphant “I knew it!” expression and said it must have been during my high school years because Jensen had transferred to Woodberry for his last two years.

Jeff went on to tell me that Jensen was his younger brother and had always been the odd one out in the family. After a severe car accident in high school, he became even stranger. He transferred to Woodberry High after returning to school, where, according to Jeff’s calculations, I was a senior, and Jensen was a junior. He then shared that Jensen had attended some obscure university but picked up bad habits, dropped out after a year, disappeared, and cut ties with the family. Finally, Jeff added that the family was so ashamed of him that they didn’t acknowledge him anymore, only revealing this to me because he considered me a friend.

I couldn’t understand why Jeff, after just meeting me, would air his family’s dirty laundry so openly. Honestly, I found his overly familiar attitude completely off-putting, especially the way he belittled Jensen—his own brother—which only made me think less of him. I quickly found an excuse to get away from him.

Later during the banquet, I slipped back to my room and dug out my high school yearbook—the one for the class below mine. I had been invited to serve as the editorial advisor for that year’s committee, so they had given me a copy as a thank-you gift. Flipping through it, I found him. The yearbook photo was awkward to the point of being unrecognizable, making it nearly impossible to associate it with the stunning face he has now. But those green eyes gave him away. Searching my memories of senior year, I came up blank until I stumbled across some group photos. In them, I saw a boy wearing thick plastic-framed glasses, leaning on crutches, smiling with braces on his teeth.

I vaguely remembered seeing him, but I had never known his name, nor had I cared about his existence.

Chapter Text

Is it shameful for a 26-year-old man to cry uncontrollably? The sad part is, I didn’t even have a place to cry. I couldn’t go back to my place, nor could I find a random park to let it out. Instead, I aimlessly rode my motorcycle through small roads until I came across an abandoned church, where I sat against a wall and buried my face in my hands, sobbing.

It wasn’t his fault that, during senior year, he didn’t acknowledge my existence. That night in Las Vegas, when he drunkenly asked for a one-night stand without even seeing my face clearly, I could chalk it up to him being too drunk. Even when he suddenly suggested we sleep together the night before, I didn’t outright refuse him. I could accept that he liked my face and desired my body, but I couldn’t accept that our relationship was based on a monetary transaction. I’m not a male prostitute. Even if I’m poor and even if many people see me that way, I refuse to degrade myself like that!

Shouldn’t I be happy, though? Two thousand dollars for one night, I didn’t even know I was worth that much! So, if I named a price of $6,000 a month, would he have paid that as well? But I didn’t want it. Above all, I didn’t want his money.

Last night, when Frank kindly let me crash in his office for the night, I spent hours thinking. I wanted to explain things to Jared—that even though I worked at a club with a bad reputation, I had never sold my body. Before him, the only person I had ever been with was Mike—because he was my boyfriend. What held me back was figuring out how much to reveal about my relationship with Mike. But now, I realize none of that matters. Tomorrow, he’ll be taking Monica home, and what am I to him? He only wants me to be exclusively his, but he’s never said he loves or even likes me. I assume it’s because his love is reserved for Monica. The position by his side is meant for someone of equal status, a wealthy and refined young lady. At best, I’m just a bed partner he can buy with money, someone he can never acknowledge publicly. At least with Mike, I was openly his boyfriend, and he didn’t hesitate to say he loved me—though his love was twisted beyond reason. But in Jared’s eyes, I’ve fallen to the level of a male prostitute negotiating prices. Is it truly that difficult to find someone normal who genuinely loves me?

My phone suddenly rang. It was Chris calling to check on me, asking how I was adjusting to my new place and my job at the club. Sniffling, I rasped out that I was fine, but he immediately sensed something was wrong. Remembering how his words “be brave and move forward” had given me the courage to move out, I irrationally vented all my frustration on him. I even broke down crying over the phone. He stayed on the line without hanging up, silently listening on the other end until I gradually calmed down. In the end, he promised he would make time to visit me in New York and urged me to take care of myself, insisting I mustn’t ever think about harming myself.

After hanging up, I felt deeply regretful. I shouldn’t have lost control like that because I knew he would be worried—worried that I might kill myself.

****

The first time I thought about suicide was because of a woman named Lulu. By then, Mike had already “kidnapped” me for four months. We had left the yacht and were staying in a luxurious mansion in Los Angeles. I still accompanied him to various events—banquets, parties, business inspections, even shady dealings I would have preferred not to witness. Whether I liked it or not, I had no right to object.

I wasn’t a social person. Before the car accident, my family used to host banquets and parties frequently. I would always watch my father proudly boast about Jeff scoring the most points in a basketball game or debating between choosing Yale or Harvard as top schools clamored to recruit him. My mother and Jess would link arms and smile radiantly as people mistook them for sisters. And me? I’d clumsily spill drinks or bump into waiters. On the rare occasions my father called me over to greet guests, I’d stammer and struggle to form a coherent sentence. According to them, I was nothing but a disgrace, someone who couldn’t hold their own in public.

After my mother passed away, I never attended another family event. The thought of a limping, awkward figure with a cane weaving through an elegant party was an eyesore—even to myself.

Mike didn’t require me to say much or mind my perpetual nervousness. He claimed that my shy and uneasy demeanor made me the most attractive in a crowd of flamboyant or overly suave men and women. I used to envy how Jeff and Jess were paraded around as my parents’ pride and joy. But now, as Mike’s trophy, I felt no joy at all. I was like a perfectly dressed doll trailing behind him, programmed to smile at the right moments, tilt my head slightly to receive his kisses, rest my head gently on his shoulder, blush shyly at his whispered words, and return his gaze with one of longing and admiration. If I didn’t perform well enough or let my mind wander, he’d pinch my waist or leave fingerprints on my shoulder or arm, later punishing me that night with “lessons” to remind me how to be the perfect boyfriend.

He didn’t want me to be a social butterfly—and I couldn’t be even if he wanted me to—but his possessiveness in public was unbearable. Usually, his hand would rest on my waist, but whenever it slid down to my backside, I knew what he wanted. I’d have to kneel before him or take off my pants—he even forbade me from wearing underwear. The only consolation was that he’d at least find a private room or space, sparing me the humiliation of performing sexual acts in public. Still, I hated the way I had to rejoin the socializing after climaxing, knowing from people’s eyes what they thought of me: a slut, insatiable, someone who had just been used.

I felt like I was suffocating. I was with him nearly 24 hours a day—sleeping, eating, socializing, in the living room, in the garden, even in the shower. My appetite dwindled, but I wasn’t allowed not to eat. By the time we arrived in Los Angeles, we were on our third chef. The first was fired because I didn’t finish my meals for several days in a row—Mike wouldn’t tolerate me being too skinny. He made the chef kneel and lick the leftovers off the floor before dismissing him. The second chef tried reducing my portions discreetly but was fired after I vomited twice. The third one had only been there a week. I wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last.

In short, I had no freedom of movement. What I ate, how much, how long I slept, what I wore—everything was up to him. I couldn’t even hide in a corner to cry. If I did, he’d first ask, seemingly heartbroken, who had upset me—I wasn’t foolish enough to name him—then tell me that extreme pleasure and pain could help release emotions. I quickly learned it was nonsense. He derived pleasure while I endured the pain, though passing out from being overused did stop my crying.

We had visited that club multiple times, but I never imagined it would provoke hostility or even lead to a life-threatening situation. They said Lulu had been with Mike for a while but had since been discarded—I wished I could be discarded too. She blamed me for everything, and when the knife was pointed at me, I found myself not wanting to dodge. I even had the impulse to move forward, hoping the blade would pierce my heart. Unfortunately, the knife only grazed my arm. As I watched blood seep into my white shirt, a thought flashed through my mind: Since I wasn’t afraid to die, why not give it a try?

I started observing my surroundings for tools I could use. Strangling myself with a tie or biting my tongue seemed too strenuous. A steak knife? No, I didn’t want to spend forever sawing through my wrists. Broken glass? That would require breaking something without getting caught. A pair of scissors? They weren’t sharp enough to stab my chest effectively. A razor blade—though designed to be safe—seemed plausible.

I wasn’t sure if I was thinking too loudly or moving too hesitantly, but when I held a razor blade to my wrist that day, Mike happened to walk into the bathroom—I wasn’t allowed to lock any doors when alone. We stared at each other for a few seconds before he angrily slapped the blade out of my hand, dragged me out of the bathroom, and threw me onto the bed. He cuffed my wrists and ankles, securing me in a spread-eagle position, then gagged me before trashing everything in the room. Muttering about how I didn’t cherish myself and how I had betrayed his love, he stormed out, leaving me helpless in a room that looked like it had been hit by a tornado.

I slept and woke multiple times, unsure how long he had been gone. It was likely the longest I had been without him in months—not that it was bad, as long as I wasn’t bound and desperate to use the bathroom. Just when I started to think he had finally decided to let me die there, he returned. Kneeling by the bed, he made me swear I’d never think about ending my life again. Otherwise, he’d die with me. The thought that he wouldn’t even leave me alone in death made me nod furiously, and he finally released me.

After that, I never had access to anything sharp again. But whenever I hit rock bottom emotionally or he pushed me to a breaking point, the thought of suicide still crossed my mind. I even tried hiding some objects, but he always found them before I could use them, leading to another round of punishment.

Sometimes I wondered if I had a tendency toward self-destruction—constantly testing his limits and suffering the consequences. But if I couldn’t kill myself, my only option was to force him to do it.

Because only in this way can I truly get rid of him.

Chapter Text

I’m deeply worried about him.

He’s someone who doesn’t know how to take care of himself. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t care about his own life or because Mike’s control over every aspect of his existence has stripped him of any autonomy. Either way, without someone watching over him, he truly neglects himself. At least during the time he was with Mike, I could clearly sense his tendencies toward self-abandonment and even self-destruction.

At first, I couldn’t understand why Mike made such a fuss over a fork. But then the chef told me that he had once attempted suicide, so anything that could be used for self-harm had to be kept out of his reach. The chef admitted that while he paid attention to whether kitchen knives were accounted for, he hadn’t thought Jensen would hide a fork. I watched him from a distance, sitting dazed on the sofa, and it was hard to imagine the image of him gripping a fork and plunging it into his wrist or chest.

Honestly, I didn’t think he had the courage to go through with it. I thought he was just an arrogant brat—cold and indifferent to everyone except Mike, whom he humored and placated. At the time, I had only been his bodyguard for a month, and during that time, we had exchanged fewer than ten sentences. Mike, on the other hand, never tired of instructing me to bring him water or food, accompany him to the bathroom, and monitor his movements even during those few minutes. It was as if he were a child incapable of managing himself.

Shortly after the fork incident, he fell seriously ill. His fever persisted and he vomited whatever he ate. Even after several days on IV drips, there was no improvement. Mike was furious—perhaps from frustration at Jensen’s inability to recover or perhaps from other frustrations. During that period, everyone under Mike’s employ tried to stay as far away from him as possible. So, when Mike finally took Jensen out one evening, I could sense the collective sigh of relief. Someone even joked about setting off fireworks to celebrate.

Jensen’s illness seemed to make Mike more cautious. After the doctor’s final visit confirmed that Jensen had fully recovered, the doctor—either recklessly or out of genuine concern—suggested that allowing Jensen some time for himself to engage in activities he enjoyed might benefit his mental and physical health. I held my breath after the doctor said this, worried he’d get a bullet to the head or lose a few teeth for his audacity. Surprisingly, Mike simply gave him a thoughtful look and then waved both the doctor and me out of the room.

A few days later, Mike informed me that from now on, Jensen would be allowed half a day each week to go out, under my supervision. The locations and times would, of course, be decided by Mike. And so began our shared outings, providing me with more opportunities to be alone with Jensen.

He had no money—not a single dollar or credit card. Whether with Mike or me, he was constantly under surveillance. In truth, besides his branded clothes, he had nothing of his own. Pens weren’t allowed—probably because Mike feared he might use one to harm himself. He had no identification—it was all withheld by Mike. Nor did he have a phone—lest he contact someone. He was always empty-handed, with nothing in his pockets.

If he needed anything, all he had to do was ask, and I’d get it for him. But he never asked, so I had to decide for myself when to hand him a bottle of water or coffee or when to get him something to eat—he never refused what I chose for him. Over time, I realized that while he wasn’t picky about food and drink, he had a keen interest in art—not the kind of expensive, decorative luxury goods but rather creative, handmade crafts or small ornaments.

Mike was never stingy with money when it came to him and had purchased numerous delicate trinkets for him. Mike once told me to buy anything Jensen took a liking to. One time, I saw him spend a long time browsing a handmade crafts store, examining each item meticulously. Honestly, I was on edge the entire time, terrified he might grab something sharp and use it on himself. When I saw him pick up the same beaded Shrek figure for the third time, I offered to buy it for him, along with the Princess Fiona and Donkey figures next to it. But he shook his head expressionlessly. Strangely enough, three days later, the store sent the entire beaded Shrek set to the house, and I wondered if he had asked Mike for it.

Every time we returned home, Mike would ask me what Jensen had done and where we had gone. My response was always the same: “Nothing special, just looking around, walking, and sometimes sitting to rest and daydream.” It wasn’t a lie or an excuse; that was exactly what he did. He would sit quietly, observing people as they came and went, like a street performer who stood motionless. Only when he was looking at art would I see a spark of life in him—his eyes would light up, and the corners of his mouth would lift in a genuine smile. But those moments of joy were always fleeting.

One of my duties was to shield him from disturbances. I wasn’t sure what Mike’s definition of “disturbance” was, but to be safe, anyone who spoke more than three sentences to him had to be sent away. I didn’t want to risk breaking someone’s hand or leg later because I hadn’t done my job. Since he couldn’t interact with anyone and I had to keep constant watch, our weekly outings meant I spent three to four hours with my eyes fixed on him, never letting him out of my sight.

I didn’t have much experience in relationships. I had dated two girls, both of whom left me because they found me dull and quiet. When I watched him, I often wondered—if they compared him to me, I might seem “very lively” by contrast. Even so, I guessed they’d still choose him as their boyfriend because he was stunning. Even just sitting at a café, staring blankly, he looked like a piece of art—a breathtaking portrait.

It was an odd feeling. He sat there daydreaming, and I had to sit beside him. I couldn’t check my phone to avoid getting distracted, and there was no one to talk to—I had tried chatting with him, but he never responded. One day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I brought a sketchbook and charcoal pencils with me—pencils that were entirely made of charcoal with no sharp ends. Without saying a word, I placed them in front of him. He hesitated briefly before picking up a pencil and opening the sketchbook to draw. Meanwhile, I took out a pocket-sized book to read. On the way back, I put his things away and didn’t bring them inside. He mouthed the words “thank you” to me.

From that point on, our interactions gradually improved. He still didn’t talk to me but would quietly draw or focus on exhibits and browse craft shops. Until one time, at a shop, a customer got into a loud argument with a clerk, eventually toppling a display rack. The sound of shattering glass and clattering metal filled the room. I immediately grabbed him and ran outside. My phone rang soon after—it was Mike, asking where we were and what had happened. That’s when I realized Mike had planted a listening device, most likely on him, and Jensen knew it too.

Even though Mike allowed him some time out, he never relaxed his grip on him. He didn’t fully trust me either. Thankfully, I had always been truthful about our outings, or I might have been replaced—or worse, dumped in a sewer.

Mike didn’t want him getting close to anyone, including me, his bodyguard. Jensen understood this well, so his silence and distance were likely his way of protecting himself—and perhaps others as well. But I failed him.

That day, he seemed restless from the moment we got in the car. Later, while sitting on a street corner, I noticed his hands trembling as he held his coffee. I remembered Mike’s warning to watch for signs of emotional distress, so I decided to cut the outing short and head back. While waiting at a red light, he suddenly bolted out of the car. Before I could react, I saw him hit by a car that screeched to an emergency stop. The blaring horns, the shrieks of onlookers, and my ringing phone all happened simultaneously. I stared at his pale face for a few seconds before answering the call and telling Mike what had just happened.

Aside from a slightly swollen calf, he wasn’t seriously hurt. But when we returned to the house and found the living room in complete disarray with Mike standing there, his face like thunder, my stomach sank. Jensen, on the other hand, was expressionless. Mike first reprimanded me for my carelessness, warning me there would be no mercy next time, before ordering everyone out of the house and slamming the door behind him. Sitting in the car, I was consumed by regret. I could have told Mike that he had simply been hit by a car that ran a red light, and I would have been scolded for not watching him closely enough. But at that moment, all I could think about was not risking lying to Mike—if caught, I’d never have another chance to stay close to him. I didn’t consider Jensen at all. And remembering how Mike had exploded over just finding a fork, I couldn’t imagine what kind of punishment Jensen would face for attempting suicide.

Five days later, Mike finally called me back. During that time, I secretly phoned the chef, who said he hadn’t seen Jensen leave the room once. All the meals were taken inside by Mike himself. The chef also said he didn’t dare approach the room or even enter the living room because he didn’t want to hear the screams or crying.

Mike told me he was leaving for Mexico for a few days and that Jensen wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be going along. He sternly instructed me not to take Jensen out and not to let him out of my sight. He handed me a bottle of sedatives, telling me to give them to Jensen if his emotions remained unstable.

After Mike left, I entered the room. Jensen was lying face down on the bed. His face, turned to one side, was pale, and even in his sleep, his brows were furrowed tightly. Suddenly, my eyes caught something on the coffee table by the sofa, and my heart leaped.

I gently pulled back the blanket covering his upper body and saw his bare back covered in whip marks, red and purple crisscrossing in stark contrast. The sight was so jarring that I felt dizzy.

That was the first time I realized just how twisted Mike’s abuse of him was, and it was only then that I finally understood why he wanted to end his life.

Chapter Text

I enjoy solving mysteries—unraveling clues to uncover the truth. I relish the process and take even more satisfaction in seeing the dumbfounded expressions of those caught in their lies when the truth is revealed.

However, it’s not so amusing when everything about him becomes a mystery.

I don’t understand why he deliberately hides things—or rather, why he outright lies. From the moment he said in the elevator that he didn’t know me, he’s been lying.

Since we attended the same high school, even though we were in different years and only overlapped for one, it’s impossible for him not to know my name or recognize my face. This isn’t arrogance talking—I was a prominent figure in school. The football team was the heart of campus life, and unless he skipped school every day, there’s no way he wouldn’t know who I was. Besides, even though I never paid attention to him, I vaguely remember seeing him. It’s not just good-looking people who are memorable, strange individuals catch the eye too.

I’m not saying he’s strange, I’m not someone who judges others by appearance, and I absolutely detest bullying. But seeing his photo in the yearbook connected me to my faint recollection of having seen him before. What truly bothers me is why he lied. He clearly knew I went to Woodberry High but deliberately avoided mentioning that he attended as well. It’s like he doesn’t want any association with me. Is it because he feels inferior?

Moreover, he didn’t mention our night together in Las Vegas. I can confidently say he enjoyed it. No matter how drunk I was, my skills in bed never fail. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have agreed so easily when I suggested we sleep together again just two days ago.

And then there’s his family, why hasn’t he mentioned them at all? How does someone who’s the son of a bank owner end up living in a leaky basement? Do his family members even know about his life in New York? Jeff said he disappeared after his first year of college. Was that when he started his relationship with Mike? Did he only accept Mike’s “sponsorship” because his family cut off his financial support?

I looked at his yearbook photo again. Did he get plastic surgery? How does he look so different now? On closer inspection, his eyes were always beautiful, but those old-fashioned glasses obscured them. What kind of family hates their child enough to make them wear thick plastic frames like that? Jeff also mentioned that he’d been in a serious car accident. That must explain why he used crutches—he probably hadn’t fully recovered yet. He was also likely wearing braces at the time. Remove the glasses, crutches, and braces, and it’s no wonder he transformed into the stunningly beautiful man he is now, the kind of person you can’t forget after just one look.

I took a picture of his yearbook photo and sent it to Chad over Line, asking if he remembered the boy in the picture. After staring at it for a while, Chad said he wasn’t sure but remembered the girl standing next to him. He said her name was Ruby, and she always dressed in a strange, Satan-worshiping style. Then, suddenly, he exclaimed that he remembered. He said they were rumored to be a couple—a bizarre pairing of “the ugly and the strange,” as they were mockingly called.

When Chad asked why I’d brought up those “weirdos,” I brushed him off and ended the call.

So, he dated this Ruby girl in high school? I studied her picture and felt she looked familiar. That’s it—the bar in Las Vegas! I remember asking her about the bartender, but she had vehemently denied knowing him. In hindsight, she lied. She must have recognized who I was talking about, and I’m certain she recognized me too—my appearance hasn’t changed much. So, what’s going on with this high school couple conspiring to deceive me? Did I offend them in high school?

And what about their current relationship? They were a couple, but he later got together with Mike. So, did his transformation into a beautiful man change his sexual orientation too?

Uncovering one lie only raises more questions. The more I think about it, the more frustrated I become. I’m itching to drive back and confront him. No, I want to pin him down on a bed, hold him in place with “little Jared,” and make him admit that he lied to me, promise that he’ll never work at the club again, and confess that he wants me—only me.

Gripping my hardened self, my thoughts were consumed by his face. If I couldn’t see him, at least hearing his voice would suffice. I picked up my phone and called him, but the line rang a few times before he hung up. So, he’s still mad at me? Or was he busy at work? Checking the time, it was already 1 a.m. I had initially planned to return to New York right after the banquet, but my parents insisted I stay to accompany Monica for two more days and drive her back. Leaving her behind would be rude, but the thought of not seeing him for three days—or imagining how many men he’d sleep with at the club during that time—made me restless.

I grabbed my keys, ready to leave, when my phone suddenly rang. Was it him, finally calling me back?

“Hey! Don’t tell me that guy is him!” Chad shouted loudly over the phone.

“What are you talking about?” Hearing Chad’s voice lifted my spirits, I really needed someone to talk to, and Chad was undoubtedly the best choice.

“The weirdo in that photo, is he your Jensen? I stared at it for ages before realizing! Oh my God, I have to know which surgeon did his plastic surgery. My hospital needs to hire them at all costs!” Chad exclaimed excitedly. “By the way, I remember that Ruby was a year behind us, but Jensen is supposed to be a year older than you.”

I succinctly told Chad everything I knew, along with the questions that arose. I also confessed all the recent events between me and Jensen. Throughout my explanation, I kept hearing Chad mutter, “No way,” “Are you insane,” “Is he hot,” “Sugar daddy,” and “Oh my God.” I could practically picture him rolling his eyes or facepalming. Finally, I told him I was about to leave for New York.

“Hold on! You’re going back now? What about Monica?” Chad asked indignantly. “I’m telling you, you lose all sense of reason when it comes to Jensen. Last time, you kicked down someone’s door because he didn’t answer your call. Now you’re ditching your future perfect wife and driving all night back to him because he hung up on you? Get a grip! He’s just a minor detour in your otherwise perfect life. Monica is your main path. Besides, even his own family disowned him, he’s clearly trouble. You should hit the brakes, get back on track, and forget about him!”

“I can’t! At least, not right now!” I admitted, dejected. “I still have two years before my self-imposed marriage deadline. Let me be reckless for a while!”

“I’m just afraid you’ll stray so far off course that you’ll never find your way back,” Chad sighed. “Fine, here’s the plan: calm yourself, take a hot shower, and go to bed. Follow your parents’ instructions to entertain Monica for the next two days, and keep some distance from him in the meantime. You’ve always had it too easy in relationships, so you don’t understand that some people deliberately play hard to get to make you give them everything. Right now, if he asked you to dig out your heart, you’d probably ask which tool he prefers.”

“You’re exaggerating! He’s not like that, he said he doesn’t care about my money! And stop calling him names!” I shouted back, unable to stand anyone insulting him.

“Of course, he doesn’t care about your pocket change. He’s after your entire fortune! Listen, bro, you’re losing it. Stay in Virginia for three days and don’t come back!” Chad seemed genuinely angry now.

“I can’t! Just imagining him at the club with other men…” No, I couldn’t even bear to think about it.

“Enough!” Chad cut me off with an exasperated sigh. “How about this, I’ll book him for the night. Don’t worry, I won’t sleep with him. I’ll just keep him in a room, away from other clients, and maybe get some answers out of him.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, skeptical.

“It’s a lot better than you speeding back and risking a car accident or getting pulled over for reckless driving. Deal? Tomorrow, when he starts his shift at the club, I’ll book him for the entire night and make sure no other man touches a single hair on your Jensen. Happy now?” Chad added as a reminder, “Oh, and you’re paying me back. Triple the cost, since I’m spending time and money and not even getting anything out of it.”

His words put me at ease. “How about I represent you in a free lawsuit instead?” I joked.

“Ugh, don’t jinx me! Good night!” Chad fake-yawned loudly before hanging up.

Lying in bed, I thought about how Jensen’s car accident had been severe enough for him to take two years off school, forcing him to transfer to a strange high school where he stood out awkwardly. His family had treated him as an outcast since childhood. I didn’t know what their definition of a “freak” was, but cutting him off for that seemed cruel and heartless. Despite coming from such a wealthy background, he now lived in poverty but didn’t wallow in self-pity. On the contrary, he worked hard—though I completely disapproved of his side job—and created art with dedication. When helping him move, I had seen those intricate models and components that must have taken countless hours to assemble. He didn’t deserve the contempt or treatment he received from his family. He deserved someone who cared for and looked after him, and I wanted to be that person.

In that moment, I suddenly realized what this feeling was: I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I was desperate to have him. I wanted him to belong to me and only me. I even wanted to give him everything I had.

This must be love, right? I’ve fallen in love with him?

Oh no. God help me—I’ve fallen in love with a man!

Chapter Text

Jared and I have been best friends for life, so we’ve never kept track of who owes whom or who has helped whom. He’s done plenty of my homework for me, and I’ve lent him more than a few adult magazines—although he never seemed that interested. Now, of course, I realize it was his sexual orientation getting in the way.

I taught him how to level up quickly in computer games—that’s the only area where I’ve ever outdone him. He, in turn, gave me tips on how to court girls, like holding a book while sitting on the library steps, writing a poem to praise the girl, or just leaning against a tree, looking pensive. None of that was my style. Besides, if it started raining, girls would rush to share an umbrella with him while I’d just end up drenched like a wet dog with no one giving me a second glance. When it came to chasing girls, he was utterly useless.

What I’m trying to say is that no matter what we ask of each other, the answer is always yes—even if it means diving headfirst into fire. That’s how I’ve ended up here, at this club.

I’ve always secretly wished he’d face some minor setbacks in life, but clearly, this isn’t just a little bump—this is him going completely off the rails.

I’ve hired prostitutes before, but I always make sure to keep it strictly transactional. They never step foot into my home, let alone become a permanent arrangement. Prostitutes don’t have emotions. Their eyes are always fixed on money, and unless they find a golden ticket to lifelong financial security, they won’t quit their jobs—especially if they’re still in their prime.

I have no interest in men, but I know Jensen is undeniably attractive—at least to the nurses at my hospital. I remember when Jared brought him to the hospital. Several nurses who assisted with his treatment practically fought over the chance to be his personal caregiver afterward. In other words, even while lying sick and frail, he could steal women’s hearts. I can’t imagine the damage those bright green eyes would do when he’s full of energy.

What I’m saying is, Jensen’s looks are at their peak right now, and he must command a high price. If Jared truly wants to keep him, he’ll have to pay a hefty sum. Of course, money isn’t an issue for Jared, so I’m not worried about that. What I’m worried about is Jared taking Jensen’s “I don’t care about your money” at face value, blindly supporting him until he ends up bankrupt and disgraced.

So, while I told Jared I’d keep an eye on Jensen to make sure no one else touched him, my real goal is to observe Jensen and try to figure out his true intentions.

I came here alone at first, but before my shift ended, Nick, the attending physician from the thoracic department, stopped by to discuss something. When he learned I was heading to a club, he said he wanted to tag along for the experience. I didn’t mind taking him with me—after all, staking out a bar alone is incredibly dull.

As soon as we entered the club’s bar area, I chose a seat that was both discreet and had a clear view of the counter so I could observe Jensen. While chatting casually with Nick, I noticed several people—both men and women—approaching Jensen. The most persistent were two women sitting at the bar. One kept playing with her hair, while the other laughed flirtatiously, clearly trying to flirt with him. Jensen, however, maintained a polite but distant smile, occasionally blushing slightly. Suddenly, Jared’s words echoed in my mind: “No men are allowed to touch him.” But what about women?

Nick soon noticed my frequent glances toward the bar and followed my gaze. After a while, he turned to me and said he recognized Jensen.

I couldn’t believe it. Nick, who always seemed so upright, turned out to have hired a prostitute—and a male one at that. What is happening to the world? Are all the men too busy screwing each other, leaving the women with nothing? “When was this?” I immediately asked.

Nick thought for a moment. “About three years ago, back when I was working in Louisiana.”

Three years ago? That must have been around the time Mike went to prison—or perhaps when Jensen left Mike and returned to his old ways. “How much did it cost?” I asked curiously.

“How much did what cost?” Nick asked, confused.

“How much did you pay to screw him?” I rolled my eyes. “Did you just have him give you a blowjob, or did you go all the way?”

Nick’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you talking about?” He glanced at Jensen again, his face suddenly flushed. “Wait a minute, are you saying he’s a… No, do you think I…?” He shook his head vigorously, looking genuinely embarrassed.

I couldn’t figure out what Nick was so reserved about, so I decided to push him along. “Yes, he’s a prostitute. You slept with him three years ago, so you know him. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—especially for doctors like you, dealing with all that stress. It’s completely normal to have special needs.”

Nick waved his hands and took a sip of his drink before responding, “You’ve got it all wrong. I know him because I was his attending physician. I didn’t know he was in this line of work. In fact, I don’t even know his real name. And for the record, I have zero interest in sleeping with men.”

Well, this misunderstanding was truly awkward. I quickly tried to shift the focus. “You have so many patients—how can you even remember someone from more than three years ago?”

Nick nodded. “Of course, I don’t remember every patient, but he left a strong impression on me. And I just realized something—I signed a confidentiality agreement when I treated him, so I can’t say anything more.” He even mimed zipping his lips shut.

As someone who runs a hospital, I know all about confidentiality agreements. Usually, they’re for politicians or tycoons trying to hide serious illnesses to avoid affecting politics or stock prices—or for celebrities getting plastic surgery or secret pregnancies to protect their public image. But why would a male prostitute need confidentiality? It’s more likely the benefactor footing the bill wanted to stay anonymous.

“Come on, just tell me a little. At least let me know if he was injured or sick,” I urged, filling Nick’s glass with more alcohol.

Nick shook his head. “I can’t say.” Even after I coaxed and plied him with a full bottle of alcohol, he didn’t budge. Well, at least this proved my hospital’s doctors were ethical and truly respected confidentiality agreements.

We continued chatting about unrelated topics for the rest of the night. Finally, when the two women at the bar left and only Nick and I remained, I checked the time—it was already 2 a.m. I figured Jensen was probably done for the night and would go home to sleep, meaning my task for the evening was complete. I decided to take care of my own biological needs before leaving. Still, I told Nick, “Hey, keep an eye on him for me.” I pointed at Jensen. “If he leaves with any customer, call me immediately.”

While sitting in the restroom, I debated whether to message Jared about what Nick had revealed. But Jensen already had enough mysteries surrounding him—this would only add to Jared’s frustration. In the end, I put away my phone and focused on enjoying the bidet’s spray on my rear. That’s when I overheard a conversation outside.

“So, did he turn you down again? What’s your offer this time?”

“$1,200 for a blowjob.”

“What? That price, and he still said no? Does he think his mouth is made of gold?”

“I don’t care about the price. I just want that mouth of his—and his ass.”

“But he’s turned you down repeatedly. Maybe he’s genuinely just here to mix drinks. Why not try that busboy instead? He’s been dropping hints left and right.”

“I’m not interested in someone everyone’s already had. I prefer a challenge. Whether he’s fake-pure or truly innocent, I’m going to screw him tonight.”

“You better not cause trouble. The rule here is everything must be consensual. If he’s not selling, don’t push it.”

“Inside this club, sure. But once he’s outside, it’s a different story. I’ve already arranged for someone to wait for him in the parking lot. He should be getting into the car right about now. Want to join in?”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Trust me, once you’ve had a taste of him, you’ll see what I mean. Come on!”

Damn it! From the sound of it, these two scumbags were planning to assault an employee who had refused to engage in any transactions. And who the hell offers $1,200 for a blowjob and still gets rejected? No matter who it is, they don’t deserve this!

I rushed out of the restroom and saw Nick approaching me. “What took you so long? He’s off work now. Shouldn’t we be leaving? But let me use the restroom first.”

“There’s no time! You go find the manager—I’m heading to the parking lot.” I didn’t wait to explain before hurrying away.

The parking lot was empty at 2 a.m., but I could hear faint sounds coming from somewhere. Scanning the area, I quickly spotted a luxury SUV and sprinted toward it. Yanking the door open, I saw one man straddling someone who was lying face-down on the seat, tying the person’s wrists with a belt, while another man was trying to pull down the victim’s pants. The person on the seat wasn’t struggling—he seemed to have passed out.

Before the man removing the pants could react, I dragged him out of the car and slammed him onto the ground. The other man realized things had gone south and bolted through the opposite door. I delivered a solid right hook to the man on the ground as he tried to get up, knocking him back down. Just as I was about to chase the runner, I saw Nick and two other men intercepting him.

Finally, I turned my attention to the unconscious person in the car. His wrists were bound tightly with a belt, eyes and mouth gagged with neckties tied into firm knots at the back of his head. He truly seemed unconscious. On the floor mat, I spotted a stun gun and a syringe. Damn it! I should’ve kicked these bastards where it hurts.

I quickly untied the victim and flipped him over to check his condition.

Oh, crap. Jared is going to kill me.

Chapter Text

I felt uneasy—a sense of danger and fear creeping up on me. I despised that feeling because it often heralded varying degrees of pain, usually inflicted by some kind of tool, like a stun baton.

Mike had an extensive collection of stun batons, all different shapes and intensities, but they were all used on me. During sex, he would use them to add excitement, making me go numb and moan uncontrollably. But over time, they became tools for punishment. Whenever I attempted suicide or provoked him without reason, he would fly into a rage and jab my most vulnerable or sensitive spots with them: my nipples, armpits, inner thighs, soles of my feet, and, of course, my scrotum, penis, and anus. I would twist and scream under the ropes that suspended me or lie powerless on the ground, trembling with tears streaming down my face. Eventually, I would faint from the excruciating pain, only to wake up and repent, promising him never to repeat my mistakes.

For a long time, just hearing the crackling sound of electricity would make my hair stand on end, my limbs go weak instinctively. After three years, I thought I had grown immune to it, convinced that no one would ever treat me like that again. Never did I imagine that these so-called gentlemen would resort to violence just because I rejected them repeatedly. As I collapsed from the stun baton’s shock, I suddenly recalled how Mike had also started as a perfect gentleman. How could I have forgotten that when people succumb to their desires, the first thing they lose is their conscience? By the time I remembered, it was too late.

When I woke up, I saw a familiar face. “Hey, are you okay?” the person asked with a kind smile. “Do you remember me? Three years ago, at Louisiana State Hospital, I was your attending physician, Nick.”

Oh, I remembered. When I woke up from a deep coma back then, this was the face I saw. So, I had narrowly escaped death again? I nodded, trying to sense my body. Fortunately, apart from feeling weak, everything seemed normal. Compared to the last time I woke up to find my body covered in casts and tubes, unable to move, this was far better. It seemed those scumbags hadn’t succeeded. “Did you save me?”

He shook his head. “It was Chad. He overheard those two bastards in the restroom planning to harm you and rushed to the parking lot to rescue you.”

Chad? That’s when I realized I was in a hospital—again in that luxurious private room. I sat up abruptly. I wasn’t so badly injured that I needed to be hospitalized, was I? I didn’t want to owe him—or Jared—any more than I already did. Staggering, I tried to stand up.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Nick quickly reached out to stop me.

“I’m fine, so I’m leaving,” I insisted, struggling to free myself from his grip. But it was futile. With a slight push, I fell back onto the bed.

“I’m afraid that’s not happening. Jared asked me to take good care of you. He’s on his way back from Virginia, so until then, you’re staying here to rest,” Chad chimed in, appearing out of nowhere.

I don’t need anyone to take care of me, least of Jared. And keeping someone like me—a whore—in this luxurious hospital room? Weren’t they afraid I’d taint it? I seethed silently but lacked the energy to lash out. “I appreciate you saving me, but I really don’t need to stay, so…”

“Since you acknowledge that I saved you, just stay here to repay me, okay? Oh, by the way, those two scumbags had their membership revoked. But since this incident could damage the club’s reputation among all its members, we made them pay $20,000 in compensation for emotional distress. Here’s the check,” Chad said, placing an envelope on the bed. “And I owe you an apology. Frank told me you were only a bartender at the club. I misunderstood and ran off to tell Jared nonsense. Blame me, not him. But if I hadn’t mistaken you for… well, and if Jared hadn’t been so worried about you, I wouldn’t have spent the whole night staking out the club bar, which means I wouldn’t have saved you. So, we’re even now, okay?” Chad rattled off his explanation in one breath.

I frowned. “Jared asked you to watch me at the club?”

Chad scratched his head, flashing an awkward smile. “Uh… I think it’s better if Jared explains that himself.” He exaggerated a yawn. “It’s been a long night, I need to catch up on sleep. You should rest too. If you need anything, just press the call button. Or do you want me to get Ellen to act as your nurse?”

I rolled my eyes, nearly blurting out, “That’s unnecessary, I’m not that precious.” But before I could say anything, Chad slung an arm around Nick’s shoulder and quickly left the room, as if afraid I’d press him further.

Once the door closed, I mulled over the entire situation. So, is this what people mean by a blessing in disguise? At least Jared wouldn’t mistakenly think I was a prostitute anymore. My name had been cleared. And this envelope… My hand brushed against it. Twenty thousand dollars—a hefty sum. But I knew full well it wasn’t about compensating me for emotional distress. It was hush money. Even if this incident had been reported to the police, it likely would have been swept under the rug. Worse, I might have been blamed instead. After all, the club’s clientele included not just the wealthy but also the powerful.

I remembered a time when Mike and I attended a fundraiser dinner for a halfway house for underage prostitutes. Ironic, isn’t it? On one hand, he was committing heinous crimes by forcing those poor souls into prostitution, while on the other, he played the role of a philanthropist. I often wondered if he was simply a masterful actor or if the people associating with him were genuinely that ignorant. But that night, I found my answer.

The fundraiser dinner that evening cost $20,000 per table. The guests invited were either wealthy philanthropists or individuals with significant social prestige. Sitting at our table, right next to me, was a couple in their fifties. I thought the man, whose temples were slightly graying but whose eyes were sharp, looked familiar. After introductions, I realized I had seen him on television about a month earlier.

His name was Lion, a high-ranking prosecutor who had gained fame for prosecuting a university president who had kept his stepdaughter under house arrest for six years and sexually assaulted her. After winning the case, Lion was hailed as a guardian of justice, with the victim tearfully expressing her gratitude. I remembered lying with my head on Mike’s chest—his favorite position when we watched TV, as he liked me close to his heart—watching Lion on a talk show vehemently condemning the depravity of such predators. I held my breath, feeling Mike’s heartbeat beneath me, and realized he was completely unaffected, oblivious to how similar his actions were to the atrocities Lion was condemning. Regardless, Lion had left an impression on me.

When I recognized Lion at the banquet, I thought that God had finally answered my prayers and sent this guardian of justice to rescue me. I excused myself to the restroom—naturally, accompanied by Chris—and searched the toilet tank for something sharp enough to cut my finger. I used the blood to write the words “Help Me” on a piece of tissue, carefully folded it, and placed it in my pocket.

I waited all night for the perfect opportunity. When Mike was called to the stage to be honored for his generous $200,000 donation, Chris, not being a seated guest, had to stand off to the side. I seized this once-in-a-lifetime chance, blocking Chris’s line of sight and slipping the tissue toward Lion. He glanced at me with a puzzled expression before discreetly pocketing it.

For the rest of the evening, I worked hard to maintain my composure. I didn’t dare hope that Lion would whisk me away from Mike immediately. Perhaps he needed to gather evidence or observe and understand the situation. But at least he had received my plea for help. I silently prayed that just as he had saved the stepdaughter, he would save me too. I could wait—in fact, all I could do was wait.

I didn’t expect to receive an answer so soon.

That night, as soon as we got home and shut the door, Mike demanded that I take off all my clothes. That wasn’t unusual; I was often required to remain completely naked in our room. But when he brought out the ropes, handcuffs, and cane, I instantly knew my plan had been exposed.

He made me kneel on the bed, spreading my legs and cuffing them to the posts. A rope was threaded through a metal ring on the ceiling—a feature he had specially installed in our Arizona mansion. He raised my arms above my head, securing them tightly. Without saying a word, he trailed the cane across my body, sending goosebumps over my skin, before suddenly striking my buttocks with a loud crack.

“Do you remember Pet?” Mike began. “Ever since you pleaded on his behalf, I’ve let him work in the kitchen. But tonight, because of your betrayal, I’ve decided to send him to my friend—Lion, the prosecutor you sought help from tonight. Yes, the same man who sat next to you at dinner. He mocked me, saying I couldn’t control you, claiming I spoiled you. He said if his boy ever dared to do the same, he’d kill him with his own hands. And do you know what happened to his last boy? He died.”

With each sentence, Mike struck me with the cane, each blow heavier than the last. The burning pain on my back and buttocks felt like fire ants biting into my flesh. I could feel blood trickling down, but I bit my lip to keep from screaming or begging for mercy. I had placed my hope in the wrong person—a hypocritical prosecutor—and dragged Pet into my mess, sending him straight into the lion’s den. I was foolish and reckless and deserved this punishment. Only through pain could I learn my lesson.

This beating also gave me an answer:

It wasn’t that Mike was a master of deception or that others were ignorant—it was that everyone was playing a role, pretending not to see the darkness. The only fool here was me.

Chapter Text

I got a call from Chad at almost 3 a.m. As I listened to him speak, I hastily pulled on my clothes with one hand, and ten minutes later, I was already on my way back to New York.

What did he mean by "stunned with a taser and drugged, but he's fine"? What did he mean by "tied up by two scumbags, but nothing happened"? I never should have listened to Chad and stayed in Virginia. I should have returned last night, forbidden him from going back to the club, and protected him. He’s been living all alone in New York, abandoned by his family. When he got sick, he could only lie helplessly in that leaky basement with no one to take care of him. To make money, he had to work late at night in such a sleazy, dirty club, where he was ogled, propositioned, and even assaulted...

Damn it, how am I any different from those people? I also saw him as a prostitute and tried to buy him. Even though he said he wasn’t one, even though he said he didn’t care for my money, I still judged him with prejudice. And then, when he pushed me away with tears in his eyes and anger on his face—he must have been furious that I misunderstood him. Will he ever forgive me?

I arrived at the hospital at 10 a.m. and quietly entered his room. He didn’t seem to be sleeping well, his brows furrowed and tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. The last time he was hospitalized, it was the same. It was as if he was tormented even in his dreams. Who was hurting him in those dreams? Chad mentioned he was hospitalized in Louisiana, and the doctor had to sign a confidentiality agreement. Why did it need to be kept confidential? Who hurt him so badly that he ended up hospitalized? Was it Mike?

I reached out to wipe the tears from his face, but to my surprise, his eyes suddenly opened.

“Jared?” he mumbled, his voice groggy as he looked at me sleepily.

“Yes, it’s me,” I said, my hand stopping mid-air before finally brushing the tear away from the corner of his eye. “Jensen, I’m sorry…”

“Sorry… for what?” He still seemed half-asleep.

“For never noticing you. For not remembering you. For misunderstanding you. For saying so many stupid, hurtful things. For not being there to protect you when you were in danger. For not understanding how I felt about you…” I rambled on, and his expression grew increasingly confused.

“What are you even talking about?” He sat up. “I’m glad we cleared up our misunderstanding, but you don’t owe me anything, and I don’t need your protection,” he said, pausing as if considering his words. “If you feel responsible just because we slept together, you really… really don’t have to. Whether it was in Las Vegas or a few days ago, I… it was entirely consensual. So…”

“So you feel the same way about me, don’t you?” I quickly seized on the key point in his words.

“What? Feel the same way about you?” He widened his eyes in confusion, his hair sticking up in all directions from the pillow, his face still streaked with tears. He looked so innocent and adorable that I almost wanted to pull him into my arms. But no, if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to see his face.

“The way I like you. You like me too,” I said, initially intending to use the word "love," but I was afraid of scaring him.

“Like?” he murmured, his cheeks instantly flushing red. Could he be any cuter? “You like me? But… what do you like about me?”

“I like every one of your expressions—well, except the sad ones. I like your attitude toward work. I like how you endure tough living conditions without complaining. I like how you work so hard to pursue your creative dreams. I’ve seen your little models, and I know how much time and effort it takes to complete them.” As I finished, I realized that I wasn’t just attracted to his looks and body. I wasn’t that shallow. I knew he was truly amazing...

His eyes suddenly lit up like they had been fully charged. “So it’s not because of my appearance…”

I shook my head. “I can’t deny that I was initially drawn to your looks,” I said, noticing his slight frown. “Hey, you can’t blame me. You must know how good-looking you are. Anyone who isn’t captivated by your appearance must be blind. But I see more than just your appearance—I see the perfection of your inner self.”

“Thank you, Jared. You don’t know how much that means to me,” he said, smiling shyly and radiantly. My God, did he realize he was radiating enough charm to shock me like high-voltage electricity?

It was only then that I realized how much these compliments meant to him. I thought of Jeff’s contemptuous expression when he spoke about Jensen and his awkward demeanor in high school. I guessed that, at least before graduation, no one had truly noticed him—not even me or Chad. No one liked him—except for Ruby. But once he transformed, everyone started looking at him differently. Yet it seemed that what he wanted most was recognition for his dreams, not his looks.

"Does this mean you've forgiven me and aren't mad at me anymore?" I asked hopefully.

"I was never mad at you," he replied quietly, his head lowered.

"So, does this mean you like me too?" I pressed, reaching out to lift his chin so his eyes met mine.

"I..." He tried to avoid my gaze.

I leaned closer to him. "Tell me. Say that you like me just as much as I like you. Otherwise, I'm going to kiss you."

But I didn’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, I kissed him directly. I felt him freeze for a moment, but then his tongue entwined with mine.

I focused on savoring his lips. I had to admit, the sensation of his lips was incredible. When I had kissed men in the past, it was usually just a routine action—nothing deep, nothing lingering. Women’s lips were softer, but I disliked the taste of lipstick—it wasn’t like I could ask them to remove their makeup just to kiss. But his lips were different: plush yet tender, almost sinful. To put it bluntly, his lips seemed to be made for sex.

And then, my phone rang at the most inopportune time. Why did fate have to mess with me like this? Was asking for a proper kiss with him too much? This time, I decided to ignore it.

"Your phone..." he reminded me as we broke apart, gasping for air.

"I don’t care if it’s the President of the United States. I’m not answering," I declared, shutting off my phone without even glancing at the caller ID. Because at this moment, nothing—and no one—was more important than him.

After confirming that he was completely fine, I drove him home. As he fastened his seatbelt, I caught sight of the marks on his wrists. Gently taking his hand, I stroked the marks with care and said, "Please don’t go back to the club, okay?"

He slowly withdrew his hand. "It’s my job. I can’t just quit because of one incident. You wouldn’t give up being a lawyer just because you were threatened, right? But I’ll be more careful. Besides, I only have one week left at the club. I agreed to cover for Ash for a month, and I want to see it through."

I knew there was no changing his mind. But since it was just one more week, I figured I could show up at the club every day. Wait, I’m not a member there. Looks like I’ll have to ask Chad to take me in every day.

"By the way, was it you who asked Chad to keep an eye on me at the club?" he asked, as if he could read my thoughts.

I nodded honestly. "Yes. I didn’t want you engaging with other clients, so I asked him to… buy your time if necessary." I hesitated for a moment before continuing, "I’m really sorry for the awful demands I made earlier and for misunderstanding you this time. Please don’t blame Chad."

"The last time, he made my hospital bill ridiculously cheap. This time, he didn’t charge a single penny. And if it weren’t for him, I would’ve…" He shrugged, as if unwilling to revisit the incident. "Your bond with him is stronger than most brothers. It’s admirable."

"What about you? Do you have any siblings?" I asked on purpose.

He looked out the window, not responding right away. After several seconds, he finally said, "I have an older brother and sister. They’re both more than four years older than me. They’ve always been exceptional, just like you—the kind of kids parents are proud of. I, on the other hand, was weak and sickly as a child. I couldn’t join any sports teams, and my grades were terrible. I was like an outsider in my own family—a disgrace, even. My relationship with them was always distant." He paused briefly. "When I came out as gay, my father threatened to cut ties with me. After that day, I never saw them again."

Damn it! They don’t deserve to be his family! "I’m sorry for bringing up such unpleasant memories, Jensen. But I need you to know—it’s their loss for failing to see your worth."

He gave a resigned smile. "To them, there’s nothing good about me. Especially after they found out I’m gay, they treated me like some filthy, perverse deviant. But I stopped caring about their opinions a long time ago. Now, I’m more curious about something else..." He turned to look at me. "What about you, Jared? Are you gay?"

"Me? Of course not!" I blurted out instinctively, quick and firm.

"Yeah, I thought so," he said, turning his gaze back to the window.

We didn’t speak again after that, but a flurry of questions began swirling in my mind: Am I really not gay? Then why do I enjoy sex with men more? Could I be bisexual? But I don’t love men, and I’ve always planned to marry a woman. Wait, didn’t I realize just the other night that I love him? If I love him, would I still marry a woman? And what about him? But if I don’t marry a woman, where would Dean and Samantha come from?

Suddenly, I recalled Chad’s words: "If you take the wrong path, you might never find your way back." In this moment, I was certain I loved him. But could I really upend all my life plans for him?

Chapter Text

I’ve always known he isn’t gay. In high school, he dated Andrea, and now there’s Monica. He’s even said so himself. But then he says he likes me?

I have no doubt he genuinely likes me; it’s just a matter of how much. He cares about my safety, admires my character, and supports my dreams. But would he openly acknowledge our relationship? Ha, am I overthinking it? What is our relationship now? We’ve kissed, we’ve had sex, he likes me, and I like him too…

Yes, I like him. I’ve liked him since junior year of high school, then during our chance encounter in Las Vegas, and finally upon reuniting in New York. Those seemingly unattainable fantasies I had in high school are now coming true one by one. He finally knows my name, notices my existence, smiles because of me, worries about me, plays the piano for me, and even drove through the night just to come back for me. Most importantly, he said he likes me.

All my life, I’ve wished for someone to love me. And I did get that wish—someone who loved me and stayed by my side for nearly three years. Yet, that love made my life a living hell. After that, I lived alone in this city for three years. Whenever I was sick or sad, I longed for a shoulder to lean on. Whenever I felt lonely, I craved a body to hold. Now, heaven has finally answered my prayers, and I should feel satisfied.

I told myself, why not just focus on the present and not think about the future? After all, I’ve never been one for long-term planning. So, even if our relationship amounts to nothing more than being casual lovers, I wouldn’t mind. When the day comes that he tires of me or decides to marry someone else, I’ll leave quietly.

I decided to stop overthinking and let him decide what kind of relationship we’ll have.

But I didn’t intend to accept all his suggestions. When he asked me to stop working at the club, I refused. No matter how wealthy he might be, I would never depend on him financially. That was a lesson I learned from Mike.

After Mike made me move into his home, I quit all my part-time jobs to focus on studying. When my bank account ran dry, Mike insisted I use his money. Eventually, I didn’t need money anymore—he controlled every aspect of my life, from clothing to food, to shelter. When I left him, I had nothing. Chris helped me reissue all my documents after I was discharged from the hospital and even opened a new bank account with $10,000 in it. I reluctantly spent $2,000 to settle in New York, but by the third month of receiving my salary, I repaid the $2,000 and never touched that account again. I vowed never to rely on anyone financially again. Every penny I spend has to be earned by me.

That’s why I refused the $20,000 check he called “emotional compensation.” I gave it to Chad, telling him to either count it as payment for my previous hospital stay or donate it to their hospital’s emergency fund. If it wasn’t earned through my labor, I didn’t want a cent of it.

I also turned down his other suggestion: moving into his house.

I wanted to maintain some distance. Maybe it was Mike’s influence, but I have a strong need for personal space. My irregular working hours and creative process mean that I find the current arrangement sufficient.

I could tell he wasn’t happy about my repeated rejections. But for me, while I was willing to let him take the lead in our emotional relationship, everything else was non-negotiable. I had enough of a life where I had no free will.

When he realized I wasn’t going to accept his proposals, he adjusted his approach. No wonder people say lawyers are cunning.

The night I was discharged, I still went to the club for my 8 p.m. shift, and to my surprise, he showed up not long after.

I immediately gave him—and Chad—a glare. On the second night, he came back and sat at the bar, refusing to leave. Anytime anyone talked to me, he would interject. On the third night, Frank invited them into the manager’s office for a stern talk. On the fourth night, Frank treated them to spicy meat lasagna, which they ate through tears while exclaiming how delicious it was. On the fifth night, they treated Frank and Todd to a variety of foods sourced from Helping All, the service I queued for. On the sixth night, Chad had other plans, but Frank still let him in. On the seventh night—my last shift at the club—he texted me saying he couldn’t make it, but when I left, I found my scooter was gone.

Just as I was puzzled, a car screeched to a stop in front of me. "Your scooter seems to have been towed. May I have the honor of giving you a ride home?" He stuck his head out of the window, looking smug.

At that moment, I felt a long-lost sense of happiness.

For those few days, we didn’t have sex. We’d get home at 3 a.m., and he had work the next day, so he barely had enough time to sleep. But when he asked me to sleep beside him, I didn’t refuse—after all, he stayed with me until the wee hours every night. Most mornings, I was awakened by his kisses. Honestly, the first couple of times, I was startled awake because mornings with Mike always began with passionate kisses, followed by demands for oral sex, and then sex in the bathroom, whether I was fully awake or not.

But Jared didn’t ask me for anything. He told me he couldn’t resist kissing me when he saw my sleeping face, and then he’d tell me to sleep a little longer. By the time I truly woke up, there’d be a sumptuous breakfast waiting for me on the dining table, which he had prepared before heading to work.

After finishing my job at the club, my routine changed. Adam, the teacher who previously helped sell my work, invited me to join his studio. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I decided to quit my job at Helping All. However, I told Ash that if they ever needed extra help on short notice, they could always call me—after all, he had given me a job with no conditions when I was at my lowest.

From then on, I worked from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., though the nature of creative work sometimes made it hard to stop. As a result, I rarely got home before 8 p.m. At first, Jared would wait for me to have dinner together, but it put a lot of pressure on me—like if I didn’t come home on time, he’d have to go hungry. I told him not to wait for me, but he kept doing it, forcing me to keep a closer eye on the clock when finishing work.

After dinner, he often wanted me to stay—sometimes to watch TV, sometimes to chat casually, and then to sleep or have sex before bed. It was no different from living together. I enjoyed chatting with him, having sex with him, or simply lying quietly in his arms. But amidst the happiness, another voice would always echo in my mind: This is only temporary, an illusion of happiness, because you don’t deserve him, and you don’t deserve happiness.

I’d think about my family and how he and my family were both so perfect, while I seemed so small and insignificant beside him. Then I’d think of Mike, of that brief happiness during the second semester of my freshman year, and I’d start doubting myself—doubting whether I could ever hold onto anything good, whether everything beautiful would inevitably turn sour in the end.

We talked about a lot of things, mostly about work. He told me about interesting cases, and I shared my artistic dreams. But I knew we both deliberately avoided certain topics. We didn’t talk about family, past relationships, our current relationship, or any future possibilities. I never mentioned anything about Mike, and he never talked about Monica. But I accidentally learned about his life plan.

That night, he drank a bit too much. Normally, we’d only have two or three bottles of beer, but when I got home that night, I found he’d already finished half a bottle of XO on his own. I could tell he was drunk, so I urged him to go to bed early, but he refused to move from the sofa. Then he started talking about his next life goals: getting married and having kids.

He said he had never wavered in pursuing the goals he set for himself, always giving his all and succeeding. But lately, he’d started feeling uncertain, something he had never experienced before, and it terrified him.

As he spoke, he drifted off to sleep. It took all my strength to carry him to the bedroom and get him settled. While cleaning up the dishes, I started thinking about what he had said. He planned to get married by the age of 28. Since he was still 26, he had two years to find someone, and Monica seemed like a good candidate. I remembered him saying Monica was beautiful and well-mannered—and she certainly looked the part. Their mothers also had a close friendship, so achieving his marriage goal ahead of schedule wouldn’t be an issue. So what was troubling him? Was it because of me?

Since he wasn’t gay, his life plan obviously didn’t include falling for a man. Was it my presence that was bothering him? Did being with me while also dating Monica make him feel guilty toward her?

I had known from the start that we had no future together. But I thought, at least we could enjoy the moment. If this enjoyment was accompanied by so much compromise, secrecy, and unease, should we even continue?

I went back to the bedroom to check if he was sleeping soundly. I stood there watching him for a long time before I reluctantly kissed him softly on the lips and left.

Lying in my little room, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, I realized that in less than a month, I had already grown used to falling asleep in his arms.

At 4 a.m., I finally gave up and sat up, pulling open the curtains to look at the pitch-black night outside. I sighed to myself, thinking how dangerous it is to get used to something. And since we had no future, I told myself we shouldn’t let ourselves fall too deeply.

Chapter Text

I rarely experience moments of inner conflict. My life is meticulously planned, and all I need to do is forge ahead with determination. But ever since I met him, hesitation and doubt have become frequent visitors.

I constantly struggle with whether to see him or not, whether to hold him in my arms or risk being pushed away, whether to give him the best of everything or worry about hurting his pride, and whether to ask about his past or keep silent. Now, I face an even bigger dilemma: I don’t know how far we can go together.

Being with him feels incredible. Just quietly holding him and admiring his exquisite face is satisfying enough, not to mention making love. Sometimes he acts like a shy, hesitant maiden, other times like a playful kitten with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Most disarming of all is when he moves his hips like an electric motor—it’s impossible to look away. After climaxing, I often watch him as he sleeps, thinking that if he asked for my heart during sex, I’d probably ask him which tool he wanted me to use.

He’s never said he likes me, but his actions speak volumes. So far, only Chad, Frank, and Todd know about our relationship. We’ve never officially dated—we’ve walked dogs together, gone hiking, and occasionally shopped for essentials. But I’ve never taken him out for a meal or held his hand in public to watch a movie. I’ve wondered: if we were seen together, would I call him my boyfriend? If I did, would my family accept it? What would others think of me?

It’s not that I’m afraid of openly loving a man. In truth, I only love this man. Same-sex marriage is legal, and I have plenty of gay friends. If someone judges me based on my sexuality, they’re not worth having in my life.

What I do care about is my parents. We’ve never discussed this topic during my upbringing. I’ve dated several women, and my sexual encounters with men only began when I left Virginia for school and work. So, there’s no way they’d suspect I might be gay. But I have a distant relative—my mom’s cousin’s son, or something like that—who declared in middle school that he liked men. His family viewed it as a disgrace, always shaking their heads or speaking disdainfully about him. My mom once said having such a child was a shame to the entire family, and my dad once criticized gay pride parades on the news, saying these people openly demanded rights despite their "shameful" acts.

It’s clear they strongly oppose homosexuality. Even though those remarks were made years ago, I doubt their opinions have changed—especially if it involved their "perfect son."

My parents have never interfered with who I date and know I’ve always had clear life goals. Yet, for some reason, my mom seems determined to push Monica and me together. At the dinner party, she kept dragging Monica around to greet guests, practically introducing her as a future daughter-in-law. The next morning, she even urged me to take Monica out. And when she found out I’d rushed back to New York late at night, she called and scolded me multiple times—not for leaving abruptly but for abandoning Monica. The longest call lasted half an hour and only ended when my phone finally died.

Later, I called Monica to apologize. She showed no complaints, only jokingly said I owed her a big dinner.

I’ve compared her to him in my mind. In terms of education and family background, she wins. She’d also win a popular vote among friends and family as the perfect match for me and fits seamlessly into my life plan. But then I think of him—though he lacks academic credentials, his thoughts are deep, and his words are eloquent. Though he has no money, his vision isn’t narrow. Though he has no life plan, he lives fully in the present. The only thing he truly lacks compared to her is the ability to give me children, which is the source of my greatest conflict.

I love him. I only love him—at least for now. But I can’t make him any promises. He hasn’t brought up our future since asking if I was gay. He never refuses me when it comes to sex, never asks for anything, and never questions what we are. I have no idea what he expects from our relationship. But I’ve wondered—if he asked to be with me forever, could I give that to him?

As I spend more time with him, I find myself loving him more each day. Yet, the rational part of me keeps warning that I’m going too far. Sometimes I tell myself that none of my past relationships lasted long—except for Andrea in high school, which lasted nearly three years, the rest didn’t exceed six months. Maybe my obsession with him will fade quickly too. But the truth is, I’ve never been this obsessed with anyone before. He’s the first to make me realize how crazy I can be for love.

When he insisted on continuing his club job, I stayed at the bar every night to accompany him, which left me dozing off in the office all week. I wasn’t worried about him cheating, but I couldn’t risk another accident. When he finally switched to a stable job, I still couldn’t relax. If he was late coming home, I’d worry about his scooter breaking down or some other danger. I always thought scooters were unsafe, but he refused my offer to buy him a car. Sometimes I’d call him to check where he was, and I even resorted to the childish tactic of saying I wouldn’t eat dinner until he came home. I barely recognized myself anymore.

In this state of indecision, I continued our relationship. Since he didn’t ask about the future, I avoided thinking about it too. He told me he never plans for the future because there are too many uncertainties. Maybe he saw me as just a fleeting chapter in his life, so why should I overthink? As for Monica, I decided to let things take their course. She wasn’t officially my girlfriend, so I owed her nothing. If it was meant to be, we’d end up together.

With that, I temporarily set aside my next life goal. But controlling my thoughts proved impossible, especially about a goal I’d had since I was eight.

Yesterday morning, George and I visited Sunny, the general manager of a high-end hotel chain, to discuss securing their legal advisory contract. Sunny appeared to be about ten years older than me, brimming with energy and full of humor—a truly approachable person. We had a pleasant discussion about several collaboration proposals. Just as we were wrapping up, he suggested we try their newly launched French set menu.

As we were heading toward the restaurant, his phone rang. He stepped aside to take the call, and when he returned, he immediately apologized, saying he wouldn’t be able to join us for dinner because he needed to attend his son’s theater performance that evening. George casually asked about his family, and Sunny’s floodgates opened.

Sunny shared that he had two sons, aged eight and four. His wife usually took care of them, but he spent weekends playing sports and games with them. George chimed in, mentioning his own daughter and two sons. The two of them spent another ten minutes talking about their kids, with Sunny even showing us a family photo on his phone. In the picture, his wife held their youngest son while the older boy sat on his shoulders—a perfect portrait of happiness.

Before we left, Sunny apologized again and mentioned that his younger son’s birthday party was next month. He invited us to join the celebration to liven things up. As he patted my shoulder, he encouraged me to work hard, get married, and have kids early so I’d have the energy to keep up with them. George nodded in agreement beside him.

When I got home, an inexplicable sense of restlessness consumed me. By then, it was already past 8 p.m., and he still wasn’t back. I grabbed a bottle of XO and sat on the front porch, staring at the neatly trimmed lawn. In my mind, I envisioned Dean and Samantha chasing after Sadie and Harley, imagined myself playing catch with Dean, and pictured Monica and Samantha weaving flower crowns in the garden. The sound of his approaching motorcycle finally pulled me back to reality.

He immediately apologized, explaining that he had planned to leave work on time but was struck by inspiration while glancing at an unfinished piece. He and Adam ended up discussing it, which delayed him. Then he excitedly told me they had finalized the date for their exhibition. He went on about the theme, the location, and that he would have his own independent works on display.

As I watched him talk enthusiastically, I thought about how he’d probably come home even later in the future, how he’d spend more time with his colleagues, and how I might need to stop waiting for him to have dinner together.

I found myself gradually tuning out his words, drinking glass after glass of liquor, and thinking about how this house would never be filled with the laughter of children. Instead, it would just be me waiting alone in this empty house for him to return late.

The next morning, I woke up with a parched throat. I instinctively wanted to call out for him to get me some water, but I realized he wasn’t beside me. I turned to check the clock on the nightstand—it was only 6:30 a.m. He usually woke up later than me, but now he wasn’t in bed, which meant he hadn’t stayed the night.

I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand—something he had likely prepared for me—and drank it in one go. Yet, it couldn’t wash away the bitter taste lingering in my mouth.

Chapter Text

After discussing with him, we decided that since my studio's working hours are irregular, we’d spend Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings together, leaving the rest as personal time. He agreed it was a good idea, especially since he had taken on a new case that would keep him busy for a while. And so, after sharing several takeout meals and burning a lot of calories in bed, we came to this agreement.

Adam is someone whose mind never rests. He’s full of endless ideas yet strives for perfection, which means my working hours kept getting longer. Sometimes, I worked so late that I’d crash on the couch for the night. After it happened two or three times, Adam thoughtfully bought a sleeping bag and left it at the studio.

When I told him about my late nights, he couldn’t understand why any job required staying out all night. Upon hearing me praise Adam’s thoughtfulness, he dismissively said Adam was just exploiting me and asked whether I received overtime pay. I laughed and said I was already grateful Adam hired someone with only a high school education. Besides, working alongside Adam taught me a lot, the job allowed me to pursue my passion for art, and the salary was better than Helping All’s. I was genuinely satisfied with my situation.

On weekends, we’d take Sadie and Harley to the park, go hiking, or visit farmers’ markets. I knew nothing about cooking, but he occasionally got inspired to whip up something in the kitchen. After a few attempts, he finally produced a lasagna with spicy meat sauce that rivaled Frank’s. We immediately set up a biweekly gathering with Frank, Tod, and Chad to enjoy it.

That evening, we had a great time. After we were full of food and drink, Frank suddenly announced big news: he and Tod had decided to get married.

Under our cheers and teasing, they locked fingers and passionately kissed for five minutes. Chad hollered from the side, claiming it was too spicy, while I was brought to tears—though we all later blamed the spicy lasagna. Frank and Tod were the first same-sex couple I knew who had made such a commitment to each other. I was truly happy for them and wished them the best.

During their kiss, I stole a glance at him, sitting diagonally across the sofa. I secretly hoped he’d come over, at least hold my hand or even kiss me. But he just sat there, smiling and sipping his beer. I thought about how he hadn’t touched me at all that night, unlike Frank and Tod, who embraced and kissed frequently. I thought about how we’d never held hands in public, never gone on a proper date. Since I left Helping All, I hadn’t been to his office, nor had he ever asked where my studio was. Our mutual friends were only Chad, Frank, and Tod, and the only place we ever got close was inside this house.

It was clear—we were just bedmates.

I thought I could handle it. I thought I’d follow him unconditionally as long as he wanted me. That was until I met Monica again.

I didn’t expect to run into Monica at the studio. Her family owned a well-known yacht rental company, and they had recently commissioned Adam to create an installation artwork to adorn their company’s facade. She was the one in charge of the project.

“Jensen! I remember you, right? We met at the burger joint. Jared said you helped him walk his dogs,” she greeted me warmly the moment she saw me.

“Yes, but I’ve changed jobs now. I’m working here as Adam’s assistant.” I took another look at her and had to admit her radiant confidence made her a perfect match for him.

“Oh, I see. That day, you seemed quite familiar with him. How long did you help him with the dogs?” She seemed a little disappointed.

“About two months,” I replied, not mentioning that I still walked the dogs—only now with him.

“We seem to have quite the fate, don’t we? This is the third time we’ve met,” she said, staring at me. “The first time, I only caught a glimpse of your profile when you were singing a love song for someone’s proposal. By the way, you have a great voice. The second time was at the burger joint, but the lighting was too dim, and you left in a hurry. Now, I finally get a good look at you. Honestly, with your good looks and singing talent, you should consider trying the entertainment industry.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Thankfully, Adam walked over. “Monica, what’s this? You see a handsome guy and completely ignore me?”

“Hi! I thought all artists were messy and unkempt. Never expected to find a handsome guy here.” She playfully punched Adam, and it was clear they got along well.

“That’s because Jensen just started. Give him two months, and he’ll be just as disheveled as the rest of us,” Adam joked.

She exaggeratedly smacked her forehead. “Please, no. Jensen, quit while you can. Don’t let this place ruin your looks.”

I wasn’t used to being the center of attention. “You two go ahead and talk. I need to get back to work.”

“Let’s have lunch together!” She patted my arm before walking into the office with Adam.

I thought she was just being polite, but she actually invited me and Adam to lunch. However, Adam got a call from a supplier and told us to go ahead without him.

We found an Italian restaurant nearby and chatted while waiting for Adam.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she suddenly asked as I was looking at the menu. “If it’s too personal, you don’t have to answer.”

“No, I don’t,” I replied, deciding to be equally direct. “What about you? Is Jared your boyfriend?”

“We’re somewhere between friends and lovers,” she admitted graciously. “But when I went with him to a family dinner in Virginia, many people thought we were a couple.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “So, the reason you two haven’t become a couple yet is because…?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be tied down yet? Or perhaps I’m just not his type,” she paused briefly before continuing. “Don’t laugh at me, but even though I’m an only child, I have no interest in my family’s business. I long for a married life where I can get married within three years, have a son and a daughter, and focus on being a good wife and mother. But I know some people might find those dreams too traditional or boring.”

From the sound of it, her goals perfectly aligned with his. Why didn’t they just walk down the aisle and fulfill their shared dream of marriage and family? That way, everyone would be worry-free.

“Does he know your thoughts on marriage? And has he shared his life plans with you?” Maybe I should do a good deed and help them get together.

“He knows, but he hasn’t told me about his life plans. Do you know?” she asked curiously.

Did I have the right to speak for him? “I think I’ve heard him mention wanting to get married early and have a son and a daughter or something like that.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? When we visited his family last time, we could’ve had a deeper conversation, but he left early. Since coming back to New York, we haven’t had a chance to meet.”

“I’m sorry… It’s my fault.”

“What does that have to do with you?” She laughed. “It’s not like he left because of you. Unless… did you do something to his dogs, and that’s why he rushed back?”

It had nothing to do with the dogs, but he did come back because of me. I didn’t know whether to feel proud or guilty. “Of course not,” I denied quickly. Oh, God, her imagination was so wild. “I just mean I regret the missed opportunity.”

“Hey, you blush so easily. It’s adorable,” she teased, pointing at my face. “I can’t believe you don’t have a girlfriend—or maybe you have too many to choose from?”

Because I’m gay, and I’ve taken up the time of your potential boyfriend. “No… no, you’re overthinking it.”

“Now that you’re no longer helping Jared, will you still see him?” she asked, turning the topic back to him.

“Actually… actually, I still walk his dogs on the weekends, so sometimes I see him,” I admitted cautiously.

“Then… have you ever seen… any women… uh… spending the night at his place?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.

I shook my head quickly and firmly. “No, never.”

She laughed again. “I was asking about him, not you. Why are you so nervous?” But then she looked uncertain and asked, “So, do you think I should take the initiative? Or should I play it cool? Do lawyers like him usually prefer to be in control of everything?”

I looked at her, feeling a mix of emotions I couldn’t describe, unsure of how to answer. Luckily, Adam finally showed up, putting an end to our conversation.

On the way home, I kept thinking about Monica. As a wealthy heiress, she lacked any trace of arrogance. She wasn’t pretentious or overbearing—just a genuinely kind person who only inspired goodwill. You couldn’t help but wish her a lifetime of happiness. Most importantly, she and he shared the same vision for family life. They were a perfect match, and their children would undoubtedly be smart and charming.

And me? Being with him would only tarnish his otherwise perfect life. We couldn’t hold hands in public. We wouldn’t receive blessings from family and friends. I couldn’t give him children. I couldn’t enhance his wealth, career, or reputation. All I could offer was physical pleasure—nothing more.

Besides, I was living here, even if it was in the outer house. How would he explain our relationship if he brought her home? I monopolized his time from Friday nights onwards, leaving him no opportunity to date her. If my presence only hindered their relationship’s progress and disrupted his life plans, could I really continue being this selfish?

I turned my scooter around and headed toward the studio, telling myself it was time to find another place to live.

Chapter Text

What kind of job requires someone to stay out all night, for six consecutive days, even occupying their weekends?

He says sometimes he's too busy to come home, so he just sleeps in the studio. I get busy, too, but I always believe that if you don't get a proper night's sleep in your bed, how can you have the energy to think the next day? And six days straight on a sleeping bag? The exhibition they’re preparing for is still more than half a year away. If he's like this now, will he stop sleeping entirely as the deadline approaches?

Last night, he called me to say he wouldn’t be coming home this week. His studio is less than an hour's drive from home. I told him I could come to pick him up, but he said he needed to pull an all-nighter. I asked who else was at the studio, and he said he was alone.

So the entire studio is just him, pitifully working overtime, and still working into the weekend. But if he has to work tomorrow as well, why stay up tonight? Should I report his boss to the labor department? Or is he not working overtime at all but hiding something else?

I decided to drive over to see him. Since he’s the only one there, I can bring him some late-night snacks and surprise him.

I’ve always believed personal matters shouldn’t be brought into the workplace, so I’ve never visited his studio. But when he first told me he was joining this studio, I did some private research.

Adam is around 40 years old and quite well-known in the art world. Several of his public art installations have received critical acclaim. He’s married with a child, and his wife works as an art agent, making them a celebrated couple in the art scene. Adam has studios in New York, Los Angeles, and Seattle, with 3–5 assistants in each studio. New York is his main base of operations.

I was genuinely happy for him when Adam recognized his talent and brought him into the team. When he shared the good news with me, I could see both excitement and uncertainty in his eyes. I know he struggles with self-confidence, thinking his academic background isn’t strong enough. But I told him that if Adam hired him, it was a testament to his abilities. He gave me a shy but radiant smile. Adam even offered to pay for courses to help him further his skills, clearly seeing potential in him and wanting to nurture it.

Honestly, I’m quite grateful to Adam. No matter how much I appreciate and praise his work, it can't compare to the validation from a professional artist. But now that Adam is working him to the bone, I’m less than thrilled.

When he proposed having Monday to Thursday as personal time, I shouldn’t have agreed. I can accept reserving some personal space, but four days a week is excessive. Yet he was clearly sneaky about it. He sat on my lap, rubbing against me, whispering in my ear. Who can think clearly when all the blood in their body is rushing downward? By the time I came to my senses the next day and tried to object, it was too late.

Then he started occasionally not coming home. The first time he didn’t show up by 10 PM, I worried something had happened and called him. He said he had fallen asleep from exhaustion. Gradually, one or two days a week turned into three, then last week it was four. Now, it’s Friday, and I haven’t seen him all week. And he says he won’t be back tomorrow either. How can I not be angry?

Beyond anger, what hurts the most is how much I miss him. I miss him so much it feels insane. We’ve been together for almost two months. I’ve always needed a big pillow to hug when I sleep. But now, his body has replaced that pillow. I love holding him, breathing in his scent, and feeling his heartbeat. Then he proposed this awful “personal time,” and I had to go back to hugging my pillow, only to find I can’t sleep through the night anymore.

After four days of waiting, it’s finally Friday. Yet he calls to say he won’t be back. Fine, then I’ll go to him. I’ll make him pay for an entire week’s worth of missed time at his studio.

When I arrived at the studio, he seemed to be heading out. He looked surprised to see me, then immediately threw himself into my arms and hugged me tightly. Ah, is this what people mean by “absence makes the heart grow fonder”? I couldn’t wait to find his lips, my hands already wandering under his shirt. We kissed deeply, stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. I pulled off his shirt and started undoing his pants, while his hand reached down to unzip me and touch my already hard length.

The phone rang. Damn it. Who even invented these things? They’re on iPhone 16 now, and they still haven’t designed a smart sensor to block calls when the owner is... preoccupied. Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and turned it off, only to realize the ringing was coming from his phone on the workbench.

He broke free from my embrace to check his phone. I hugged him from behind, my fingers resuming their earlier task, and caught a glimpse of the caller ID: Chris. “Turn it off! Don’t answer!” But he twisted out of my grasp, motioning that he needed to take the call. He walked away while pulling up his pants.

I remembered Chris—the one in Louisiana who once called the cops to check on him when he didn’t answer the phone.

While he talked on the phone, I looked around the studio. There were suspended workbenches, large machinery, a corner with an oval conference table, and a wall covered with design sketches. Beyond that, there were two rooms. One had drafting tables, desks, and a sofa—probably Adam’s office. The other looked like a kitchen with basic cooking equipment and a dining set. Next to the rooms was a staircase leading to a small loft. One side was cluttered with miscellaneous items, while the other had a sleeping bag, a simple three-tier shelf, a low table, a guitar, numerous storage bins, and a shower.

This was clearly his sleeping area. But it didn’t look like a temporary setup for working overtime—it seemed more like a long-term arrangement. Having helped him move before, I knew how much stuff he owned. The items here were all familiar. I was almost certain that, apart from the long table, at least half of his belongings were here.

“Hey, what are you looking at?” his voice came from behind me.

I turned around and saw he’d put his T-shirt back on. “What’s going on? Why have you moved so much stuff here?”

“Because…” he hesitated, “…there’s a lot of equipment here. It’s more convenient for me to work on my personal projects. So I’ve been gradually bringing more things over.”

“Really?” I didn’t believe a word. “Adam even cleared out space for you. Seems like he’s been really good to you.”

He nodded. “He said the loft was just storage anyway, and clearing it out made more room.”

“Then where should we do it?” I moved toward him, but he avoided my gaze, biting his lip as if hesitating about something. “On the workbench downstairs? The office sofa? The kitchen table? Or should we try every spot?”

“Jared… this is a workplace… we shouldn’t…” His cheeks flushed red as he muttered evasively, clearly feeling guilty.

My mood soured. Why had his attitude changed after that phone call? “But when you saw me just now, you jumped into my arms. Doesn’t that mean you want this too? Or is it because of Chris, who just called?”

“Chris?” His eyes widened in surprise. “No, it has nothing to do with him.”

“Then who does it have to do with?” Taking advantage of his distraction, I grabbed him and pulled him close. Supporting his head with one hand, I leaned in for a kiss. But just as our lips were about to touch, he pushed me away.

Damn it! That was the second time he’d pushed me away. The first time was because I’d upset him over the sponsorship issue, which was understandable. But what’s his excuse this time? I glared at him, my mind racing with thoughts: He’s secretly moving out. He’s deliberately avoiding me. He’s rejecting me. He doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

“What’s going on between us?” My voice was colder than ice.

“I’m sorry about what just happened. I mean… downstairs…” He paused, took a deep breath as if making a major decision, then said, “To be honest, I’m tired of our current relationship. You can’t give me what I want, so I think we should end things.”

What he wants? “What do you want?” My voice was dark. “Money? Sports cars? Mansions?” Suddenly, I remembered what Chad had said: He doesn’t care about your small change—he’s after your entire fortune.

“I want it all!” His voice rose sharply. “And more than that, I want you to tell everyone you know that you love me. Like Frank and Tod, even if your parents disown you, even if your friends laugh at you and look down on you, even if your clients stop trusting and hiring you, even if it’s just the two of us at home—no laughter, no cute, well-mannered children—you’d still be willing to do it all for me. That’s what I want. Can you give me that?”

He stared coldly at me as I stood there, speechless. Then he turned and walked down the stairs, opened the door, and said, “Please leave. I’ll move all my things out as soon as I find a place.”

I don’t know what I yelled at him, or how I made it back home. His words kept replaying in my head: He wants everything from me and for me to give up everything for him. Of course, I can give him that. But is he really worth it?

Lying in bed, I grabbed my big pillow and told myself to wake up. This detour had reached its end—it was time to get back on track.

Chapter Text

It’s often said that girls find it easy to become friends with gay men. Ruby and I get along really well—I even know the exact dates of her menstrual cycle, and she’s well aware of my infatuation with Jared. We share almost no secrets. But there’s one thing we have in common: we’re both queer and are often labeled as freaks. What I didn’t expect was to become good friends with someone as vastly different from me as Monica.

Since we met at the studio, she’s been visiting more frequently. Adam thought she was trying to pursue me and even encouraged me to seize the opportunity, going as far as to create chances for us to have meals together alone. Little did he know that all our conversations revolved around another man.

Monica, who graduated from university less than a year ago, is working under her father. She seems like a carefree young lady with a touch of romantic innocence. I was surprised that someone with her qualities had never had a boyfriend. She explained that her family was very traditional and strict; every suitor was subjected to a background check, which scared them off. But ever since her father met Jared at a fundraising dinner and praised him as an outstanding young man, their families have become close. Both mothers even bonded at another social gathering, aligning their efforts to matchmake the two.

She told me she fell for him at first sight, captivated by his suave, confident, and elegant demeanor. She even said, “Since you’re gay, you must agree with me,” and seriously asked if I found him attractive. I had no idea whether to nod or shake my head.

They had gone on two or three dates before, and twice, I happened to run into them. She felt that she got along well with him, and they even kissed, but something always seemed lacking—he just didn’t seem passionate enough.

She initially thought their trip to Virginia would help them get to know each other better, but he was gloomy the entire time, leaving her unsure what to say. On the second day of the banquet, they spent a whole day together, but he seemed distracted, constantly checking his phone. When she asked if he was expecting a call, he only said he was monitoring the progress of a case. Then, the next day, he left for New York without a word.

Back in New York, over a month had passed, and he’d only called her once to apologize. When she suggested dinner, he said he was swamped with work and didn’t want her to see him in his haggard state, fearing it would ruin her image of him as a handsome man.

She asked me, as a fellow man, to help her analyze what he was thinking. I couldn’t answer her. I could only say, “I’m gay, so I probably think differently than he does.” She sighed and said unrequited love was exhausting. Oh, I have plenty of experience in that department. I told her about my high school crush on a senior and assured her I understood how she felt. From then on, I became her confidant.

This whole situation is absurd. By day, I listened to her talk about him; by night, I was with him. I comforted her, telling her not to give up easily, while holding onto him tightly. Gradually, I felt guilty around her and ashamed before him. I was like a third party standing in the way of their happy future together. I hated myself for it. He isn’t gay. He wants a normal family. Since I can’t give him that and there’s someone so perfect right in front of him, I should let go. In truth, I was never worthy of him. A breakup was inevitable; it was just a matter of time. Better to get it over with quickly than drag it out.

Making the decision was easy. Carrying it out was hard. I started by gradually reducing how often I went back, but every night in the studio loft, I missed him so much it hurt. I missed his warm embrace, his big hands cradling my face, his lips, his gentle smile, his fingers, and the way his body filled mine… I bought a sketchbook. When I couldn’t sleep because I missed him, I started drawing him. Every expression and movement etched in my mind came to life on the pages. Sometimes, I laughed while drawing; other times, tears fell uncontrollably.

Every day, I looked forward to Friday, telling myself, “Just three days with him,” but then it became another three days and another. On the other hand, I couldn’t ignore Monica’s forlorn expression. In her, I saw the pain of my unrequited high school love. I also knew that if I didn’t leave him, he wouldn’t pursue her, and they wouldn’t have a chance. I told myself I couldn’t keep being so selfish.

Finally, I picked up the phone and told him I wouldn’t be home that weekend. But as soon as I hung up, I regretted it. I couldn’t control myself. Every nerve in my body screamed, “Go home; he’s waiting for you.” In the end, I decided to be selfish for just one more night.

I didn’t expect him to come find me. Before I could think, I was in his arms. The only thought in my mind was: I want him. I want to be with him completely, no matter the consequences.

But that phone call snapped me back to reality. It was Chris, asking about my work and my relationship. A few days ago, I’d told him I’d decided to leave Jared. After the call, I saw it as fate, a wake-up call in my moment of weakness.

I finally said the words: we should break up. I didn’t lie—I do want everything from him. But I wasn’t referring to money or wealth. I wanted to walk hand in hand with him in the sunlight. Maybe some would bless us; maybe others would despise us. But at least we wouldn’t have to hide. At least I’d feel he wasn’t ashamed of me or our relationship.

I must have hit a nerve, especially when I mentioned not having children. His expression was as if I had killed them myself. In that moment, I thought about the children in his mind—Dean and Samantha, perhaps—beautiful and accomplished like Jeff and Jess. They wouldn’t be stupid or self-deprecating freaks like me.

He yelled, “I can give you everything you want, but what can you give me?” I replied, “Only this face and this body.” He shoved me away in anger, turned, and left. The last word I heard him say was “whore.”

I closed the door and collapsed to the ground. I could hear my heart shatter, each piece reflecting his furious face as he walked away.

***

When Monica came to see me, her face was brimming with joy. She said he had finally asked her out, for this Friday night—exactly one week after our breakup. I thought back to when she said their first date was at a restaurant where I happened to be singing a love song for someone’s proposal. Back then, we’d slept together in Las Vegas but didn’t know we both lived in New York. Then we met again, and everything happened. Looking back, if I hadn’t appeared, they might have continued dating and perhaps even been planning their wedding by now. It was good that things had come full circle, and their relationship was back on track. I was happy I’d made the right choice.

"Congratulations! So you’ll be busy prepping yourself over the next three days—doing facials, eating only two meals a day, and squeezing into that little dress with a 22-inch waist, right?" I joked.

"Of course not. I want to approach this with a normal mindset. Who knows? Maybe he just wants to make up for the dinner he owes me. But speaking of a 22-inch waist, you seem to have lost weight. Are you dieting?" She examined me seriously.

"No, just no appetite," I said casually, poking at my noodles without any interest in eating.

"Are you sure you’re okay? Honestly, I think you should really find a proper place to live. How do you even stand sleeping on a hard floor every night?" She spoke disapprovingly.

I shrugged. "I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m looking for a place." In truth, I had checked out two rooms, but the rent was too high. The basement I’d originally wanted had already been rented out. Fortunately, Adam said I could stay at the studio for as long as I needed. But because of the lack of space, I hadn’t been able to move my things from Jared’s place yet.

Suddenly, she remembered something. "Oh, right! You said he adores his dogs. Should I buy them something to win his favor?"

Her sincerity was infectious. I thought of Jared’s puppy-dog eyes and her sweet, romantic nature. Their children would undoubtedly be obedient and adorable.

I quickly offered advice. "They love fluffy little balls. Harley’s ball is already chewed to bits. We were actually planning to go shopping for new toys for them last weekend." I paused, then added, "Actually, you should wait until after your dinner to go pick out toys together. That way, it’ll feel like you’re co-parenting... kids... together."

She nodded, smiling dreamily. Her expression was filled with longing, and in my mind, I imagined the two of them happily shopping for baby supplies together. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit me, and I bolted to the bathroom. Kneeling by the toilet, I dry-heaved, realizing that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days apart from coffee.

When I came out of the bathroom, she was hovering at the door, looking concerned. "Did you eat something bad, or are you sick? I really think you should see a doctor."

"I’m fine, really. But I should get back to work now," I said, forcing a weak smile. "Don’t worry about me. Focus on looking beautiful for your date."

"I’m always beautiful, aren’t I? It’s just because you’re gay that you didn’t fall for me." She gave me a playful look. "Rest up, okay? I’ll tell you how it went after the date."

I watched her walk away and genuinely wished her happiness, but the pain in my chest was so intense I could barely breathe.

***

I felt completely drained. The chicken soup Adam forced me to drink before leaving had come right back up three minutes ago. I didn’t even have the energy to open my sleeping bag, so I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

The phone rang. It was Monica. Wasn’t she on a date with Jared? Was she calling to share good news? I couldn’t make out what she was saying—I just wanted to lie down and get some sleep. Everything could wait until I woke up.

I must’ve had a dream. I dreamt of him and her, each holding the hand of a beautiful child, smiling so happily. As their family of four walked past me, he didn’t even glance at me, while she said “thank you.” Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.

The sound of the doorbell woke me up. I opened my eyes abruptly but felt dizzy. The person outside was relentless—ringing the bell and pounding on the door. I had no choice but to get up and drag my exhausted body downstairs.

What’s going on? Why are you all here? I didn’t even have time to ask before the world went black, and I collapsed forward.

Chapter Text

I met Chad for drinks and told him that Jensen and I were done.

“That was faster than I expected,” he said, not looking particularly surprised. “Honestly, I thought you’d last at least six months this time. But after that dinner at your place, I could tell something was off about how you felt about him. How should I put it? The way you acted when he was sick or hurt was completely different. It was like you didn’t want anyone to know about your relationship. The thing is, we already knew you two were messing around, so I figured you were planning to dump him eventually. Turns out I was right... Damn, I should’ve started a betting pool on this. But then, who would I bet with? Besides Frank and Tod, no one else even knew you were together, right?”

As I listened to him, a string of protests popped into my head. “Why do you assume I’m the one who initiated the breakup? Also, I’m not gay, and I wasn’t trying to hide my relationship with him.”

“So two men being together doesn’t count as gay? Oh, so you were just hooking up without any emotional involvement?” He gave me a look of sudden realization. “No wonder you two were nothing like Frank and Tod. Those two stick together like glue—you can tell they’re a couple. But you and Jensen didn’t even touch each other.”

I didn’t understand how he came to such an absurd conclusion. I loved Jensen. He was never just a hookup. At home, we were deeply intimate, but there was no need to flaunt it by holding hands or kissing in public.

“Say what you will. Anyway, you’re broken up now. So, has he moved out?” When I shook my head, he pressed on, “Is he refusing to leave? Is he asking for severance pay? See, I told you, it’s easy to invite someone in, but it’s hard to get rid of them. And yet you insisted on bringing him into your home…”

I cut him off with a hand gesture. “Enough. He’s staying at the studio for now. Some of his stuff is still at my place because he hasn’t found an apartment yet.”

“So why did you dump him?” he asked curiously.

I sighed. “He wanted to make our relationship public, like Frank and Tod.” I downed the rest of my drink.

“You mean... get married?” He slapped his forehead. “He’s crazy! How could you marry him? He’s so out of touch with reality. Good riddance.”

I snorted. “He said he knew I wouldn’t do it, so he broke up with me.”

Chad nearly spat out his drink. “So he... dumped you? Or was he trying to play hard to get and accidentally made it real? Well, either way, you two were doomed from the start. Breaking up is better for both of you. Now you can finally focus on your next life goal. Speaking of which, you left Monica high and dry in Virginia without a word, then spent all this time fooling around with Jensen…no, sleeping with him. Do you think Monica is still waiting for you?”

Egged on by Chad, I immediately called Monica, and we quickly arranged a date for Friday night.

“Looks like even though you got dumped by a man, you’re still a hot commodity among women,” Chad said mockingly. “Make sure you get some proper sleep over the next two days, no hugging pillows or jerking off. And shave your beard. Honestly, looking at you right now, if I were Monica, I’d turn around and walk away.”

He wasn’t wrong. I was in terrible shape, but I had no motivation to clean myself up. For once, I didn’t argue back. I just emptied my newly refilled glass in one gulp.

***

I chose a fancy restaurant to make up to Monica. Seeing her again after two months, I felt she had become even more graceful and womanly. She was flawless, every smile, every gesture. She deserved someone who would love her wholeheartedly. But that someone wasn’t me, at least not the me of today—a pathetic man who still thought about someone else every single day, even after being pushed away.

Since storming out of the studio that day, I hadn’t stopped thinking about him for a moment. His words replayed in my mind over and over. It wasn’t that I hadn’t considered them before, I just didn’t want to delve too deep. I knew I was selfish. I wanted him but refused to give up my future dreams. I thought he didn’t mind and that we had all the time in the world. So when he suddenly said those things, I was caught off guard. Looking back, his demands weren’t unreasonable. Who doesn’t want a happy ending when they’re in love? I thought about how we clung to each other at home, as if even a second apart was wasted. But outside, I always kept my distance, never realizing it until Chad mentioned he couldn’t tell we were a couple. Then I remembered how, every time we went out, I instinctively avoided touching him. Did that mean, deep down, I was rejecting the idea of being seen as gay? As if crossing that line would force me to rewrite my entire life plan.

I said I loved him, but I never thought about making our relationship public or giving him any promises. He had waited for me to speak, but when I didn’t, he grew impatient—or maybe just tired—and finally exploded. And what was my reaction? I remember shoving him away and shouting something at him. God, I hope I didn’t say anything too awful.

I’ve never failed or been rejected in my entire life. When I stormed out, I told myself that this was it. He had no right, nor did he have the qualifications, to force me to change. He couldn’t give me anything but wanted me to sacrifice everything for him—who did he think he was? But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I leaned against the window, hoping he’d show up, but also terrified that if he came to collect all his belongings, we’d truly be over. My pride wouldn’t allow me to reach out to him. I kept telling myself that he’d regret it, that he’d come back to me with his tail between his legs. I’d wait him out; I was certain I’d win in the end.

But now, sitting here enjoying a fancy dinner with Monica, I couldn’t help thinking about him again. Over the past two months, I’d never even taken him on a proper date. On Friday nights, we usually ate takeout, cuddled on the couch to watch a movie, or got intimate. And now? What was he doing right now? It had been a week, and he hadn’t come to pick up his things. That meant he still hadn’t found a place to live, so he must still be sleeping in that tiny loft on a sleeping bag. Was he taking care of himself? For some reason, a sense of unease crept over me. I thought about how, when he’d fallen deathly ill in that basement, he hadn’t reached out to anyone for help. Even if he regretted breaking up, his self-restrained nature would never allow him to make the first move.

“Jared, um... I think a friend of mine might be sick, and I’m a bit worried about him. Actually, you know him—Jensen, the one who used to walk your dogs. I need to go check on him,” Monica said as she returned to the table from the restroom.

Did I hear that right? My Jensen? He’s sick? Since when? And Monica’s friend? Since when were they friends?

“Talk on the way!” I practically leaped out of my seat. Despite having a million questions, the moment she mentioned he was sick, all I could think about was his acute pneumonia from before. I couldn’t wait to get to him.

I knew he wouldn’t take care of himself. When we were together, he wouldn’t eat unless I reminded him, and it was the same with sleep. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, look out the window, and see the light still on in the studio. He’d tell me he got like that whenever he got busy. Yet, oddly enough, if I asked him to eat with me or match my schedule, he’d comply without issue. Sometimes, I thought of him as a domesticated pet, playful and lovable, but without careful care, he might just wither away.

I never imagined they’d become such close friends—at least according to Monica. She said it felt so easy and natural being around him. She didn’t have to try to act refined or graceful. There was no need for a background check, because he would never pursue her. Then she suddenly asked me if I knew he was gay. When I didn’t respond, she said he didn’t hide it, so he probably wouldn’t mind her telling me.

I asked her if being with me made her feel pressured. She smiled and admitted, “A little. You’re too perfect, which makes people feel inadequate. But Jensen doesn’t have that effect. Especially when I feel embarrassed about doing or saying something silly, he always shares an even dumber story of his own to make me feel better.”

She added that their most frequent topic of conversation was, in fact, me. He said that walking my dogs and chatting occasionally gave him a general understanding of me. Based on what he knew about me and her, he thought we were a perfect match. After all, we both wanted to get married and have two kids as soon as possible. Our visions of family were practically identical.

I asked her when they became friends. She said it had been nearly two months. Initially, she had gone to Adam’s studio for business, but later, those meetings turned into excuses to chat with Jensen over meals. They’d talk about art, dreams, and relationships, but mostly about me. She joked that if he weren’t gay, she might have pursued him and given up everything for him, even if he couldn’t pass her parents’ approval.

I stared at her in surprise. “I thought you liked me.”

Blushing, she admitted she wasn’t sure anymore. She had been eagerly waiting for me to ask her out and was excited about tonight’s date. She enjoyed being with me, but while she was in the restroom earlier, she thought of Jensen and called him. Over the phone, he sounded weak and unwell, which made her so worried that she couldn’t wait a second longer to check on him. That’s when she realized how important he had unknowingly become to her.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon.” I wasn’t sure if I was reassuring her or myself as I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

I swore to myself: if I found him sick and lying in that studio again, I’d give him a piece of my mind…

No, I’d take him home right away and never let him leave my side again.

Chapter Text

I’m beginning to wonder if this VIP ward was specially designed for him. Three hospitalizations in three months, and every time he comes in unconscious. How did he even survive before meeting Jared? Should I ask Jared to pay an annual fee to cover room cleaning costs or something? Otherwise, I’m really taking a loss here.

Honestly, I kind of like him. First of all, he made my best friend—a flawless paragon of excellence—seem more human, showing real emotions like joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness. And he even dumped Jared, which could probably go down in Jared’s life history as his first—and only—real defeat.

Secondly, he’s actually pretty adorable. He’s the type who blushes easily and has no idea how to fight back. The more you tease him, the redder his face gets. Sometimes, I wonder if being extra cruel would make his face explode. But of course, I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, if I pushed too hard, Jared would definitely step in to defend him.

And lastly, I find him incredibly mysterious. From the fact that he deliberately hid the detail that he attended the same high school as us, to his years spent with some nefarious crime syndicate leader, to the time he landed in the hospital under a confidentiality agreement—all of this pokes at my curiosity. I swear I won’t rest until I uncover the truth.

Since Nick, the master of discretion, refused to say anything, I had to find another way. After all, my family owns a hospital, so I leveraged my position and pulled some strings to get access to his medical records from Louisiana State Hospital.

According to the records, he was admitted three and a half years ago with severe injuries. Initially, searching his file was like finding a needle in a haystack. It wasn’t until I searched under cases handled by Nick—thankfully, he hadn’t signed too many confidentiality agreements—that I locked onto a 23-year-old white male using the alias "John."

When admitted, he was already in shock, with five broken ribs, one of which punctured his lung, severe internal bleeding in the spleen and stomach, multiple bruises and lash marks all over his body, a broken right hand, and a concussion. During emergency treatment, his heart stopped twice. The surgery took so much blood and required two teams working in shifts to snatch him back from death.

He was unconscious for four days post-surgery and spent seven days in intensive care before finally being declared out of danger. A total of eight doctors and nurses who participated in his treatment signed confidentiality agreements. These agreements prohibited discussing his condition, describing his appearance, entering his room without medical necessity, or engaging in casual conversations unrelated to his health. The other party to the agreement was the Louisiana State Police, represented by Chris Kane.

He stayed in the hospital for a full month, with personal care staff inside and two shifts of four guards stationed outside his room at all times. Upon discharge, all medical expenses were covered by the Louisiana State Police.

So, when he arrived at the hospital, he looked like he had been hit by a semi-truck at least twice. But considering the lash marks, things were even more complicated. It seemed he had been subjected to cruel abuse. But who was responsible? Was it Mike? Didn’t Peter say Mike cherished him? How could someone so brutalize someone they claimed to care about? And Chris signed the confidentiality agreement. Wasn’t he the same Chris who sent two officers to check on Jensen when he fell ill in that dingy basement? Could Jensen have been an important witness for the Louisiana State Police, so valuable that they spared no expense to protect his life and ensure he could testify against Mike?

I suddenly remembered Jared saying that Jensen had suffered a serious car accident in high school, forcing him to take a two-year break from school. So, I spent some time digging up his medical records from back then as well. The result was another thick pile of files. According to those records, he had been pulled from a severely mangled car, suffering intracranial hemorrhage, severe chest compression, and a fractured femur. Though he survived, he ended up in a vegetative state for nearly two years. When he woke, he underwent several surgeries and a long rehabilitation process.

It seems his life has always been closely tied to hospitals. The medical resources he’s used up could probably support an Ethiopian village’s basic needs for at least ten years. Of course, I’m not saying he wasted them. We hospital owners love patients like him. The issue is making sure we actually get paid. That’s right—I swear, next time he ends up in the hospital—and let me clarify, I’m not cursing him, but given how often he’s hospitalized, it’s likely—I’ll make sure Jared foots the entire bill. And no discounts. After all, Jared insists on VIP rooms every time.

Let’s rewind to last night.

I was at a bar hitting on girls when I got a call from Jared. Seeing his name pop up, I thought, wasn’t he supposed to be on a date with Monica tonight? At almost 10:30 PM, he should’ve been either dropping her off or taking her home. Why was he calling me? Did he need tips because it had been too long since he’d been with a woman?

“Jensen fainted. I’m taking him to the hospital now. We’ll be there in about half an hour. Get the doctors ready,” he said, clearly panicked.

“Aren’t you with Monica? Why is Jensen involved again?” The last time he was supposed to focus on Monica—during their trip to Virginia—it got interrupted because Jensen had an issue. And now, once again, Jensen picked the exact moment of their date to collapse. How could one man faint so often and with such precise timing? Was it a deliberate strategy? Then again, considering his medical history, maybe he was just that frail. But weren’t they broken up?

“Save it for the hospital!” he snapped before hanging up.

I arrived at the emergency room almost at the same time as Jared’s car. This time, things were different—three car doors opened simultaneously as soon as the vehicle stopped. Jared and Monica emerged from the front seats—I had only seen her in photos before—and from the back came an unfamiliar man carrying Jensen in his arms.

The moment Jensen was placed on a gurney, the medical team swiftly wheeled him inside. The four of us were left standing outside the emergency room. I secretly observed the expressions on their faces. Jared looked like he was on the verge of erupting. The unfamiliar man’s expression was grave as he stared intensely at the emergency room doors. Monica, on the other hand, was nervously biting her nails. No one seemed to notice my presence.

I cleared my throat. “Jared…” I gestured toward the other two. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Monica, Chris,” he said tersely, as if expecting me to recognize them immediately. “This is Chad. His family owns this hospital, so I trust Jensen will be taken care of here.”

They each said something like “thank you” or “I’ll leave it in your hands” before lapsing back into silence.

This whole situation was painfully awkward. Jared, along with Monica—his date and likely future wife—had brought his ex to the hospital. And accompanying them was Chris, whose relationship to Jensen was unclear. Wasn’t Chris supposed to be in Louisiana? When did he show up here? And he was the one who had carried Jensen in the back seat? No wonder Jared looked like he was about to explode. Honestly, I was impressed he managed to drive safely to the hospital; the car’s steering wheel was probably bent from his grip.

Seeing the three of them standing there, silent and tense, I said, “Why don’t you all wait in my office?”

“No!” All three rejected the suggestion in unison, their emphatic response making me realize I had just made a wildly inappropriate suggestion.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, I pulled Jared into my office. “Start talking. What’s going on here?”

“Monica and Jensen have become good friends. During our date, she called him and realized something was wrong. We went to his studio together and ran into Chris. Just as we opened the door, Jensen collapsed, so we brought him here together,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion.

“Does Monica know about your relationship with Jensen?” I asked.

“She probably doesn’t,” he replied, running a hand through his already messy hair, his frustration palpable.

I shot him a side glance. “I know you’re really worried about him right now. But trust me, he’ll be fine.” Honestly, I wanted to remind him that compared to his high school car accident or the severe injuries three years ago, Jensen just looked like he fainted this time. No visible wounds, no bleeding. There really was no need to overreact.

“How can I not be worried? He doesn’t know how to take care of himself!” Jared suddenly exploded. “Do you know how infuriating he is? He broke up with me to push me toward Monica, thinking it was for my own good. Who gave him the right to make that decision for me and then let himself end up like this?” His voice grew louder and louder, rising at least eight octaves. Grabbing my shoulders, he shook me violently, as if I were the one responsible for Jensen’s condition. “Do you know how he looked when I saw him earlier? So pale, so weak, and then he collapsed right in front of me. I was terrified, my heart nearly stopped. I thought I’d lost him. I…”

He buried his face in my shoulder, his whole body trembling. “Chad, you have no idea... I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

I was glad my office had top-notch soundproofing—let me clarify, not for any shady reasons—otherwise, his shouting would’ve been heard throughout the entire floor. “He’ll be fine. Trust my doctors,” I said, patting his back. I noticed my shoulder felt damp. Was he crying? I’d never seen Jared cry before. Would it be too much if I whipped out my phone and took a picture?

We stayed in that awkward position for several minutes before he finally calmed down and pulled away, clearly realizing how inappropriate the scene had been. I wasn’t embarrassed at all, though I silently vowed to tease him about this at least fifty times in the future.

“So, how did Monica and Jensen become friends? And what’s the deal with Chris? What’s his connection to Jensen?” I asked, steering the conversation to the two still standing outside the emergency room.

“Monica sees Jensen as her confidant. She even said that if he weren’t gay, she’d be willing to cut ties with her family to be with him. As for Chris, he said he’s officially transferring to the New York precinct in three days so he can stay close to Jensen and look after him.” Jared sounded utterly defeated.

I was momentarily speechless. Did Jared, after breaking up with Jensen for just one week, suddenly find himself with two rivals?

Chapter Text

I finally received the long-awaited transfer order.

I had actually considered this move back when Jensen decided to settle in New York. But Jim wanted me as his deputy for a few more years and advised me to keep my distance from Jensen. Especially since Mike hated me to the core and, even while serving his sentence, kept sending people to make trouble for me. If he found out Jensen wasn’t dead, it would undoubtedly put him in grave danger. And so, I stayed in Louisiana. I didn’t expect to remain there for three years.

Still, I could never stop worrying about him, so I found excuses to call him from time to time and made it a point to visit him at least twice a year.

I’ve never disclosed my feelings for him. To be honest, I didn’t realize them at first myself. To me, protecting him was just a surface duty; my real mission was getting closer to Mike. But after witnessing Mike’s twisted obsession with controlling him, I began to sympathize with him. Gradually, those feelings shifted into something I couldn’t quite define until that kidnapping incident made me realize that my concern for him had long crossed professional boundaries.

***

Typically, he was always with Mike, but that night was different. They had finished inspecting the casino around 11 PM. Mike received a last-minute call from an arms dealer and had to meet immediately. Looking at Jensen, who still bore the scars from the punishment he had received the previous week for secretly passing a note for help, Mike decided to send him home with me.

About 20 minutes into the drive, the car suddenly ran out of gas. I turned to check on him and saw that he had already fallen asleep, so I got out to inspect the fuel line. Just as I bent down, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head before losing consciousness.

I woke up to a sharp kick to my stomach. Jensen, too, seemed to have been woken up the same way. Both of us were kneeling on the ground, hands tied behind our backs, surrounded by three men in what was clearly a warehouse.

“I told you to get that sly old fox Mike, and you idiots grabbed this pretty boy instead. And who’s this? His bodyguard? A slut like him needs a bodyguard?” The speaker was a portly man named Andy, a gambler who had lost three million at the casino last month and left on bad terms. I never expected him to have the guts to go after Mike.

“Sorry, boss, we didn’t realize Mike wasn’t in the car. But word is Mike treasures this little whore,” one of the henchmen said, grabbing Jensen by the hair and forcing him to look up at Andy. “We can use him as leverage to make Mike pay up.”

Andy studied Jensen for a moment before nodding. “That’s right. That night, I saw this slut sitting on Mike’s lap all evening, looking like he needed to be fucked. Fine, call Mike and tell him to pay five million to get his whore back,” Andy said, his gaze shifting to me. “And with this bodyguard, make it eight million.”

Andy quickly contacted Mike, who almost immediately agreed to the ransom.

"I didn't expect him to be so cheerful." After Andy finished speaking, he pulled his hair and forced him to raise his head again. "He's pretty good-looking, but I'm not interested in men's butts." After Andy said that, he let go and walked away. Jensen lowered his voice and made no sound from the beginning to the end.

After a while, Andy suddenly walked towards him again and raised his chin, "Well, I can try this mouth." He turned around and sat on a chair, "Bring him here!"

Alarm bells rang in my head. Ignoring my own predicament, I shouted, “Hey! Mike’s already agreed to pay. Don’t touch him!”

One of the henchmen kicked me. “Shut up! You don’t get a say here.”

The other henchman dragged Jensen toward Andy roughly. “Use your mouth for something useful. Hurry up!”

Andy touched his lower body obscenely, I've heard that Mike used to switch bed partners as often as changing clothes—someone different every day. So why don't you show me the skills you used to serve Mike? Let me see just how good you are to have kept Mike's attention for so long, to the point where he'd demand to trade you back without any negotiation.

He was motionless and just stared at Andy. Andy waited impatiently and slapped him with such force that he fell to the side. The henchman grabbed Jensen by the hair again, forcing him back onto his knees. “Open your mouth, you little whore!”

Seizing the moment, I lunged at one of the henchmen, knocking him down and grabbing the gun tucked in his waistband. But before I could do anything, Andy’s gunshot froze me in my tracks. Another henchman kicked me down, and I was pinned to the ground, my weapon taken away. All I could do was watch as Andy slapped Jensen repeatedly, each blow louder than the last. Finally, Andy gripped Jensen’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. Jensen bit down hard, and Andy screamed in pain.

In a rage, Andy grabbed a nearby gun and struck Jensen hard across the temple with the butt of the weapon. Jensen collapsed, unconscious.

“Is he mute or something? He didn’t even make a sound,” Andy muttered, nudging Jensen’s face with his foot. “This little whore dared to bite me. Strip him. I’ll shove this gun up his ass!”

As the two henchmen started to remove Jensen’s pants, I managed to grab another gun and pointed it at Andy. “Hands up! Step away from him!”

At that moment, the warehouse door burst open, and a car rammed through. I scrambled to Jensen’s side, but Andy had already picked up his gun again, and another henchman held me at gunpoint, disarming me.

“Don’t move!” Mike stepped out of the car, dragging a suitcase in one hand and raising his other to show he wasn’t armed. “Here’s what you want. Check it. If everything’s in order, hand them over.” He kicked the suitcase forward.

One of the henchmen crouched to open the suitcase but hesitated. “How do I know this isn’t a bomb?” Andy asked suspiciously.

“Jenny means far more to me than eight million. I wouldn’t gamble with his life,” Mike said coldly.

At Andy’s signal, the henchman opened the suitcase. To everyone’s shock, two bloodied human heads rolled out. The henchman dropped the case and fell back, screaming.

At the same moment, gunshots rang out. Both henchmen were shot dead, each with a bullet to the forehead. Andy’s left hand was shot, causing him to drop his weapon. Mike’s sharpshooter, Kale, had acted swiftly, taking out all three threats in seconds. Kale moved forward to cuff Andy’s hands behind his back and forced him to his knees.

Mike approached Jensen and gently picked him up. “Jenny, I’m here now…” He wiped the blood from Jensen’s mouth with a handkerchief, his movements tender as if afraid of causing further harm. “Don’t worry. Everything he did to you, I’ll make him pay for it.”

Suddenly, Mike’s tone shifted abruptly. “What are you waiting for? Get down here and help!” As soon as he spoke, two men carrying medical kits stepped out from the backseat of the car. They took Jensen from Mike’s arms and carefully moved him aside to tend to him. I couldn’t help but be impressed by how thorough Mike’s preparations were.

I then remembered that Jensen had a listening device on him. Every punch, every kick he suffered—Mike must have heard it all, loud and clear. Judging from Mike’s expression, I was certain that Andy would not be leaving this warehouse alive today. The only question was how brutal his death would be. But what about those two severed heads? What was their story?

Mike turned back to Andy. “You crossed me, so I would’ve only taken your life. But you laid hands on Jenny, so now your wife and daughter will pay the price.” Holding up a recorder, he added, “It took me some time to find them and take their heads. That’s why I was delayed, leaving Jenny to suffer. Before you die, you’ll hear their screams. And since you slapped him three times, I’ll have your mouth smashed to pieces before killing you.”

The scene ended with the screams of women, the sound of slaps, and finally, five consecutive gunshots. I was relieved Jensen had fainted early on, sparing him from witnessing the carnage.

After the incident, Mike docked a month of my salary as punishment for failing to protect Jensen and gave me three days off to recover from my injuries. Only afterward did I learn that I had a broken rib, a severely sprained wrist, multiple abrasions, and a large bruise on my lower abdomen. But at the time, I felt none of the pain. My mind was consumed with thoughts of him. I hated myself for not being able to protect him and for standing helplessly as he was humiliated. Seeing him collapsed on the ground, blood streaming from his mouth, I felt like I had forgotten how to breathe. I didn’t even realize how I had managed to break free from the ropes, grab a gun, and charge toward him without a second thought.

During those two days off, I barely got any restful sleep. I kept dreaming of him silently enduring Andy’s abuse—just like how he endured Mike’s. In my dreams, he provoked Andy to hit harder, knowing full well that Mike was listening to everything through the bug he always wore. Suddenly, I woke up in a cold sweat with a horrifying realization: he was trying to die. Unable to escape or take his own life, he was using Andy to kill him.

Terrified that Mike might have figured out his plan, I called the cook at Mike’s place twice a day to check on him. Thankfully, Mike stayed by his side every minute, and no terrifying noises came from their room. It wasn’t until I saw Jensen four days later, looking as healthy as ever, that I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

I knew that even though he had failed this time, he would keep looking for opportunities to escape. I started thinking about whether I should just take him and flee far away. I was done with my undercover mission. I didn’t care about Mike anymore. All I wanted was to protect Jensen and ensure that neither Mike nor he himself could hurt him again.

I began to monitor his every move more closely and grew hyper-aware of our surroundings. But then I realized I had become just like Mike. What we feared wasn’t outsiders hurting him—it was that he would take his own life. The irony was that his desire to die stemmed from us stripping away all his privacy and freedom. We suffocated him and then punished him for wanting to escape that suffocation.

I knew Mike would never let him go. So, the only way I could protect him was by keeping him under constant watch—because I couldn’t let him go either.

Chapter Text

I didn’t know why I wasn’t staying by Jensen’s side but instead sitting here, staring at this suddenly appearing guy across from me.

He seemed to notice my impatience. “I don’t want to talk to you either, but since Jensen is resting, this is the perfect time for us to have a conversation.”

“Make it quick!” Of course, I was curious about his relationship with Jensen, but at this moment, I had no energy to dig into it.

He let out a cold laugh. “If you’re worried about Jensen, first, the doctor said he’s just malnourished and will be fine as long as he eats properly. Second, we both know why Jensen ended up like this, so he probably doesn’t even want to see you. Third, I think you should be a gentleman and send your date home. I’ll take care of Jensen.”

I shot him a sideways glance. “If you think malnourishment bad enough to cause fainting is a trivial matter, why should I trust you to take care of him? When he’s discharged, I’ll take him home and make sure he eats three meals a day. As for you, you should focus on your new job.”

“If you’d seen what Jensen went through before…” He paused halfway, then scrutinized me with a sharp gaze. “You don’t know anything about his past, do you?”

“How much do you know about him?” His tone was annoying, and I hated how he had held Jensen earlier, but I decided to tolerate it to get some information from him.

“Enough. At least I know his past and present,” he said with a smug smile. “And I know you can’t give him a future.”

I felt a surge of anger. I’d never said such a thing, so why did everyone—including him, Chad, and even Jensen—insist that I couldn’t offer him a future? Were they wrong? I… “What has he told you?”

“Everything. From when he hesitated to move in with you, to you trying to ‘keep’ him, to your life plan excluding him, and finally, to you leaving in a fury and calling him a slut.” He suddenly grabbed my collar. “Let me tell you something—people who dared to call him that before have never had a good ending. And I’ll say this only once: never use that word to insult him again. He never was!”

It wasn’t his fierce expression or shouting that shocked me—it was that word. A slut? I called him that? I knew I was furious when I left that day, but… how could I… “I… I don’t know what I said that day. I didn’t mean it…” I mumbled.

“No, you meant it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said it,” he retorted, his grip loosening as he slumped back into his chair. “I know many people see him that way, including myself once. He always remained silent, never defending himself, because he didn’t care about those people. But you… you mean something different to him. Do you know how heartbroken he was that night?”

I stood up. How could I still sit here? I should kneel before Jensen and beg for forgiveness. I never intended to humiliate him. I was just too shocked and frustrated. No, the most important thing I should tell him is that I love him…

He blocked my way. “I deeply regret letting him accept your offer to move in. I thought you’d take good care of him, but instead, you accused him of prostitution, slept with him but hid the relationship, and, when he ended things, you insulted him. How much more do you intend to hurt him, Jared Padalecki? He needs someone who can protect and cherish him, but you’ve lost that right.” He pushed me back into the chair. “I’ve already rented a place. Jensen will move in with me. From now on, he’s my responsibility. You should go back to your carefully planned life and stop involving yourself with him.”

When I returned to the hospital room, Jensen was already awake.

He insisted on being discharged, but Monica thought he should stay for observation. Chad pointed out that no one gets discharged in the middle of the night, and I argued that the studio wasn’t a place where he could get proper rest. He looked at the three of us, unable to refute our points but equally unwilling to lie back down. In the end, it was Chris who said he would stay and take care of him, allowing the rest of us to go home and rest. Only then did Jensen reluctantly agree.

***

“What’s the relationship between Chris and Jensen?” Monica asked on the way back.

“I don’t know,” I replied, my tone harsh. My mood was so sour that I couldn’t be bothered with gentlemanly decorum.

“What about you and Jensen?” she asked, turning to look at me. “Jensen said you’re just regular friends, but ever since I mentioned Jensen’s situation, you’ve been visibly anxious. At first, I thought it was because you cared about him like I do. But then I saw how you called Chad, asking him to arrange a doctor as quickly as possible, how you sped through traffic while constantly checking on Jensen through the rearview mirror, and how you showed inexplicable hostility toward Chris. That’s when I realized your relationship with him isn’t as simple as he says it is.”

She continued, a smile forming on her face. “Honestly, tonight was pure chaos. I went on a date with someone I’d been thinking about for a long time, someone I thought I liked, only to find myself worrying about another man halfway through. Then I discovered that the man I was on a date with cared more about that man than me. And to top it off, another man shows up acting like he’s Jensen’s boyfriend. So, please, tell me, what’s really going on here?”

I sighed. I owed Monica an explanation, so I pulled over to the side of the road. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I went home now. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you the whole story. Maybe after hearing it, you’ll never want to see me again, but please, whatever happens, don’t blame Jensen.”

Seeing her nod with a questioning look in her eyes, I began to tell the story.

I started by explaining the life plan I had set for myself from a young age, as well as my specific preferences when it came to sex. When she didn’t show any signs of disdain, I moved on to my one-night stand in Las Vegas and how I met Jensen again when I returned to New York.

“So, the real reason you hired him to walk your dogs was to confirm whether he was the man from Las Vegas?” she interjected.

I smiled wryly. “You could say that. But honestly, by the end, it didn’t matter to me whether he was that man or not. I knew what I wanted was him.”

I then talked about how I asked him to move in with me after his bout of acute pneumonia, deliberately skipping over the part where I mistakenly thought he was working as a prostitute. I only mentioned that he was drugged by an ill-intentioned customer at the club and that Chad happened to find him and take him to the hospital.

“So, you rushed back to New York because something happened to him?” She frowned. “What kind of club has such low-quality customers? Is Chad a member of that club too? Did Jensen return to work there afterward?”

I dodged the question about Chad. “I wanted him to quit the job, but he was adamant about staying. So, I started showing up at the club every day. That week, I was practically sleepwalking through work.”

I continued by recounting how he joined the studio, our intimate relationship, his gradual distancing, and his sudden decision to break up.

“So, it’s because of me, right? You said it was a month ago. That’s when I met him at the studio,” she said, realization dawning on her face. “And then you broke up a week ago, so he was so upset he couldn’t eat and ended up fainting?” Her eyes widened. “And I even cheerfully told him about my date with you. Oh, God, he must have been forcing himself to smile in front of me.”

Not wanting her to feel guilty, I quickly explained, “Monica, honestly, after our first date, I felt you were the ideal woman for me. With each meeting, I became more certain of how wonderful you are. Jensen must think so too, which is why he sincerely wants us to be together. He didn’t mean to deceive you, there were already issues between us.”

She sighed softly. “I know. He hid your relationship to bring us together. But what about you? Why did you accept the breakup so easily? Why didn’t you try to win him back? Why did you decide to date me instead?”

“I think it was my pride,” I admitted, shamefaced. “I’ve never failed or been rejected in my life, so I didn’t know how to handle it. I was waiting for him to regret it, to come back to me…” My voice faltered. “Jensen stepped aside to help us, but there’s another reason too: I’ve never told him I love him. He’s always lacked confidence. In our relationship, he couldn’t find security or a promise for the future, so he chose to let go. It’s all my fault.”

“He’s really foolish,” she said with a sad smile. “He encouraged me to pursue happiness, yet he holds back when it comes to his own feelings. I remember him telling me he had a crush on a senior in his third year of high school for an entire year. He knew everything about him—his schedule, his practice times, the results of every game he played. He even remembered his graduation speech. But he never got close to him, never even spoke to him, because the senior was too outstanding, and he felt he wasn’t good enough.”

She frowned. “He doesn’t seem to realize his own strengths. Whenever we eat out, waiters love hovering around our table. He’s kind and gentle, and his colleagues constantly praise him. Adam is always satisfied with his work, and his creations are so innovative. What does he have to feel inferior about? And there was one time…”

I stopped paying attention to what she was saying. My mind was stuck on her earlier words. A crush on a senior? In his third year of high school? That was the same year I was in school with him. Wasn’t he dating Ruby back then? Practice times? Graduation speech? I couldn’t help but interrupt her. “Did he say what sport that senior played?”

“What? Sport?” She thought for a moment. “Football. And like you, he was the team captain.”

It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I finally understood why he had hidden the fact that we went to the same high school. He not only knew who I was—he had been in love with me for an entire year.

It turned out he had liked me since his third year of high school.

Chapter Text

No way. Why am I here again? How many times has it been? Wait a second, so it was him who brought me here? But wasn’t he on a date with Monica?

It’s all coming back now. They appeared together at the entrance of the studio. Oh, and… Chris? He’s in New York now?

“Jensen, how are you feeling?” Monica’s face appeared before me.

“I…” I tried moving my arm, noticing the IV needle and tubing stuck in my hand. “What happened to me?”

“You fainted. The doctor said you’re malnourished. It’s a good thing I sensed something was wrong over the phone, or you’d have been in serious danger being alone in the studio.” She half-scolded, half-chided me with an angry look. “I should’ve seen it coming that day. Why haven’t you been eating? You scared all of us to death.”

All of us? She and… “You and Jared…” Then it hit me. “How did your date go?” Were you here to announce your engagement or something?

“It was perfect,” she said with a sweet smile, only to pout soon after. “Until…”

“Jensen!” Before I could identify the owner of the voice, someone rushed to my bedside.

“Chris?” So, I wasn’t dreaming. It really is him!

“Jensen, long time no see!” Chad peeked out from behind Chris, greeting me with a cheerful grin.

Flustered, I pulled off the covers and sat up, yanking the IV needle from my hand. It was humiliating enough to have fainted from malnutrition, and now everyone knew about it. I wanted to bury myself alive. “I’m fine now. I’m leaving the hospital right away!” I silently vowed to take better care of myself. I wasn’t going to let myself be sent to this hospital ever again.

“No way.”

“You can’t!”

“Don’t even think about it!”

The three of them spoke simultaneously, saying different things but conveying the same message: Don’t even try leaving the hospital! Their six eyes were all fixated on me.

Please stop looking at me like that. I’m already mortified enough. Ignoring them, I tried to stand up, but my legs wobbled, and I nearly fell flat on my face if Chris hadn’t caught me in time.

“You can’t even stand properly. I think you should at least stay the night for observation,” Monica suggested earnestly.

“No one leaves the hospital at this hour unless they’re trying to dodge medical bills,” Chad joked.

“If you want to leave, go home and sleep. Is the studio even a place to get proper rest?” Jared’s voice cut in. When did he come in? And what’s with that scowl, like someone owes him money? Fine, I ruined his perfect date, so of course, he’s pissed. And telling me to “go home and sleep”? He knows I don’t have a home. Was that supposed to be a jab?

“It’s late, and everyone’s tired. I’ll stay here and look after Jensen. The rest of you should go home and rest,” Chris said, laying me back on the bed and effectively dismissing everyone else from the room.

***

I guessed that as soon as everyone left and the door closed, he’d lose his temper—and sure enough…

“You promised me you’d take care of yourself. Why did you let yourself end up like this?” I kept my eyes shut and said nothing. “I originally planned to surprise you, but instead, you gave me a scare. Jensen, stop pretending to be asleep. Open your eyes and look at me.” His voice wasn’t loud, but the tone left no room for refusal.

“Sorry… I… didn’t mean to trouble everyone…” I opened my eyes but didn’t dare to meet his gaze.

“What makes me angry is that you never trouble anyone!” he interrupted impatiently. “Forget it. Once you’re discharged, you’re moving in with me. I’ll officially be transferring to the New York branch in three days. The apartment is already rented, and from now on, I’ll make sure you eat properly.”

I sat up in surprise. Transferring to New York? Living with him? And monitoring my meals? I smiled bitterly. “You mean, like before?”

He completely ignored my sarcasm. “If necessary, yes.” I glared at him, but he simply snorted. “You don’t have the right to object. You promised me you wouldn’t let anything happen to yourself, that you’d take care of yourself. And yet, how many times have you been hospitalized in the past few months? Since you refuse to move to Louisiana, I’ll come to New York.”

Hey, does he think I wanted to faint and end up in the hospital? “Chris, please! Stop treating me like a three-year-old. I can take care of myself…” I protested, half-begging.

“We both know you won’t. And so does he.” He noticed the confusion in my expression. “That’s right, I’m talking about Jared. I can tell he’s very worried about you, and I can also see he’s angry. Maybe he’s mad at my presence, maybe he’s mad at himself. But I can guarantee a large part of it is because he’s mad at you—for letting yourself end up like this.”

Hearing Jared’s name, a wave of sadness swept over me. “Why would he be mad at you? He doesn’t even know you. You’re wrong. He’s mad at me for ruining his date again. Monica said their date was perfect… until… until she called me.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Why would Monica call you in the middle of their date?”

“Probably to tell me how happy she was. She told me beforehand she’d share the results of the date with me,” I replied, recalling her sweet smile. “She’s such a pure-hearted girl—beautiful and kind. You must’ve noticed how well they suit each other, how happy they could be together. Chris, I love Jared, but I can’t give him what he wants. And I like Monica. I genuinely want her to be happy. I sincerely wish them the best. I promise I’ll be fine. I just need some time, I…” I choked on my words, unable to hold back my emotions.

He gently pulled me into his arms. “I know. That’s why I’m here. Let me help you, okay?”

“Chris, I’m such a failure, aren’t I? Mike said I was worthless, that no one could ever truly love me but him. He was right, wasn’t he?” I leaned against his shoulder, and the tears I could no longer hold back began to fall.

***

We moved to Louisiana, where Mike owned a club so popular that reservations were required, yet demand still exceeded capacity. The employees there didn’t need training or good looks—they only needed obedience, complete and utter obedience. That’s right, it was an SM-themed club, where as long as you had the money, you could do whatever you wanted to their sex slaves. Most of these slaves were obtained through illegal human trafficking. They had no identity, not even names, and could be addressed however their paying masters saw fit, stripped of all dignity.

I hated this place. No, I was terrified of everything about it. The SM tools weren’t for adding fun or excitement; they were real instruments of torment that inflicted genuine harm. Each room was soundproof, but as soon as a door opened, the blood-curdling screams could be heard. I’d heard that the sex slaves there often tried to escape, and the punishment for failure was severe—just like mine. Except my punishments ended when I lost consciousness and didn’t leave lasting scars, while theirs could leave them crippled or even dead.

Mike rarely got his hands dirty, but recently, two of his drug deals were busted in a row. Although he managed to keep himself out of it, he lost a lot of money. Worst of all, he had no idea who was leaking the information. His growing anxiety spilled over onto everyone around him, including me.

Two days ago, I refused to accompany him to the club—I couldn’t stand the twisted faces and screams anymore. For that, I was whipped. My back and thighs still throbbed in pain.

Tonight, after learning that two sex slaves had attempted to escape, he gathered all the staff for a warning demonstration. First, he severely punished two managers for their negligence. Then, he put on brass knuckles and brutally beat the two sex slaves. The entire basement fell silent, except for the anguished groans. No one dared to utter a word. Everyone held their breath as the two were beaten beyond recognition, left lying on the ground in a pool of blood, unmoving. I trembled uncontrollably, suppressing the urge to retch.

Back home, he rushed to strip off my clothes as soon as we entered the bedroom. But the thought of his blood-stained hands made me shove him away with all my strength. I fled into the bathroom and locked the door. I knew I was asking for it, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I had only one thought: I’d rather die than let those hands touch me.

When I smashed the mirror, he kicked down the door. I hastily grabbed a shard of broken glass and tried to cut my wrist, but he yanked it away. In the chaos, I ended up slicing his arm. Enraged, he first broke my wrist and then grabbed my head, slamming it hard against the wall. My vision blurred, and all I wanted was to close my eyes and give up.

But suddenly, a voice in my head told me that if I passed out again, it would all be for nothing. If I pushed him a little further in his fury, I might finally escape this torment.

“You’re a monster. I hate you. Don’t you ever think you can touch me again!” I spat the words out through gritted teeth, praying desperately that he’d just pull out a gun and end it with a single shot.

Unfortunately, as always, my prayers were twisted in the worst way. He didn’t pull out a gun. Instead, he slipped on the bloodied brass knuckles he had just used on the others and began punching me in the chest and stomach, over and over.

“Why do you always refuse to see reason? Do you know? You’ve been missing for so long, and no one has ever come looking for you or cared about you. No one loves you but me. Without me, you’re just a worthless wretch. And yet, you still refuse to be content. Let me tell you—whether you like it or not, even in death, you’re mine.”

He grabbed my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Take back what you said. Say you’ll follow me faithfully for the rest of your life!”

I could barely breathe from the pain, but I forced the words out anyway. “I will… do everything… to escape you… even if I die… I won’t regret it…”

What I really wanted to say was: Please, have mercy, and just shoot me. God, this pain was worse than being slammed into the crushed car seat in that accident. It was worse than all the punishments he’d inflicted on me over the past two years combined. How stupid was I, to choose such a painful way to die?

“If you want to die so badly, I’ll grant your wish!” He threw me to the ground and kicked me repeatedly. I remembered how he only stopped when the two earlier victims stopped moving, so I told myself I had to hold on. Jensen Ackles, don’t you dare pass out!

As he shouted frenziedly, demanding I admit my mistakes and beg him to stop, his blows continued to rain down on me. I didn’t know how many hits I had taken, but my consciousness began to fade. It felt like my entire life was flashing before my eyes—a collection of familiar people and moments. So, this is what they mean by your life flashing before your eyes before death?

I forced my eyes open one last time to see his twisted, monstrous face, then let them close for good.

I thought I had finally succeeded, ending my miserable, unloved, and worthless life in such a cruel and pathetic way…

Chapter Text

I watched him furrow his brow, muttering something incomprehensible, clearly distressed. I knew he must be having another nightmare. What was he dreaming about? Was it Mike's physical abuse or psychological torment? Even after three years, he still couldn't completely escape the trauma. I should never have left him alone in New York.

Looking at him lying on the hospital bed reminded me of that fateful night...

***

I knew Mike had punished him again two days ago, though I wasn’t sure why. Ever since Mike moved to Louisiana, his temper had grown worse. Of course, I knew the reason—his last two drug deals were thwarted because I leaked information. With Jim, the local police chief, coordinating perfectly, we disrupted them. My undercover mission was nearing its conclusion; once I secured records of his transactions, I could finish my mission and take Jensen to safety.

That night, during a routine check of the club, I witnessed Mike’s ruthlessness again. He beat two poor souls to death right in front of me. I hated myself for being powerless to intervene, but I worried even more about Jensen. His pale face and trembling body were telltale signs that his emotions were on the brink of collapse. Whenever that happened, he would provoke Mike and inevitably suffer for it. After they went home, I had a bad feeling and parked my car near their house instead of driving away. Exhausted, I almost fell asleep—until I got a call from Mike.

"...Jenny's dead... I killed him..." Mike's trembling voice was filled with fear and regret.

My worst fears came true. I barely processed Mike's words before starting my car and racing toward his house.

***

The sight that greeted me when I opened the door froze my blood. The floor was covered in blood, and Jensen lay motionless—just like the two men I had seen earlier at the club. Mike sat dazed on the floor, a bloody brass knuckle on his right hand and a long gash on his left arm. I dashed to Jensen and checked for a pulse, only to discover... nothing.

Mike murmured to himself, "He's dead... He forced me... I didn’t mean to..."

"I’m taking him to the hospital," I declared. Without waiting for Mike's response, I scooped Jensen up and ran out. At that moment, I didn’t care if Mike shot me or if my cover was blown. All I could think was that Jensen couldn’t die.

On the way to the hospital, I called Jim and explained the gravity of the situation. He directed me to a state hospital and promised to make arrangements and meet me there.

When Jensen was wheeled into the ER, he was in critical condition. Furious with myself, I pounded on the wall, cursing my failure. I should have stayed; I could’ve stopped Mike. No! I should’ve taken Jensen away long ago. They could’ve found another undercover agent, but there was only one Jensen. I let him endure so much pain because of my mission. No! My mission was supposed to protect him, yet I failed. Now he was gone...

I collapsed to the floor, screaming until Jim dragged me into a bathroom and doused me with a bucket of cold water to calm me down.

We waited in an office for five hours. During that time, Mike called several times to ask about Jensen. I told him Jensen was still being treated, then suggested he avoid coming to the hospital and instead create an alibi by leaving Louisiana. Jim coached me on what to say, but I had my own priority: Mike would never get near Jensen again.

After 12 hours of surgery, Jensen barely clung to life. Jim ensured all medical staff involved signed confidentiality agreements. Additionally, a death certificate was issued, claiming Jensen had succumbed to severe injuries and had been cremated to avoid suspicion about his visible injuries, such as whip marks. Within 24 hours of the incident, I returned to Mike with a fake urn of ashes and the death certificate.

Jensen's "death" hit Mike harder than expected. Overnight, he seemed to age a decade. He stopped eating and drinking for two days, clutching the urn as he sat in silence. Eventually, he asked me to take him to New Orleans to scatter Jensen's "ashes" by the Mississippi River. I knew why he chose that spot, it was where they had spent almost a month together, a rare time when Jensen seemed genuinely content. Jensen loved the sea and jazz, and Mike, free from his usual dealings there, treated it as a pure vacation. Watching them stroll by the lake or relax in a jazz bar, Jensen seemed like a cherished and happy partner.

I firmly believe that Mike truly loved Jensen, but his love was unbearable. I also know that the severe injury Mike inflicted on Jensen was unintentional. Everything Mike provided for Jensen—his food, clothing, and possessions—was of the finest quality. Yet, what Jensen wanted was never something money could buy—especially not money earned through illegal means.

Mike's public displays with Jensen weren’t merely to flaunt his possession but also reflected his overwhelming obsession with Jensen. Over three years, his passion and desire for Jensen never waned for even a moment. He always kept Jensen in his thoughts and would never tolerate anyone offending him. Anyone who dared to call Jensen a derogatory name or showed even the slightest disdainful expression toward him never met a good end.

In their bizarre and toxic relationship, the two constantly tested each other's limits, but the result was always the same: Jensen living a life worse than death or seeking his own destruction. In the end, Jensen chose the latter.

After returning from New Orleans, Mike remained despondent. He spent his days drinking heavily, lamenting how deeply he loved Jensen. He would recount how he did everything in his power to make Jensen happy, how wonderful their intimacy was, and how he felt pain in his heart and body whenever he punished Jensen. He believed that pain helped calm Jensen's restless soul and that his screams of anguish served as a release for his stress. As he spoke, Mike would sometimes break down into sobs, blaming Jensen for abandoning him so suddenly. Every time, his words left me feeling both furious and horrified.

On the other hand, Mike began delegating more and more responsibilities to me. Eventually, I gained access to all his records of illegal transactions. Less than a month after Jensen's "death," I handed over all the evidence to Jim. Two days later, coordinated raids uncovered Mike's warehouses, seizing large quantities of drugs and smuggled arms while successfully rescuing numerous individuals forced into prostitution. When Mike was handcuffed and led away, he suddenly turned to me and demanded sharply, "Jenny isn't dead, is he? Give him back to me!" I simply stared at him coldly, saying nothing as he was taken away.

Jensen spent eight days in the ICU before he was fully out of danger. I managed to visit him briefly to explain that I was an undercover police officer and that, for his safety, he now had a new identity: John. I assured him that I would never let Mike see him again.

This promise led to a heated argument with Jim. Jim believed Jensen should testify against Mike, but I adamantly refused. The evidence we had already gathered was enough to sentence Mike to three lifetimes in prison; Jensen didn't need to face him again. He had suffered enough. I also insisted that Jensen's safety be guaranteed until Mike was formally convicted, as the information I obtained had been secured at the cost of Jensen's life and well-being.

Four months passed between Jensen's release from the hospital and Mike's final conviction. During that time, Jim entrusted Jensen to the care of an old friend—a retired couple who were both former police officers. I avoided direct contact with Jensen during that period, as Mike had people tailing and harassing me. Mike undoubtedly hated me with every fiber of his being, but his true target was Jensen. Since Jensen’s "murder" wasn’t part of Mike's charges, he was convinced that Jensen was alive and that I was hiding him.

After Mike began serving his sentence, I took a month-long leave to stay with Jensen. Although his physical wounds had healed, I knew he was plagued by nightmares and felt utterly lost about his future, having been stripped of his freedom for so long. I had tried contacting his family, but they claimed they had cut ties with him long ago. When I told him this, he said nothing, but I knew he cried alone afterward.

During that month, I ensured he ate three meals a day, keeping my distance at other times. Occasionally, we would talk—mostly him sharing while I listened. He would gradually open up about everything he had endured. I never pressed for details or offered judgments; I simply listened because I knew it was his way of healing. Then, one day, he told me he was ready. He decided to move to New York and start over.

Naturally, I objected. He had no connections in New York and lacked the skills to fully care for himself. But he insisted that I didn’t owe him anything and that he didn’t need my care. Finally, he proposed a one-year trial. If he truly couldn’t make it, he promised to ask for my help.

Jensen never called me for help—not once. Even the money I left him, which he initially used, was returned in full shortly after. Still, I regularly called to check on him. He always insisted he was fine, but I knew that wasn’t entirely true.

I never believed that he was worthless. To endure nearly three years of quasi-imprisonment and countless physical and psychological torments without complaining or blaming the world already places him beyond what most people could endure. I suspect that Mike's assertion that no one cared about or loved Jensen stemmed from his knowledge of how Jensen’s family had always treated him—with indifference. Mike likely implanted this belief in Jensen to make him resign himself to his circumstances and not dare to leave.

When Mike claimed that no one would love Jensen, he was wrong. I had fallen for Jensen as far back as four years ago. However, I never confessed because I didn’t think he was ready. I also feared that if I acted prematurely, it might ruin our friendship, leaving him even more alone and vulnerable. Tonight, as I watched Jared and Monica, I couldn’t deny that they seemed like a perfect match on the surface. Yet, I saw their hearts were not truly in it—neither for each other, nor fully present. Jensen, meanwhile, remained completely oblivious to it all.

“Jensen, do you know how many people genuinely care about you? You’re not unloved, you’ve just convinced yourself that you’re undeserving of love. From now on, I’ll help you achieve the happiness you truly deserve,” I whispered softly into his ear.

I placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, silently praying that his dreams would no longer be filled with sorrow and pain, but instead with the people who truly love him.

Chapter Text

I tried once more to recall my senior year of high school. My life was always surrounded by people—Andrea, Chad, my football teammates, classmates, admirers... Was he among those admirers? If I had known him back then, how would things have turned out?

I doubt we would have had much interaction. Back then, I had unusual feelings toward the same sex, but I was too ashamed to admit it. Even if he had mustered the courage to confess, I likely would have rejected him. Besides, I was the perfect student role model, while he was universally regarded as a misfit. Perhaps that’s why he chose to admire me from a distance. He did a remarkable job because I never noticed his existence at all.

I don’t know what it feels like to have a secret crush on someone. I’ve always been proactive about pursuing what I want. I was never the type to idolize celebrities, athletes, or other famous figures, so I can’t comprehend the emotions of secretly liking someone but being too afraid to approach or confess.

A whole year of secretly admiring me, watching me with Andrea in my arms, surrounded by crowds, without ever having my gaze linger on him. Then I graduated and walked out of his world. Did he give up on me then?

Perhaps not. Later in Las Vegas, even though I didn’t recognize him, he was still willing to spend the night with me. After we met again in New York, though he denied knowing me, he willingly agreed when I asked him to walk my dogs. I suspect he might have still harbored feelings for me—or had started to like me again. Even when I misunderstood him and thought he was selling himself, he was still willing to sleep with me. Even though I gave him no promises, he never turned me away—until Monica appeared. Was it my behavior that disappointed him again?

No, he should despise me. I’ve dated several girlfriends, yet I had one-night stands with men while adamantly denying I was gay. On one hand, I told him about my future plans, but on the other, I clung to him relentlessly, even using degrading terms like “slut” and “whore” to describe him. After breaking up with him, I immediately started dating Monica. He was left to suffer in silence, putting on a brave face in front of Monica. I hurt him again and again. No wonder Chris said I had long since lost the right to love him.

Speaking of Chris, Chad mentioned that three years ago, he was the one who arranged for Jensen to be hospitalized and treated. I still vividly remember how my heart twisted when Chad described Jensen’s medical records. Was it that Mike? Didn’t Peter say Mike doted on Jensen? Then why would he be so cruel to him? And those whip marks—what exactly happened? What kind of life did Jensen lead while he was with Mike? Was it Chris who helped him escape from Mike’s clutches?

That day at the studio entrance, Chris almost immediately recognized me and Monica and even knew we had a date that evening. This suggests that Jensen must have described me to him, perhaps even mentioned me and Monica. And the other night, when I went to the studio to see Jensen, we were about to get intimate when Chris called. Right after answering that call, Jensen’s demeanor changed dramatically, and he broke up with me. I don’t know what Chris said to him, but Jensen seems to trust him completely.

Chris said he knows Jensen’s past and present. What exactly does he mean by "past"? Does he know that Jensen had a crush on me in high school? I’m not sure, but it’s clear that he knows everything about what has been happening between Jensen and me. From Jensen’s bout with acute pneumonia to last night, Chris seems to have a clear picture of everything.

Suddenly, I feel so pathetic. Jensen talks to Chris and Monica about his past and present, but he deliberately hides his past from me and pushes me out of his present. Everyone seems to believe we have no future together. Jensen’s future might involve being with Chris, or maybe he’ll stay friends with Monica. But what about me?

I think back to when the studio door opened, and Jensen fell straight into Chris’s arms. Chris instinctively caught him and told me to get the car. In the backseat, Chris let Jensen rest his head on his lap. In the hospital room, when Jensen was unsteady, Chris held him by the waist, helped him lie down, and tucked him in. Every move seemed so natural, as if he was familiar with Jensen’s condition and knew exactly how to care for him.

So what exactly is their relationship? I’m fairly certain Chris isn’t Jensen’s boyfriend—at least not before last night—because Chris was the one who arranged for Jensen to move into my place. I doubt anyone would let their boyfriend move in with someone who might have designs on them. Chris seems more like Jensen’s guardian, someone Jensen obeys and trusts completely.

But now Chris has transferred to New York and wants Jensen to move in with him. Jensen will likely comply. Chris is telling me to step aside—is this his way of declaring war on me? No, he’s outright eliminating me from the equation. Wait, on what grounds? He’s not Jensen’s boyfriend. Besides, if they haven’t been together in three years, it means Jensen doesn’t have feelings for him. Also, Jensen’s inability to eat and his visible distress stem from our breakup, proving he does care for me—he’s just constrained by Monica. But now that Monica and I are no longer a possibility, if I pursue Jensen earnestly, I refuse to believe I can’t win against Chris. I’ve never lost in any competition in my life.

That’s it. How foolish of me to let Chris stay and create opportunities to spend time with Jensen—or worse, manipulate the situation. The thought of this made me immediately start the engine, ready to race to the hospital. Just then, my phone rang. A call in the middle of the night? Could something have happened to Jensen?

The caller was my partner, Duncan, he said his prosecutor friend, Lion, had suddenly been accused of illegally detaining and abusing underage boys. He hoped I could act as the defense lawyer since an emergency meeting was scheduled for 6 a.m. I knew who Duncan was referring to, and I had met Lion before. Years ago, he rose to fame for prosecuting a case where a stepfather had detained and sexually assaulted his stepdaughter over a long period. He was also renowned for tirelessly protecting victims of family sexual abuse. How could someone like him be accused of such crimes? Duncan said that in today's society, righteous individuals are often targeted, so Lion might have been framed or set up. Duncan assured me more details would be discussed during the meeting.

It was not yet 4 a.m. when I checked the time, so I decided to first check on Jensen before heading directly to the firm.

I gently pushed open the hospital room door and saw Chris dozing in a chair. Although the VIP room was equipped with a comfortable sofa for resting, he chose instead to sit beside Jensen's bed, guarding him. While I was grateful that someone was taking care of and watching over Jensen, the thought of Jensen living with Chris in the future sent a surge of crisis through me.

I hadn’t yet approached when Chris woke up, immediately giving me an unfriendly look. He stood up quickly and motioned for us to talk outside. I glanced at Jensen, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully—no furrowed brows or murmured words.

As if sensing that I was studying Jensen’s sleeping face, Chris asked after we quietly closed the door, "Does he often sleep restlessly, even in his dreams?"

"Often?" "Restlessly?" I frowned at him. Was he implying that Jensen had always slept this way? Did he frequently watch Jensen sleep? Had they shared a bed?

Chris rolled his eyes. "Stop with your sleazy imagination. I haven’t slept with him. But yes, I do often watch him sleep."

I was starting to truly dislike this guy. I wanted to retort, ‘atching Jensen sleep and fantasizing about him is just as sleazy.’ Also, could he read minds? "Why? I mean, why does he sleep so restlessly? Did someone hurt him? Was it Mike?"

Chris looked slightly surprised. I smirked a little, feeling smug. "You’re not the only one who knows about his past. At least you don’t know who he had a crush on in high school."

Chris scoffed. "Oh, I heard it was some campus prince surrounded by admirers, a guy who played sports, aced his studies, looked handsome, and apparently had a strong sense of justice. Too bad that same guy grew up to be someone quite unlikable."

Damn it! Jensen even told him about this? Fine, I couldn’t change the past, and what he described were all compliments anyway. "Tell me about him and Mike."

"Why? If Jensen never mentioned it to you, it means one of three things: either you don’t deserve to know, he doesn’t want you to know, or he doesn’t want to bring it up. Or maybe all three. So don’t expect to get any answers from me." Chris walked straight to the vending machine and grabbed a coffee. "Not offering you any. This low-quality coffee doesn’t suit you."

Would punching him in the face count as assaulting a police officer? This arrogant guy was completely unworthy of Jensen. I decided to formally declare war. "You’ve known Jensen for so long, and he tells you everything, but it looks like he doesn’t want to date you. What’s there to be smug about?"

"As far as I know, all you two ever did was sleep together, without any real emotional connection. And now that he’s kicked you out of his bed, you’re just a thing of the past, while I’m his present." Chris smirked smugly. "Oh, by the way, let me remind you. Based on my observations, Monica seems a little too concerned about Jensen. Maybe you should focus on her instead, so someone can help you produce your Dean and Samantha."

Enough! Even this? And who told Jensen about those plans? Was it me? When? Why didn’t I remember? I never hid my life goals from others, but such plans would only confirm to Jensen that he had no place in my future. He fell for someone like me, who denied liking men while being intimate with him. I told him about my plans to marry someone else and have children in two years while holding him close. I was so cruel to him, yet he still wanted to fulfill my dreams.

The more I thought about it, the more ashamed I felt. Jensen had once said he wanted all of me, but in reality, he gave me everything. And what did I give him? Humiliation, pain, suffering, and despair.

"I hope you’ll stay away from Jensen until you’ve figured things out," Chris said suddenly, his tone solemn and serious.

Confused, I asked, "Figured what out?"

"Whether you’ll give up your family dreams or give up Jensen." He tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash and walked away without looking back.

Chapter Text

Chris rented a two-bedroom apartment. On the afternoon of my discharge from the hospital, he had all my belongings—spread between the studio and Jared's place—moved into the new place. I couldn’t figure out how, having only been in New York for two days, he managed to secure an apartment, hire three movers, rent a truck, and get everything done in less than half a day. My sole contribution was sitting on the steps outside the apartment, waiting for it all to be over.

To make sure I rested, he enlisted Monica to “keep an eye on me.” Strictly speaking, we sat chatting in an unobtrusive spot, watching the movers shuffle back and forth, handling my things and the items Chris had shipped from Louisiana.

Speaking of Monica, she didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about my relationship with Jared. Early in the morning, she showed up at my hospital room, claiming she knew I’d be eager to leave, so she came to check on me. Chris seized the opportunity to have her supervise me as I drank a milkshake and ate a sandwich while he handled the discharge paperwork.

Meanwhile, Chad, under the pretext of needing further medical assessments, tried to delay my discharge. He paced in and out with his phone, clearly making calls, but even after an hour, Jared never showed up. Reluctantly, Chad gave the go-ahead for my release.

After leaving the hospital, Chris drove Monica and me to the studio to pack my things, while the movers went to Jared’s house for the larger items. Just like that, Jared and I were no longer connected.

I pressed Monica again about her date with Jared. She said everything was perfect, but it felt off—like finally turning 18 and being allowed into a club you’d longed to visit, only to realize it wasn’t for you after all.

“Maybe it’s just the first date. You can’t judge so quickly. Once you two start discussing your futures, you’ll see how compatible you are,” I urged.

She shrugged. “But it wasn’t our first date. I’m sure I like him, but only as a friend—not in the way lovers are drawn to each other.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Friendship can evolve into love, and eventually into marriage—that’s normal. They just needed more time. Trying to give things a nudge, I said, “He’s a great guy. Look at how he came to see me mid-date—any other man would have complained. But next time, please stay focused on your date.”

“He’s your friend too, isn’t he? And by the way, you’d better start eating properly. Adam was shocked when he saw you. He’s banned you from the studio for three days so you can recover and gain some weight,” she said. Then, as if struck by an idea, she added, “Hey, since Chris still has two days off, why don’t we take him out to explore New York?”

I gave her a puzzled look. “Wait, are you interested in Chris? Also, why are you taking orders from him? You two only just met last night.”

“Your friends are my friends! Besides, I have nothing better to do, and you’re both free—why not have fun together?” she said, pouting playfully.

I couldn’t resist her charm. Once again, I felt that Jared would be a fool to miss out on someone as wonderful as Monica. But at the thought of Jared, a sharp pain struck my chest. I couldn’t deny that his absence left me feeling despondent. Still, maybe it was for the best. Monica didn’t seem aware of our relationship, and if Chris joined us, I didn’t want to imagine the chaos that might ensue.

Chris clearly harbored animosity toward Jared, probably because I had told him everything about us. Just like during that month three years ago when we lived together, I shared my family history, the car accident, my academic struggles, and my experiences with Mike. I wasn’t seeking comfort or vindication—I just needed to talk. Those two and a half years had been far too suffocating.

Chris had always been a great listener. Whether it was during that month, the time Jared misunderstood me for moonlighting as a sex worker, my inner turmoil while being with Jared, or the days after our breakup, Chris listened patiently. Even when I inadvertently let my emotions toward Jared slip, he quietly absorbed it all.

In truth, I never blamed Jared. His life plans were set long before we met, and I disrupted them. Perhaps we were both swept up in the moment, but I couldn’t forget the pride and satisfaction on his face as he described each milestone he had achieved. Nor could I erase the memory of his drunken confession about the anxiety caused by the mere idea of deviating from his plan. I didn’t want him to sacrifice anything for me—I wasn’t worth it.

***

For the next two days, we followed Monica's plan and indulged in food, drinks, and fun. Chris and Monica acted like long-lost siblings who had just reunited, their joy utterly uncontainable. The usually taciturn Chris and the sweet, gentle Monica I knew were gone, replaced by two adults who seemed to have ADHD. At the amusement park, they insisted on trying every ride. Luckily, I could use my not-yet-recovered physical condition as an excuse, sparing me the ordeal of being tossed and turned by those dizzying rides in the sky.

Their perfect teamwork was most evident when it came to me. They would always simultaneously ask if I wanted water, a cone of ice cream, or perhaps a hotdog. It felt like I was back in the days when I constantly needed to be fussed over—except this time, I had the freedom to say no and make my own choices.

Three days later, I returned to the studio, and Chris officially started his new job at the police department. True to form, Monica showed up at the studio at noon.

"I've made a deal with Chris. He’ll take care of your breakfast and dinner, and I’ll join you for lunch," she said with a cheerful smile.

I rolled my eyes. "Hey, I only fainted that one time because I lost my appetite for a week. Haven’t I been eating properly these past few days? You don’t have to treat me like a three-year-old."

She completely ignored my complaint. "That’s only because we’ve been keeping an eye on you. Plus, Adam said you always lose track of time when you’re working. Chris also told me you used to skip meals unless someone reminded you. So you can’t blame us for making a fuss—it’s your own fault for being a repeat offender."

And so, my life settled into a new routine: every morning, I had to finish the breakfast Chris prepared before I could leave. At lunchtime, Monica either dragged me out for food or brought it to the studio. Chris knew my work hours were unpredictable and that he occasionally had night shifts, so he didn’t wait for me to have dinner together like Jared used to. However late I came home, there was always a microwaveable meal waiting for me.

Sometimes, the three of us went to bars for drinks. They loved joking around, and if I stayed quiet for too long, they would team up to tease me. We even went on outings together—riding tandem bikes or rowing boats. I was always the one sitting in the middle.

It was understandable that Chris took the front seat on the tandem bike, but not even letting me touch the oars while rowing a boat was just over the top.

"Why isn’t Monica sitting in the middle while Chris and I row?" I couldn’t help but protest loudly.

"Because I just ate too much and need to burn some calories," Monica answered matter-of-factly.

"Because Monica wants to row, but if you and she are both steering, we might not get back to shore before nightfall. So, I have no choice but to sacrifice myself," Chris said, feigning helplessness.

The two of them often teamed up against me like that, and I was utterly helpless to fight back. Whenever Chris put on a stern face, I’d obediently comply. Add Monica’s sometimes adorable, sometimes pitiful expressions, and I stood no chance. I knew they cared about me deeply, so I didn’t mind their playful antics. What I worried about was something else entirely.

"Have you gone on any dates with Jared or talked to him on the phone recently?" I asked Monica. Our conversations had rarely touched on Jared lately, and that made me a little uneasy.

"We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice. He’s been swamped with a case," she answered quickly.

That’s good. I let out a small sigh of relief in my heart. "Monica, be honest with me—have you… fallen for Chris?"

She burst out laughing. "Of course, I like him!"

Uh-oh, not good. "What about Jared?" I blurted out.

"What does Jared have to do with it? Haha, you’ve got it all wrong," she said, playfully punching my shoulder. "I like Chris as a friend."

I was a bit confused. "So, what you’re saying is… Jared and Chris are both just friends to you, and your feelings for them aren’t… love?"

"Exactly. But honestly, I feel more comfortable around Chris and you. Jared is just too exceptional. When I’m with him, I often feel shallow or childish in comparison," she added.

"But wouldn’t having someone like that as your husband make you proud? Think about it—your kids would inherit his brilliant mind. That would be amazing!" I persisted, still trying to champion Jared.

"Why does it sound like you don’t want me and Chris to end up together?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "Alright, be honest with me—you like Chris, don’t you? And I don’t mean as a friend; I mean romantically."

I couldn’t help but laugh. "Where is that idea coming from? Chris is like family to me…" I suddenly remembered I didn’t really have a family. "He’s very important to me. He’s always looked after me, probably because he feels responsible for me. Truthfully, I owe him so much. But we’re not like that. He’s not gay." Yes, just like Jared isn’t.

She nodded. "What about Jared, then? What kind of relationship do you two have?"

What? Was it that obvious from my expression? "We’re just… very normal, very ordinary friends."

"Then if Chris is more important to you than Jared, and I enjoy being with Chris more, why do you keep pushing me toward Jared but not toward Chris?" Her expression was serious.

I was completely flustered and at a loss for words. But then she smiled and said, "Don’t worry, though. The truth is, I don’t love either of them. I already have someone I truly like."

She looked at me with a sly smile, and the only thought in my head was…

Oh no, could Jared have really lost her?

Chapter Text

After taking on Lion's case, I became consumed by work, spending day and night immersed in it. It wasn’t just because Duncan had entrusted me with this important task or my unwavering desire to win; it was primarily because work was the only way to stop myself from thinking about him.

By the time the meeting concluded, it was already past eleven in the morning, and my phone was filled with missed calls from Chad.

"What is wrong with you? Have you decided to give up on Jensen?" Chad demanded furiously the moment he answered my call.

"No, quite the opposite. I just need some time. Before I can promise him everything, I need to talk to my parents. I want my family to accept him. I don't want him to be hurt by the people around me," I explained. This was the decision I had come to after leaving the hospital earlier that morning.

"You… are you sure? Have you really thought this through? And what about the life you've planned since you were eight? What if your parents don't approve? Are you just going to let him go? Do you think he'll wait for you forever? Aren't you worried about Chris hovering around him? And Monica…she came over early this morning," Chad rattled off one question after another.

"I've considered all of your questions. Trust me, I always make the right decisions and achieve the best outcomes. I've never failed, right?" My words were as much to reassure myself as they were to Chad.

Chris had told me to think it through, and I did. My conclusion: I won’t choose one or the other. I want Jensen, but I also want to give him everything, including my family. If his family has abandoned him, then my parents will give him a home. The only thing I am willing to let go of is my dream of having Dean and Samantha.

I was confident that I could make all of this happen. As a lawyer, I had excellent persuasive skills. However, I needed to arrange everything properly before going to him. I vowed never to disappoint or hurt him again. The next time I stood before him, I would offer him a complete and unwavering love.

I wasn’t worried about Chris. I knew he would take good care of Jensen but would never confess his feelings to him. If he had any intention of doing so, he wouldn’t have told me to think carefully. He didn’t say it outright, but I understood that he had given me time and space. As for Monica, I had no concerns. Jensen was gay, and in his stubborn mind, he likely believed that Monica and I were a perfect match. There was no way he would accept her. I could even imagine his startled and awkward reaction if Monica were to confess her feelings to him.

My priority now was to win Lion's case, return to Virginia to discuss my relationship with Jensen with my parents, and then bring him back into my arms, never letting go again.

***

Lion's case wasn’t particularly challenging. The accuser, Tom, was a boy around 19 years old who didn’t speak very fluently or coherently. He had been living on the streets and engaging in prostitution for nearly a year before a kind-hearted police officer, who had apprehended him multiple times, finally placed him in a social welfare organization. Last week, during the organization's 30th-anniversary celebration, Lion attended as an honored guest. That’s when Tom recognized him.

Tom claimed that years ago, his family’s debts forced him into working at a club where everyone called him "Pet." In addition to doing chores, he occasionally had to serve clients. After displeasing a client due to his lack of skills and facing severe punishment, he was relegated to working in the kitchen. Half a year later, he was sold to Lion. Tom alleged that Lion sexually abused and mistreated him for years before kicking him out a little over a year ago when Lion deemed him too old. During his time with Lion, he was confined to a basement and only allowed upstairs when summoned. Tom stated that Lion made him address him as "Master," so he never knew Lion’s real name or identity. However, Tom bore scars of varying depths on his body, evidence of the abuse he endured.

Lion adamantly denied knowing Tom. He claimed to have a loving wife and two children, a happy and harmonious family, and asserted that he would never commit such heinous acts. Furthermore, as someone dedicated to combating domestic sexual violence, such accusations tarnished years of his efforts. To defend his and his family’s reputation, Lion decided to counter-sue Tom for defamation.

Ordinarily, such accusations based solely on one person’s testimony wouldn’t hold up. However, Tom described specific physical characteristics of Lion, including moles on his genitalia and under his left armpit. Since Tom claimed the abuse occurred between ages 15 and 18, the allegations became even more sensitive and garnered significant public attention.

Lion argued that it wasn’t impossible for someone to know about his physical traits, as he often frequented saunas to relax. If someone were intent on spying or secretly filming him, it wouldn’t be difficult. Moreover, the fact that Tom, who was clearly of limited intellect, could provide such precise details suggested that someone might have coached him. Lion suspected this person could be Joy, a social worker at the organization. Upon investigation, Joy herself had no issues, but her father had been convicted of vehicular manslaughter years ago and imprisoned. The prosecutor for that case had been Lion.

It appeared to be a case of revenge-driven false accusations. Tom may have indeed been subjected to prolonged confinement and sexual abuse, but Lion was not the perpetrator. However, Joy might have influenced Tom to target Lion. Then, just days after the accusations came to light, a nearly 30-year-old man named Hank came forward, claiming Lion had seduced him while he was in middle school, carrying on a four-year relationship until Hank moved away. Hank said he had been too ashamed to speak out before but decided to come forward after realizing Lion had continued his predatory behavior.

Hank, as I discovered, was the only child of a single-parent household. During his middle school years, he indeed lived near Lion’s residence. According to some older neighbors who still lived in the area, Lion often looked out for Hank, aware of his unstable living situation. Lion’s wife would frequently prepare food for Hank, showing compassion for the boy. On the other hand, Hank, who now lived off part-time jobs and had a prior record of intimidation, failed to provide any concrete evidence to support his accusations against Lion.

I also reviewed the statement given by social worker Joy. She described how Tom, though not particularly sharp, had always behaved decently since joining the welfare organization. However, his demeanor changed drastically after encountering Lion—becoming emotionally unstable, crying without reason, and experiencing nightmares. Joy said she noticed these unusual behaviors and gradually earned his trust. Through his fragmented words, she pieced together the situation. Joy emphasized that despite her father’s incarceration, she bore no grudges and stepped forward purely to support Tom.

For due diligence, I investigated the club in Arizona mentioned by Tom. It had long since closed down. Tom claimed that after being sold to Lion, he lost track of his whereabouts and only discovered he was in Pennsylvania when Lion allegedly threw him out onto the streets. From there, he drifted to New York. However, Lion had only transferred to New York six months prior and had never worked in Arizona or Pennsylvania. Thus, Tom failed to establish any direct connection with Lion.

This left me questioning: If Tom and Lion were entirely unacquainted, and Joy wasn’t manipulating the situation, why was Tom targeting Lion? And who was the real perpetrator behind Tom’s abuse and captivity? Still, my primary responsibility was to prove my client’s innocence, clearing Lion of the charges. Finding Tom’s actual abuser was a job for the police, not me.

On the first day of the trial, the cross-examination went relatively smoothly. Hank used emotionally charged language, vehemently accusing Lion of exploiting his youthful naivety and claiming that Lion’s actions left lasting psychological scars, which ruined his life. When I asked Hank why he didn’t report Lion’s misconduct to his mother or school authorities, he said that Lion gave him $100 each time they slept together, which became his only source of pocket money, so he chose to remain silent.

I called one of Hank’s former middle school teachers as a witness. This teacher described Hank as quiet and introverted but not particularly abnormal. However, Hank had twice been caught lying—once claiming to have seen someone using drugs in the restroom and another time saying he had lost his money, both of which were later proven false.

Joy had served the welfare organization for five years with an impeccable record. She was widely praised for her dedication to the program’s participants. However, her passion sometimes led to overzealous actions. On one occasion, she confronted a visiting guest for making inappropriate remarks about the program’s participants, resulting in a tense and awkward situation. These accounts came from Joy’s superior.

Tom’s fragmented speech made his accusations seem unconvincing. Midway through the cross-examination, he suffered an emotional breakdown and only calmed down after 30 minutes. Following deliberation, we agreed to adjourn and resume the trial at a later date.

When Lion and I exited the courthouse, a swarm of media reporters rushed toward us. Lion, with a solemn expression, addressed them, stating his confidence that the law would prove his innocence. He strongly condemned the crime of sexually assaulting minors and promised that, once the case concluded, he would help Tom uncover the true perpetrator.

I was utterly confident about winning this case. I didn’t even feel the need to rehearse my closing arguments again and again. I was sure that after the second hearing, Lion would walk out of the courthouse exonerated, and I would maintain my undefeated record. Then what?

I remembered how, after each successful case, I used to reward myself by hooking up with a man. But ever since I met him, no one else had been able to capture my interest. Besides, once this case was over, I had more pressing matters to attend to. I wondered if he had noticed me on the news today. Chris—or rather, Jensen—had once said I was a person with a strong sense of justice in high school. Why did he think so? And now? Did he still see me that way? Would he feel happy for me knowing I helped clear an innocent man’s name?

Strangely enough, just as he came to mind, I suddenly heard a familiar sound. Sadie and Harley seemed to stir restlessly. That motorcycle sound…it wasn’t my imagination.

The doorbell rang soon after, and Sadie and Harley scrambled toward the door. Without a second thought, I flung it open.

“Jared… I’m sorry… I know you don’t want to see me again… I didn’t mean to disturb you…” His voice trembled as he looked at me nervously. “I… I need to ask you for something… It’s not for me… I know I don’t deserve…”

I could see his lips moving, but my heart was pounding so wildly that I couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

Chapter Text

Monica refused to reveal who she had feelings for.

"If you don't tell me, it means I know the person. But among the people I know, no one is more outstanding or suitable for you than Jared," I tried to persuade her again.

"Why does it have to be someone exceptional? Marriage is a lifelong commitment; I should be with the person I want to spend my life with," she argued.

She seemed to have a point. "So, it’s not… Adam, is it? You’ve been coming to the studio so often, and he is mature and charismatic. But he already has a happy family. Or is it Abner? Could it be Kent?" They were all colleagues at the studio—talented, confident, and close to her age.

She kept shaking her head. "You could name every man you know, and you'd still be wrong. I never said it’s someone you know."

"But you spend all your time with me and Chris; where would you get the chance to meet anyone else? And since you’re so busy watching me eat, wouldn’t that person get the wrong idea or feel neglected? How could you build a relationship with someone without time or opportunity to date?" My growing curiosity led me to bombard her with questions.

"I wish he would misunderstand!" she suddenly exclaimed as if she had an epiphany. "So you're saying that feelings grow over time, and I should create more opportunities to be with him?"

Uh-oh. If that’s what she does, she might actually get together with him, and I’d have messed everything up. But seeing her joyous expression, perhaps that person truly was better for her. "Monica, you know I care about you deeply. I’ve always felt Jared was perfect for you. But… if this person can truly make you happy, promise me two things: first, let me meet him before you decide to elope; and second, don’t rule Jared out just yet. Give it more time, okay?" I said sincerely.

Her eyes widened. "Why do you think I’d elope with him?"

"Because you’re being so secretive, it must mean your parents wouldn’t approve," I deduced logically.

"Jensen, sometimes your sensitivity is scary," she sighed suddenly. "But other times, you're adorably clueless."

I had no idea how she reached that conclusion. All I could do was hope Jared would finish his case soon and make his move before some mysterious guy swooped in.

***

I also decided to probe Chris.

"Do you think Monica has been spending too much time with us?" I asked while eating the omelet Chris had made.

"Don’t you like it?" he replied, placing a glass of milk in front of me.

"Of course not. Uh… Actually, what I mean is…" I decided to be blunt. "Do you like her? I mean as in boyfriend-girlfriend."

"And if I said yes…" He suddenly leaned close to me. "What then?"

His rare show of intimacy startled me, and I reflexively leaned back. "But… she… she said she likes someone else… Not… not you… I’m sorry…" My voice trailed off as I regretted bringing it up. "But… she won’t say who it is…"

"And it’s not Jared?" He suddenly mentioned Jared’s name, making my heart skip a beat. "So, she’s not interested in either of us. Are you more upset for me or for him?"

My brain froze. I just wanted everyone to be happy. "Chris, don’t feel bad… You’re amazing; the right person will come along…"

"You know," he ruffled my hair, "you’re adorably clueless. Now finish your breakfast—you’re going to be late for work."

What? I was trying to discuss their love lives, so how did it end up being about me and my intelligence?

***

After talking to them, I worried their next meeting might be awkward. But oddly, they continued joking, stealing each other’s food or drinks, and laughing about work. They still teased me about working late, being too meticulous with class assignments, or sneaking back to the studio on weekends. Chris showed no signs of heartbreak, and Monica wasn’t upset about her secret crush. I seemed to be the only one overthinking. Perhaps I really was clueless.

Of course, I still thought about Jared, but it didn’t hurt as much. I hadn’t seen him since that night at the hospital. Maybe Chris had spoken to him, or maybe Jared chose to return to his path in life. Either way, we’d left each other’s worlds. I regretted Monica hadn’t chosen him, but love often takes a winding path. Given how exceptional Jared was, finding someone who matched him and could give him two beautiful kids wouldn’t be hard.

I stopped drawing him. The last piece I made showed him, Monica, Sadie, Harley, and the imagined Dean and Samantha in a luxurious garden—an idyllic scene of family bliss, something I’d always yearned for but never had and likely never would. I once considered giving it as a wedding gift to him and Monica, hoping he’d notice the butterfly on his shoulder—a small dream I could live in through my art. But I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get the chance to give it to him.

Chris kept me busy enough to stop overthinking. And just as I began to believe I was finally moving on, I saw him on the news.

I only noticed him at first. He was accompanying his client out of the court. Then I saw Lion, the prosecutor who was accused of false imprisonment and sexual assault of an underage boy. They were surrounded by a bunch of media. On the one hand, Lion firmly believes that the judiciary will restore his innocence, and on the other hand, he vows to help the victim find the real culprit. He is still the same person I saw on TV a few years ago, but those righteous and stern words once made my blood boil, but now they don’t. Makes me sick.

***

Ever since that time I failed to call for help and was severely beaten by Mike, I had not seen Lion in social situations. It wasn’t until after we moved to Ohio more than half a year later that Chris and I had coffee on the roadside when we went out once a week. I met him face to face.

"It's really you, Mike's Jenny, isn't it? Why didn't Mike and I come to meet me to catch up with each other when we came to Ohio?" He actually had the nerve to put on an expression as if he were seeing an old friend.

I stared at him, "Do you still have Pet? How is he?"

He smiled when he heard this, "I didn't expect you to care about him so much. Oh, I remembered it. It was because of you Mike that you gave him to me. Let's do this. Let Mike take you to my villa another day. You can teach Pet a little bit. Regarding the skills of serving a man, that child either lies still like a dead fish and has no energy at all in playing, or else he screams and moves around and needs me to give him a good beating before he calms down. It's not like you at all. Mike said you are perfect and irreplaceable."

When I went out with Mike in various situations, I always acted docile and well-behaved and never dared to embarrass him in front of his friends. But this guy really disgusted me so much that I couldn't stand it. I impulsively threw the coffee I had on hand into his face. He was so proud. His smug face immediately turned to anger and he stretched out his hand to slap me, but Chris quickly stood in front of me and stopped him from taking action.

"This is a public meeting. Seeing you like this may damage your reputation as a senior prosecutor." Chris said without being condescending.

"How dare a stinky bitch dare to be so presumptuous? I'll definitely call Mike and tell him to discipline you bitch so you don't embarrass yourself the next time he takes you out.” He scolded sharply and turned around to leave." He scolded you sharply and turned around to leave.

That day, Mike made me wear a cock ring and handcuffed my hands to the bedside all night, saying it was a small punishment for my reckless behavior. He didn't let me go until I cried until I lost my voice. "You can't do this again next time, you know? What if he really hurts you?" He then whispered softly while stroking my painful penis.

I didn't feel anything about Mike's seemingly distressed words. All I could think about was the image of Pet being ruthlessly abused by Lion.

***

Chris quickly used his connections to learn the details of the case. He told me that Tom was the same Pet from back then. Based on today’s court proceedings, the testimonies from the prosecution's witnesses were weak, and the witnesses Jared found further undermined their credibility. As a result, Tom's chances of winning this case were slim. The trial was expected to conclude in two days, and it was almost certain that Lion would walk away unscathed. At the very least, however, Tom could remain under the care of the social welfare agency, where he would continue to receive proper support.

I was relieved that Tom had escaped Lion’s clutches, but years of imprisonment and abuse had likely ruined him. Even after regaining his freedom, he was forced to rely on prostitution to survive. I deeply understood the fear of seeing one’s tormentor again. I still occasionally had nightmares myself. For someone like Tom, not yet twenty and only a year removed from Lion, it must be even worse.

The problem was that Jared was now helping Lion. I didn’t believe for a second that Jared would willingly support someone so vile. He must have been deceived by Lion’s reputation and public image, just like the rest of society. But the thought of Lion walking free and continuing to harm others—perhaps even retaliating against Tom—made my blood run cold.

When Tom was handed over to Lion because of me, I could only stand by and watch his suffering. But now, I finally had the chance to make amends. I was willing to do everything in my power to help convict Lion and put him behind bars. I was even prepared to tell Jared everything—to take the witness stand and expose my shameful past—if that’s what it would take. I owed that to Tom.

Chris wanted me to wait so we could approach Jared together, but he was suddenly called away for a late-night raid on a drug manufacturing operation. I had no idea how much time it would take to convince Jared, but time was now of the essence. So, I decided to go to Jared on my own.

As I drove, my heart was filled with unease. Since meeting him, I had never asked him for anything. But now, I was about to beg him—beg him to give up winning this case.

I had worked so hard to steer him back onto the right path in life, and now he no longer cared about me. Was I doing the right thing by disturbing him? What if he didn’t even want to see me? Especially since I was about to ask him to give up his perfect, undefeated record. Would he agree?

Chapter Text

I wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. Every cell in my body was focused on not pulling him into my arms, not pushing him against the wall and sealing his lips with mine, not picking him up and having his legs wrapped around my waist, not pressing him onto the bed to taste every inch of his skin. God, how did I even manage not to see him for nearly a month? How did I hold back from going to him?

What nonsense was he talking about? That I didn’t want to see him? Did he not know that he was in my dreams every single night? If not for pouring myself into work and running a full hour every night to exhaust myself into oblivion, I’d have rushed to his place long ago.

He was still awkwardly apologizing for bothering me, his nervous and hurried expression utterly adorable. His complexion looked good—his cheeks were fuller compared to the last time I saw him in the hospital. It seemed Chris and Monica had taken good care of him. After carefully observing him, I found my gaze locked on his face and realized he had stopped talking, now staring blankly at me.

Our eyes met. His green eyes were filled with confusion, while I only wanted to look deeper into his soul, searching for my presence. I knew he hadn’t forgotten me—I just wanted to know my place and weight in his heart.

His lips slightly parted as though considering his words, but I didn’t want to rush him. Just looking at those lips was a pleasure. If we couldn’t progress further, at least he was here in front of me. I could stand and watch him all night without tiring.

Apparently, Sadie and Harley didn’t share my patience. Sadie nudged me aside with her large frame while Harley tugged at his pants, urging him inside. It hit me—I’d been standing at the door since opening it, saying not a word, only looking at him. Watching him. The one I’d longed for day and night.

“Do you... mind if I come in?” he asked hesitantly.

What I minded was that it had taken him this long to come. “Of course not. Come in,” I replied, suppressing the urge to scoop him up and carry him inside like a princess.

"I just mentioned... Can you help?" He stopped by the edge of the couch, seemingly unsure whether to stand or sit—or perhaps he wasn’t certain where to sit. At home, we were always close, often so close that I’d sit down and pull him into my arms, or wherever I sat, he’d follow suit.

I gently pressed him onto one end of the long sofa and settled myself into the nearby single armchair. I had slowly regained my composure and realized he had something important to say, so I chose this spot where I could sit closest to him yet leave enough space for a long conversation.

"You should know I’d help with anything you need," I said without hesitation.

His face flushed slightly, followed by an expression of relief. "You really mean it? So, what are you going to do? Do I need to testify in court? If you lose against Lion, does that mean he’ll go to jail? Will Tom receive any compensation?"

I was utterly confused. He was here about Lion’s case? What did he have to do with Tom? Testify? What connection could he possibly have to this case?

"Can you start over from the beginning? I need to understand before I can decide how to proceed," I replied, my tone far less confident than before.

He seemed to notice, his expression growing tense as well. After a brief pause, he sighed and began to speak.

"Mike, my ex-boyfriend—he’s also the only man I’ve ever been with..."

I was rather annoyed by this opening statement. In high school, I was his first love—or perhaps it should be called a one-sided crush. We’d shared a bed for over a month, and he had only fully moved out last month. Yet, in his mind, I was never considered his boyfriend?

"I met him during my first year of college while working at a bar. In the beginning, he treated me very well. After my father disowned me, he gave me everything—even a home. I thought I had finally found happiness. That summer, we traveled everywhere on his private yacht. But then I discovered that most of his businesses were illegal. So, I decided to leave him. But he threatened me with my family’s lives, forbidding me from leaving."

"Most of the time I would tell myself to just accept my fate, but sometimes I couldn't suppress my emotions and I would want to escape or even consider suicide, so he found someone to be my bodyguard. The name was to protect me, but actually he was monitoring me. Chris was an undercover policeman. He jumped at the chance because being my bodyguard was the closest thing he could get to Mike, and the relationship between the three of us was like Chris being the jailer, Mike being the warden, and me being the only prisoner.”

"Tom and I - I only knew him as Pet at the time - only met once. He was sold to the club when he was less than 14 years old due to family debts. He may not even know who I am or what I look like, but he suffered a tragic fate because of me. That time because I didn't listen to Mike, he tortured Tom to force me. I could only watch Mike raping him and beating him until I obeyed."

"More than half a year later, I met Lion at a charity fund-raising dinner. I had seen him on TV before and believed that he was an upright prosecutor, so I secretly asked him for help. It turned out that he and Mike were good friends, and he also had an unknown hobby of playing with underage boys. Mike gave Tom to him as my punishment, so Tom didn't lie. Counting from that time, Lion did imprison Tom for three years. When Tom turned 18, Mike lost interest and drove him away.

He finished speaking in one breath, without any ups and downs in his tone, as if he was telling a story about someone who had nothing to do with him, but I was frightened when I heard it. It’s not that I don’t care about Lion and Tom, I completely believe what he said: Lion is a perverted scumbag with duplicity, and Tom is a poor victim. But what I care about more is his relationship with Mike.

I thought again of Chad's description of being admitted to the Louisiana State Hospital, contrasted with his understatement that Mike threatened him with his family or with Tom. Was that just that? Did Mike also rape him and whip him, so he wanted to run away and... commit suicide...

"Tell me, what did Mike do to you? Did he... abuse you?" Even though I knew this was in the past, I still asked uneasily.

He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "He would punish me a little when I was emotionally unstable or disobedient."

"Being beaten to the point of broken ribs, severe internal bleeding, and whip marks all over your body is called a slight punishment? Does he often do this to you?" I asked in disbelief.

He looked at me in surprise, "How did you know? Did Nick tell you?" He smiled bitterly, "Actually, he doesn't punish me for no reason. On the contrary, I sometimes provoke him for no reason. Let's see what he does. Won't he kill me? The broken ribs you just mentioned were the most serious and internal bleeding. Because I couldn't bear it anymore, I deliberately provoked him to kill me. If it hadn't been for Chris, I would have died. That's how I can leave Mike."

I looked at him speechless. I had assumed that Mike had abused him, but I was still shocked to hear it with my own ears. So he was never kept by Mike. They were indeed a couple, but Mike used perverted and high-pressure control over him, making him desperately want to escape or even die.

I couldn't help but stretched out my hand and pulled him into my arms. "Promise me you will never do this again in the future," I ignored his struggle and hugged him tightly, "No matter what happens, you will never have suicidal thoughts."

"Jared, let me go, I...I can't breathe..." His voice was muffled, and I realized that my arms around him were so tight, and his face was pressed against my chest. Unable to move.

I loosened the space between us slightly but still refused to let go, as if afraid he would disappear if I didn’t hold onto him. I really should thank Chris, and I suddenly remembered how Chris wasn’t panicked when Jensen fainted. He took care of Jensen with practiced ease. He knew about Jensen’s frequent nightmares—was it because he had seen too much? The torment Jensen endured during those three years must have been far worse than his understated descriptions.

He cleared his throat. “Mike is already in prison, and I’ve moved on. I won’t get emotional or think about suicide anymore. But Tom is different. What he went through was far worse than what I did. That’s why I hope you can help him—don’t win this case. Let Lion go to jail.” He paused. “I know you’ve never lost a case, and I’m sorry for making such an unreasonable request. But you’ve always been someone who stood for justice and helped others. I believe you still are. So, I’m begging you…”

I couldn’t help but interrupt him. “When you say ‘always,’ how far back are you referring to?” His expression suddenly froze. I pressed on, “Do you mean when I was a senior, and you were a junior?”

His eyes widened first, and then his face turned crimson with embarrassment. “You… how did you know?”

“From various bits and pieces that people accidentally let slip. But I want to hear it from you,” I said as I slowly leaned closer to him. “I want you to tell me that you once had a crush on me—and to admit that you still like me now.”

I could see his back pressing tightly against the couch, his entire body trapped with nowhere to retreat. He looked like a little rabbit caught in a trap, his face filled with confusion and unease. That expression completely shattered my resolve to wait until after the trial and discussions with my parents before seeking him out. I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.

“I don’t want Dean and Samantha anymore. I don’t care about a perfect winning streak either. Jensen, I just want you.” My hand slipped under his shirt, feeling his warm body. I felt him tremble slightly as he closed his eyes, his impossibly long lashes fanning out like a crescent. My lips hovered right over his.

He didn’t push me away, only murmuring, “But that’s your dream… Jared… I…”

I silenced him with a kiss, hungrily tasting those irresistible lips until my head spun from lack of oxygen. But the sensation was so wonderful, I would willingly die from it.

“My dream is you. I love you, Jensen. I should have told you long ago. Jensen, I may have missed the chance to be your first boyfriend, but I will be your last. Trust me, I will give you true happiness.” I kissed him again, and then I tasted something salty—

I was absolutely certain they were tears of joy.

Chapter Text

I completely disagreed with the method. Helping Tom bring Lion to justice was the right thing to do, but putting him in danger was something I was 1000% against. However, he was clearly resolute.

Since finding out that Jared, that idiot, was not only Lion's defense attorney but also confident of winning the case, I felt something terrible brewing. That same evening, I was delayed by a sudden assignment, so when I appeared at that idiot's doorstep and saw them open the door together—him with a face flushed red and visibly flustered, and that idiot with his stupid, dazed look—it was clear what had just happened between them.

I had long noticed that he couldn’t forget Jared. Every time I mentioned Jared’s name, I could feel him freeze for two seconds. I had also seen him while he was painting—there was Jared, Monica, and even two kids in the picture. The faint smile mixed with sorrow on his face broke my heart and made me angry. I pitied him, but of course, I was mad at that idiot.

I often wondered how much time I should give them. I knew how hard he was trying to move on. He had stopped painting Jared; he laughed more when he was with Monica and me, and he even cared about my relationship with Monica. So I didn’t mind him overthinking things. If it distracted him, it didn’t matter what he misunderstood about me and Monica, as long as he was happy.

As for that idiot, I wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to figure things out. Maybe I had overestimated him. Maybe he never intended to give up his life plan for Jensen, and that was fine. After all, how many eight-year-olds think so far ahead and actually work toward their goals? I should at least respect this rare breed. I just didn’t want him to regret it someday—something I was 100% certain would happen—and come back to mess with Jensen. If he did, I’d fight him to the end.

But the moment I saw his flushed face, I knew that idiot had easily won him back. Naturally, I wasn’t pleased and couldn’t resist mocking, “I thought you were here to discuss Tom’s case with him, not to get back together.”

Seeing his guilty and embarrassed expression, his lips moving but unable to speak, and his hand tightly held in that idiot’s grasp yet seemingly trying to pull away—it was like a scene from a TV show where a father caught his underage kid doing something inappropriate. It made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“It’s not what you think, and it has nothing to do with Jensen. If you’re upset, take it out on me,” that idiot said, gripping Jensen’s hand tightly and glaring at me.

Oh, please. Even the lines are so cliché. Is this really the level of education Stanford produces? And this is the lawyer with an undefeated record? Never mind. Now’s not the time to critique the education system or judicial standards. I decided to set aside their rekindled romance for now. “Tell me, at least you’ve come to a conclusion about this case.”

“We have an idea... but we need your input,” he stammered, which meant it was undoubtedly a bad idea.

According to Jared, he could refuse to defend Lion, but Lion could easily find another lawyer and still have a strong chance of winning. The main issue was that the prosecution’s evidence was weak—aside from Tom’s ability to describe Lion’s private characteristics, there was nothing substantial. Even with Jensen as a witness, the evidence would still be circumstantial. More importantly, both Jared and I were firmly against Jensen testifying. So, the best solution would be to convince Mike, the root cause of all this, to testify. If Mike was willing to testify in court, Jared could feign surprise and lose the case, forcing Lion to face justice.

“So, you want me to find Mike?” I couldn’t believe they’d propose such an absurd idea.

Jared nodded confidently. “Exactly. Mike’s testimony would be the decisive factor. I can negotiate with the prosecution to postpone the trial while you persuade him.”

I still didn’t think this was a good idea, so I questioned, “What if I can’t convince him? You know he hates me with a vengeance.” I glanced at Jensen, hinting at the obvious.

“Then I’ll go!” he said firmly.

“No!” Jared and I protested in unison. Seriously, what was he thinking? Thankfully, that idiot still had a shred of rationality left and stood on my side.

“If you won’t let me testify or let me persuade Mike, what am I supposed to do? Tom is in this position because of me. I couldn’t help him back then, but I refuse to stand by and do nothing now,” he said passionately.

This is why I now find myself sitting across from Mike. The prosecution had requested a three-day postponement for the next court hearing, and I flew to Louisiana at noon on the same day to meet Mike. Jensen insisted on coming along, just in case.

"What wind blew you here? It’s rare to see you visiting me so kindly. If I’m not mistaken, this is your first visit since I was incarcerated, isn’t it? Come on, what is it that you want to ask of me?" His calm and collected demeanor made me feel that this meeting would likely not go in my favor.

Since he was so blunt, I decided to cut to the chase as well. "I hope you'll act as a witness for the prosecution and testify against Lion."

"Oh, are you referring to the case involving Pet and Lion? The first hearing was just held yesterday, wasn’t it? The media coverage is all over the place, and it seems Lion has the upper hand. I didn’t expect you to care about Pet. I thought there was only one person in the world who would give a damn about whether he lives or dies," he said, staring straight at me.

"Then consider this your chance to do a good deed for him," I replied curtly.

"With that attitude, you’re hardly convincing," he smirked disdainfully. "But you should know—I would do anything for him."

Spare me the act of feigned devotion, I silently cursed. "So… you’re willing to testify?" I asked cautiously.

"Of course," he sneered. "You know I can’t stand anyone calling Jenny a whore. Since I didn’t have a chance to teach Lion a lesson back then, I’d be happy to see him pay the price for his foul mouth now."

This man truly holds grudges, though I did agree that Lion insulting Jensen as a "whore" was absolutely unforgivable. "Fine, then. I’ll arrange for the prosecutor to meet with you immediately."

"Hold on, I haven’t mentioned my terms yet," he said nonchalantly.

Terms? Damn it! I knew this wouldn’t go smoothly. "You want a reduced sentence? As far as I remember, you were sentenced to 101 years. I could try to get it reduced to 55. If you live long enough, you might even be able to celebrate your 100th birthday after serving your time," I said sarcastically.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Do you know what kept me going when I realized I’d be spending the rest of my life in prison?" He paused, his gaze suddenly sharp. "It was you!"

I was momentarily stunned. "Well, I’m flattered. But surely, you don’t mean you want me to drop dead in front of you? I’m not so noble as to trade my life for your testimony."

He snorted. "Don’t flatter yourself. Neither your life nor Lion’s, and certainly not Pet’s, has ever mattered to me. You know exactly who I care about. Bring him to see me. Let us meet privately, and I’ll say whatever you want in court."

"What the hell is wrong with you? He’s dead! And don’t forget—it was you who cruelly beat him to death!" Every time I thought of Jensen lying motionless on the ground, his face covered in blood, I felt a chill of horror.

He slammed the table. "How much longer are you planning to keep lying to me? Jenny isn’t dead!" His sudden agitation quickly gave way to calmness. "That’s fine. I’ve got time to wait. If you insist he’s dead, then bring a medium and summon his spirit. Either way, nothing happens until I see him." His tone dripped with mockery.

"So, you’ve been playing me from the start! You bastard!" I shouted, furious, grabbing him by the collar.

"You played me first. You worked undercover for years and sabotaged countless deals. I could let that slide, but taking him away? That’s unforgivable. So yes, I’m playing you now, what are you going to do about it? And don’t forget, you’re the one coming to me for help. Or wait," his face lit up with sudden realization, his tone growing more manic, "he’s here too, isn’t he? He’s waiting outside, right? Did he send you? Only he would care about someone like Pet, wouldn’t he? Let me see him!"

"I’ll never let you see him. Do you know what you did to him back then? Nearly every bone in his body was broken. He lost so much blood. When you left him lying there, motionless, you killed him! You have no right to see him ever again," I hissed through gritted teeth, my face inches from his.

"Whether I have the right isn’t up to you. Go tell him that I’ll help him send Lion to prison if he comes to see me. Let him decide," he said, his voice filled with certainty. "Jenny will definitely agree."

"Never. Don’t even dream about seeing him again!" I pushed him back into his chair, ready to storm out and end this discussion.

"Don’t forget how well I know him. He probably thinks Pet’s situation is his fault, doesn’t he? He likely feels obligated to make amends, right? Can you bear to see him consumed with guilt while Lion continues to roam free?" His tone softened, no longer as aggressive. "I just want to see him once. I’m stuck in here—what could I possibly do to him? And you know I never meant to hurt him back then. He provoked me deliberately..."

"That’s right. He preferred death over staying with you, so there’s no way he’d want to see you now," I retorted firmly.

"There’s no point arguing. Go ask him. Give us 20 minutes alone, and I’ll make sure Lion gets at least 20 years in prison. He’ll agree."

As I stepped out, I felt a sinking realization that Mike had already won. He knew I would eventually give in—not for Tom or Pet, but for Jensen—

To rid him of that damned and undeserved guilt.

Chapter Text

He sits before me, still as beautiful as the first time I saw him—no, even more beautiful now. A mix of boyish charm and mature masculinity radiates from him, so captivating that I can't tear my gaze away.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him at the bar. He was still wearing braces then, but I could already envision how stunning he’d look once they were removed—a beauty he wasn’t even aware of, and others hadn’t noticed yet.

I’ve always been adept at reading people, especially someone like him: simple, painfully lacking confidence. By the third time I visited the bar, I had pieced together his story. His family was ashamed of him; his classmates treated him as a freak after a serious car accident. He was passionate about art, though all he had were dreams and nothing else. Most importantly, he was gay but had never been in a relationship or had any sexual experience.

He was an unpolished gem—made for me, waiting for me to sculpt him. I’ve been with countless men and women, whether virgins or experienced, but I tire of them quickly. To me, those people were only fit to grovel at my feet, begging for my favor. I couldn’t even recall their names or faces. But the first time I saw him, he left a deep impression on me. I liked calling him Jenny—my personal nickname for him. I secretly bought the bar he worked at and ensured he wouldn’t be harassed by other patrons. I approached him slowly and cautiously, like courting someone I genuinely admired. I catered to his interests, bringing him delicate handcrafted items each time, relishing the surprised and touched look on his face. I was amazed at my own uncharacteristic behavior, yet fulfilled by the way he opened up and placed his trust in me completely.

I’ve met his family—a group of vulgar, self-righteous people. I’m grateful that he emerged unscathed from that environment, and I’m relieved that his family treats him as worthless. When his father severed ties with him, I knew he was entirely mine. His world could only have me in it, not just for this life, but even into the next.

I always said he was like an uncut gem, not just because of his flawless features but because of his inner potential. He may not be a creative genius, but he has determination and passion. Given time, he might achieve something in the art world. But that’s not what I care about. What I adore is his inherent restraint and submissiveness, qualities that make him pliable and moldable under my control.

I remember the first time he performed oral sex on me—it was clumsy and utterly unskilled. If it had been someone else, I would have slapped them or kicked them out. But with him, I had endless patience. After a few practices, he was nearly perfect. His lips are practically the work of a divine creator. No matter how many times I experience it, I can never get enough of the feeling of sliding into his mouth. It’s an indescribable pleasure, especially when he deep-throats and his green eyes well up with tears. That sight alone is the ultimate sensual delight.

And his body—it’s unbelievable. No matter how I bend or position him, he’s like he has no bones, yielding to my every command. No matter how I use him, he submits without resistance. He probably doesn’t even realize how enticing the curve of his back flowing into his hips is, how tempting his firm buttocks are, or how his eyes, filled with desire and a hint of pleading, can evoke the darkest impulses in people. He doesn’t know how all these things combined make you want to break him, to hear his whimpering moans, to push him to climax in a blend of extreme pleasure and pain, to the point of losing consciousness.

He never knew how many nights I spent just watching him after he passed out from the heights of pleasure. Often, I didn’t even feel like sleeping. I would just watch him tirelessly and even take out my phone to capture every pose and expression. I know I’ll always have him, but I still wanted to document every single moment.

The first time he said he wanted to leave, I used a small trick to make him stay. But I took his compliance for granted, never realizing he had a side that could resist. I never even imagined he would consider taking his own life.

That incident should be blamed on that bitch. After a few favors, she forgot her place. Who was she to be jealous of him and hurt him? I was so furious that I slashed her face into a mess and still couldn’t quench my anger. So, I destroyed her lower body to ensure everyone around me understood that anyone who dared to harm him would meet a miserable end.

I only realized something was wrong afterward. Most people, when faced with someone charging at them with a knife, would instinctively back away or dodge. But he stepped forward. I should have been alarmed then. Two weeks later, I found him in the bathroom, holding a razor blade to his wrist. In that instant, fear and a sense of betrayal surged through me—how dare he treat himself like this? I loved him so much, and yet he was willing to do something so foolish?

I chained him to the bed, nearly slapping him awake to remind him that he was mine and no one, not even himself, could harm him. But I restrained myself. I left him in the room and went to find someone else to vent my frustration. Yet I found no satisfaction in it. He was the only one who could fulfill me, the only one I truly wanted.

I got him a bodyguard. Although he was almost always by my side, there were business occasions where it wasn’t appropriate to bring him along. I needed someone to watch over him because I couldn’t risk losing him. I couldn’t even bear the thought of him getting hurt. He was like a delicate piece of art, intolerant of any blemish.

I loved taking him to events, savoring the envious looks from others. I didn’t mind people admiring or coveting him because I took pride in having him. But I couldn’t tolerate anyone belittling him. Anyone who dared to show disrespect wouldn’t be let off lightly, because he wasn’t one of those disposable flings I used to have. He was my lover, the one true love I was destined for in this life.

I wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch him or get close to him. His world could only include me. So, I observed Chris for a long time. He was composed and knew his boundaries. When I was intimate with Jenny, he would tactfully give us space. When I wasn’t around, he would keep an appropriate distance. Even when they went out alone, he didn’t speak much. That was exactly what I required: his loyalty was to me, but his unwavering priority was protecting Jenny. For instance, when Jenny tried to harm himself again, Chris reported it to me without sugarcoating. If he had hesitated out of fear or attempted to cover for Jenny, I would have known immediately, and he would have lost the right to stay by Jenny’s side.

I truly never intended to hurt him, but he never understood when he was in the wrong—refusing me, disobeying, attempting to escape, or even trying to commit suicide. That time, he dared to run into the middle of a busy street. Did he forget who he belonged to? Did he not realize that he had no right to harm his own body? I decided to give him a proper lesson.

That was the first time I hit him. Under the tension of the ropes, he writhed in pain, his face streaked with tears, crying and wailing. I watched as red welts began to appear on his pale skin. While I felt a twinge of guilt, a strange and uncontrollable thrill also surged through me. His expressions and the agonized beauty of his body were like an intoxicating drug. Only after the frenzy subsided did regret consume me.

I gently applied ointment to each of his wounds and spoke to him tenderly, telling him how much I loved him and making him promise never to entertain such dangerous thoughts again. Weak and helpless, he collapsed into my arms, pitifully apologizing, saying it was a momentary lapse of judgment. So, I forgave him. Yet, it wasn’t long before he repeated his mistakes.

This seemed to form a vicious cycle—or perhaps it was an unspoken expectation deep within me. Whenever he lost control and made mistakes, I would punish him. I can’t deny the inexplicable pleasure I derived from it. I experimented with whips, stun batons, chastity devices, and rulers. Sometimes he gritted his teeth in silence; other times, he begged for mercy in agony until he passed out. Each time, it mesmerized me to the point of no return. However, I was always careful about the severity—I intended only for small punishments as warnings, not to torment or harm him.

The most severe punishment was when he sought help from Lion. I thought he had learned his lesson, but he was still scheming to escape and humiliated me in front of others. Enraged, I took out the cane. Despite repeated strikes to his back, buttocks, and thighs, leaving his skin broken and raw, he neither begged for mercy nor admitted his wrongdoing. That time, he was bedridden for three days before he could barely walk again. After that, he never tried to escape or seek help again, which only strengthened my belief in the effectiveness of punishment.

But everything spiraled out of control after we moved to Louisiana. Two failed drug deals caused massive financial losses, the club had constant issues, and he refused to accompany me on inspections, throwing tantrums. I couldn’t tolerate his willful defiance, so I punished him harshly. Usually, this stabilized his emotions for a while, but two days later, he reverted to his old ways.

He tried to commit suicide again and uttered those heartless words, calling me a devil, saying he wouldn’t let me touch him, and that he would rather die than stay with me. I lost control and beat and kicked him furiously until he finally fell silent and motionless.

When Chris told me he was dead, it felt like a massive piece of my life had been ripped away. Holding his ashes, I couldn’t eat or sleep. For nearly three years, he had been within arm’s reach every moment, and then, suddenly, he was gone. How could I accept that?

The days that followed were a blur. No matter how much I had, everything seemed meaningless. I delegated more and more responsibilities to Chris, only to later discover he was an undercover cop. When he revealed his true identity, I suddenly realized that Jenny might still be alive. It hit me that Chris hadn’t just betrayed me and the rest of the brothers—he had stolen the one person I loved most.

I tried every method to track him down and harass him, all in hopes of finding Jenny, but for years, I found nothing. Still, I never gave up. After all, I had all the time and patience in the world.

Finally, heaven showed me mercy. How long has it been? Three years and over seven months—more than 1,300 days. At last, I found him.

I stared at him in front of me, my mind already planning our future together.

Yes, I’m not here just for this 20-minute visit. What I want is to have him back—completely and forever.

Chapter Text

The outcome of the case shocked everyone—except for a select few who knew the inside story. Lion was found guilty of illegal detention, sexual assault, and abuse. His once-pristine reputation was utterly destroyed, and justice was served for Tom and Hank.

As I was leaving the courthouse, several media microphones were thrust toward me. They asked if I would represent Lion in an appeal, whether the prosecution's sudden introduction of Mike as a key witness caught me off guard, and how I felt about experiencing my first loss in my legal career. I brushed off their questions with a generic "Thank you for your concern" and quickly walked away.

Back at the office, I chatted briefly with Duncan. He was shocked to learn what kind of person Lion turned out to be. Patting me on the shoulder, he said, "Maybe losing isn’t such a bad thing. But I must say, you didn’t have your usual sharpness today. Take a few days off, then come back and win the next case."

I retreated to my office, closed the door, and drew the blinds, giving myself a moment to settle down.

I’d never lost before—not in any game, exam, or trial. Strictly speaking, this wasn’t truly a loss; I had achieved the desired outcome—Lion was convicted. But when I entered the office and felt the way my colleagues looked at me, as if I were no longer the firm’s living legend, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t care.

Calls started pouring in. My father asked how I was feeling. My mother told me not to dwell on it. Chad speculated that my love life might have affected my performance. Monica offered to lend an ear if I needed someone to talk to. I wondered when I had built this invincible image in their eyes, to the point that my failure shocked them so much they felt the need to console me. It was as if I had let them down, but they were the ones trying to find reasons for my fall from grace.

From an ethical standpoint, I had severely violated professional conduct. Instead of defending my client’s rights, I actively helped the prosecution secure his conviction. I had no right to judge whether Lion was guilty during the initial assessment of the case, yet because of Jensen, I immediately labeled him as guilty and even guided him toward defeat while remaining his lawyer.

But I believe I made the right choice—especially when I received his text:

Jared, thank you. I’ll be waiting for you at home.

***

I saw him sitting on the porch, playing with Sadie and Harley. The moment he saw me, he threw himself into my arms and offered me those lips I could never get enough of. At that moment, I realized that even without the sound of children’s laughter, having the person I loved most, waiting for me with joy and anticipation, was enough.

That night, we made love passionately, moving from the dining room to the living room, the bedroom, and finally the bathroom. It felt like we were making up for lost time or living as if the world would end tomorrow and we couldn’t afford to waste a single moment. We clung to each other, unwilling to part even for a second, until we were both drenched in sweat and completely spent.

"Jared, do you regret it? I made you lose the case and ruined your perfect winning streak," he murmured drowsily against my chest.

"If you comfort me like this every time I lose, I’d gladly lose more often," I teased, gently pinching his earlobe. "I don’t regret it. I should be thanking you for helping me see Lion’s true colors. If I’d helped a scumbag win, then I’d truly regret it."

"Jared, you don’t know how much this means to me. I’ve always felt guilty about Tom, but you helped me make amends. Thank you." He tilted his head, nuzzling my chin with his nose.

"You don’t know how much you mean to me," I said, cupping his face so he would look into my eyes. "Jensen, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time, but I never had the courage to face my feelings or make a commitment."

He shook his head. "What I said before was just to push you away. I never really wanted you to give me anything or sacrifice anything for me. Knowing that you feel this way makes me happy enough. I don’t want you to do more—"

I cut him off firmly. "Tomorrow, I’m taking leave. I’ll go back to Virginia and tell my parents everything. I’ll make our relationship public. I’ll make them accept you. I want to give you a home filled with love and blessings."

He stared at me for a long time before offering a faint, sad smile rather than one of joy. "Your parents won’t accept me. They want you to marry someone like Monica, not a gay man whose own family disowned him."

I hated how he belittled himself. "I don’t love Monica at all. We’ve only ever been friends. And it’s not your fault that your family rejected you—it’s their loss."

"I know. Monica said the same thing. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now. As for my family… I’ve never brought them any pride. It’s only natural they despise me." He turned around, pressing his back against my chest. "Jared, just knowing how you feel is enough for me. I promise to stay by your side as long as you love me. But if you ever want to get married, just tell me, and I’ll leave immediately. Please, don’t tell your parents about me. Don’t upset them or make them sad. Let’s just agree on this, okay?" He held my hand tightly around his waist. "I’m so tired. I want to sleep now."

I knew he wasn’t asleep. I suspected tears were silently streaming down his face. I hugged him tighter. "I promise, the moment I think about marriage, you’ll be the first to know because I’ll only ever marry you. Goodnight, Jensen."

***

The next day at work, I requested a few days off from Duncan. He informed me that just after Lion’s case concluded, two more individuals came forward, claiming to have been victims of his abuse, alleging inhumane sexual mistreatment while being kept as his "boys." Other reports surfaced, accusing Lion of frequenting young male escorts. It seemed likely that Lion would spend the rest of his life behind bars.

As I finished filing some documents and prepared to leave, an unexpected visitor arrived.

Generally, I don’t meet with clients without prior appointments, but Jeff Ackles was an exception.

"I heard you lost a case yesterday. You might need some time to adjust, but this is the only slot I had available. Don’t worry, you can bill me however you like for the consultation." His self-centered attitude made me want to punch him, but I was more curious about his visit. Why was he here? Was it about Jensen?

"What can I help you with?" I asked politely.

"This is a highly confidential matter," he said with an air of secrecy. "I didn’t want any rumors spreading in my hometown, and since I’m here in New York for business, I thought of you. I want to know how I can get a divorce without splitting half my assets with my wife."

A divorce? Just months ago, I saw him at a party, proudly escorting his pregnant wife, mingling confidently with everyone. "You want a divorce? Why? What about your child?"

He interrupted quickly, "I want nothing to do with my wife or child. I don’t love them at all, so I don’t want them taking half of what I own."

Noticing my skeptical expression, he elaborated, "May—my wife—was my father’s choice. We never had a strong foundation, but because he intervened and broke up my relationship with my college girlfriend, Fila, I went along with it. Fila left for the UK to recover, but a month and a half ago, we reunited. I realized I still love her, and she’s never stopped loving me. Now, every time I look at May—pregnant, bloated, and unattractive—I can’t stand it anymore. I want to divorce her and marry Fila."

Suppressing my disdain for the man, I asked, "Even so, the child she’s carrying is yours. Don’t you care at all—about your daughter?"

"It’s a girl. I didn’t want a daughter. I’ve been disappointed since the day I found out, but May refused to terminate the pregnancy. Thankfully, Fila is also expecting," he said, attempting to justify himself. "You probably think I’m heartless, but I’ve lived my entire life according to my father’s expectations. He wanted me to play basketball, so I played basketball. He wanted me to study business, so I studied business. He made me break up with my girlfriend and marry a suitable woman, and I complied. But I’ve had enough. I’m in my thirties now, and from this point on, I want to live the life I want, not the one my father arranged for me."

After assessing his case, I determined his chances of winning were slim. "Even so, your wife and child haven’t done anything wrong. Splitting your assets so they can live comfortably isn’t unreasonable. Besides, if word gets out that you abandoned them at this time, your reputation will take a hit. Wouldn’t it be better to end things amicably, even if it costs you some money?"

"So you’re saying you can’t win this case for me?" His eyebrows arched, his tone dripping with disdain.

I shrugged. "I don’t think the odds are in your favor, but more importantly, I don’t want to take this case. You should find another lawyer."

"I thought yesterday’s loss was just a fluke, but now I see you’re overrated." He stood up angrily, tossing his business card onto the desk. "Send the bill to my company," he said, grabbing his briefcase and leaving without so much as a goodbye.

Watching him leave, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of absurdity. How could one family produce such vastly different children? One was eager to abandon his wife and child without a shred of guilt, while the other had been abandoned but bore no resentment. Reflecting on Jensen’s father, who severed ties with his son for failing to meet expectations, it was clear that Jeff had inherited his father’s coldness entirely.

However, Jeff’s words did remind me of one thing: living the life you want. Although my life plan was self-designed, it inevitably followed the conventional expectations of a high achiever. I have no regrets about the sacrifices I’ve made, nor about the admiration and envy I’ve earned along the way. Yet, after meeting Jensen, I no longer obsess over victories and perfection.

My life goals have changed. In the past, I focused solely on what I wanted and held myself accountable only to myself. But now, and in the future, I want to strive for happiness shared with Jensen.

Jensen deserves everything, and I will do everything in my power to give him the world.

Chapter Text

“What have you been busy with lately? You’ve been nowhere to be found for days. Last night, I went to your house, but you weren’t there, and when I asked Chris, he wouldn’t say anything either,” Monica said as soon as she arrived, clearly unhappy. “You and Chris are keeping something from me, aren’t you?”

I stirred my drink absentmindedly with a straw. “Monica, can I ask you a question first?”

She shook her head. “No, answer my question first.”

I sighed, knowing there was no avoiding it. “A friend of Chris had an emergency a few days ago, so we left New York for two days. It was all very rushed, and I didn’t have time to let you know. I’m sorry,” I said, withholding some details.

“And last night? You didn’t come home all night, and Chris didn’t seem worried. Don’t tell me you stayed at the studio again,” she pressed.

Feeling guilty, I replied, “I… spent the night at someone else’s place…”

“I knew it! You’re walking funny today and all bundled up. Spit it out, who’s the man?” She grinned mischievously, refusing to let it go.

Ignoring her teasing, I countered, “Monica, how are things progressing with your mystery man?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

“Not much progress. I’ve given up hope,” she replied nonchalantly.

My heart sank. “Does that mean you’re considering going back to Jared?”

“No. Jared and I will only ever be friends,” she said firmly. “But speaking of Jared, did you know he lost the case yesterday? That prosecutor is such a creep, pretending to be a champion of justice. It’s disgusting. Honestly, I think it’s a good thing he lost.”

Feeling relieved, I decided to come clean. “Monica, there’s something I need to tell you. It might make you angry, which is understandable. If you want to blame me, yell at me, or even cut ties with me… I hope you won’t, but it’s all my fault. I…”

“Stop!” she interrupted impatiently. “If you don’t get to the point, I really will get mad. Spill it already!”

Her playful demeanor confused me, but I silently prayed she’d still be in good spirits after hearing the whole story.

“Remember I told you about my high school crush on a senior? That person is Jared,” I admitted, avoiding her gaze. I nervously prodded at my mashed potatoes as I recounted my history with Jared, from our meeting in Las Vegas to my hospitalization, summarizing the events before skipping straight to last night.

“So, you went to comfort him last night, and one thing led to another?” She glossed over the earlier parts and fixated on the most recent event.

To avoid revealing too much about Tom’s case, I reluctantly nodded.

“Oh! Losing this case was so worth it for Jared!” she joked.

Her unexpected reaction caught me off guard. “Why don’t you seem surprised? Aren’t you mad at me?”

She shrugged. “I was mad, mad that you made yourself sick trying to make way for us. But honestly, I’m even angrier at Jared for not appreciating you.”

I was baffled. “So, you’re not upset that I ‘stole’ your boyfriend?”

“The problem is, Jared was never my boyfriend. I’m more upset that Jared stole my crush,” she said mysteriously.

I was stunned. “Are you saying… your mystery man? He likes Jared too?”

She choked on her coffee and had to spit it back into her cup. “Jensen, are you trying to make me choke?” She glared at me playfully. “Honestly, you’re so naive it’s adorable. You really do need a sharp lawyer or a cop to protect you. Since you picked the lawyer, I’ll take the cop!”

Had I indulged too much last night? Why couldn’t I keep up with her logic? “The cop? Chris? So you and Chris? You two…” I couldn’t hide my excitement. “Really? That’s amazing! But wait, you said Jared stole your crush. Does that mean… Chris liked Jared?”

She burst out laughing, spraying coffee everywhere, including on my face. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She quickly grabbed napkins to wipe my face and clothes, laughing all the while. “My God, my image is ruined! Jensen, you’re just too adorable. I should never have let you go. Chris said your reactions would melt me, but he totally underestimated you.”

As she wiped away tears of laughter, I was utterly confused. “What are you even saying? What do you mean by ‘letting me go’?”

“Forget it, seriously. Oh, I can’t take it anymore,” she said between giggles. “Jensen, stop worrying about everyone else and just enjoy Jared’s love!”

***

"I told Monica about Jared and me today, and then she told me about you and her," I said while eating my spaghetti.

"I know. She laughed for over ten minutes on the phone, like she was on some kind of happy pill," he replied, breaking into a hearty, unrestrained laugh himself.

I knew people in love tended to smile uncontrollably, but why were Chris and Monica bursting out in laughter? "Honestly, I’m really happy for you two, but your reactions seem a bit… Wait, you didn’t… do something last night and accidentally hit each other’s funny bones, did you?"

"Hey! The one walking around with fingerprints and hickeys all over their body is you," he shot back, his laughter finally subsiding. He glanced meaningfully at my neck and arms. "Monica and I were perfectly well-behaved. She said I have to meet her parents first."

"So, you two are serious! That’s amazing! Chris, congratulations! You and Monica…oh, my God, my two best friends getting together, this is just perfect!" I gushed enthusiastically.

He smiled calmly. "Save your congratulations until after I pass the 'meet-the-parents' stage."

"Don’t worry; they’re going to love you," I reassured him sincerely. "You’re so amazing—rising to senior police superintendent in just a few years, being so caring, and you even cook. Oh, and let’s not forget those impressive muscles. Honestly, I don’t understand how you’ve stayed single all these years!"

"So, you’re aware of all my merits, huh? Then why didn’t you ever..." He abruptly stopped mid-sentence. "Never mind. What about you? Jared’s gone back to Virginia, hasn’t he? Did he decide to tell his parents?"

"I asked him not to," I said, sighing as memories of my freshman year and my family’s disgusted faces when I came out as gay surfaced. "Chris, I don’t have an education or a background. Even if I were a woman, they might not accept me, let alone me being a gay man. Think about it, if your parents knew you liked someone like me, wouldn’t they oppose it with everything they’ve got?"

"Oh, they wouldn’t care at all. They’re actually wondering why I haven’t brought anyone home yet," he said casually.

I shot him a confused look. "You’ve liked men before? When? In the past three years? And you even mentioned it to your parents? But I remember you saying you’d had girlfriends before."

"Didn’t Jared date women too? And now he’s changed for you," he retorted, spearing the carrot I had discreetly pushed to the side of my plate and holding it up to me. "At least eat one!"

Reluctantly, I put the carrot in my mouth, chewing as I mulled over his words. "So, who was the guy? Someone back in Louisiana? But now you like women, right? You do genuinely like Monica, don’t you?"

"Your brain really isn’t suited for analyzing other people’s love lives," he teased, eating another carrot from my plate himself. "Monica’s a great girl. We’re happy together, and that’s what matters for now. So stop asking questions and worrying about us. Just enjoy Jared’s love!"

Honestly, they were a perfect match; they even spoke in the same tone. But no matter what, I was truly thrilled that they had found their way to each other.

***

Jared called me, and I told him about Chris and Monica. He said that was great and then mentioned that he had already told his parents about us, but they didn’t express any opinion. He assured me that when he returned to New York, he would bring good news.

After hanging up the phone, I took out the sketchbook and flipped through its pages one by one. I recalled that toward the end of our senior year, Ruby once asked me why, since Jared was graduating soon, I didn’t take a chance and confess to him. She reasoned that even if I failed, he would be leaving for college far away, so there would be no awkward encounters. I remember telling her that by not confessing, I wouldn’t have to face rejection and could hold onto a sliver of hope or an excuse. But if I confessed and got rejected, then I’d have nothing left.

That’s exactly why I didn’t want Jared to tell his parents. His family is like mine—a perfect model of an ideal family. I can imagine that, to his parents, he holds the same meaning that Jeff and Jess hold for my father—they are his greatest pride. If one day that pride becomes tarnished, and by such a major flaw, it would be a severe blow to them. My family could sever ties with me without any impact because they never had expectations for me. But Jared is different. He’s always been so perfect, his life meticulously planned. I’m certain his parents share the same hopes for his future: a suitable, well-matched wife and two intelligent, beautiful grandchildren. My appearance changed all of that. Jared loves me, so he’s willing to abandon his original life plan. But what about his parents?

Suddenly, I wondered: if his family hosted another banquet next year, would they want me to attend? How would they introduce me?

"This is my son’s boyfriend."

"Which prestigious school did he graduate from?"

"He only has a high school diploma."

"Which family is he from?"

"His family severed ties with him long ago."

"Where does he work?"

"At some studio as an assistant."

"What happened to Jared? Was it the stress from losing that case?"

"Not sure, but that loss does seem to be connected to him."

Just imagining these conversations made me feel embarrassed.

I flipped to the last page of the sketchbook again—the one of Jared’s family in the garden. That wasn’t just Jared’s dream; it was also likely his parents’ dream. That elegant lady of the house, even if it wasn’t Monica, would certainly never be me. And now, I’m sure that even being the small butterfly perched on his shoulder feels like an unattainable luxury.

Jared said his parents had no opinions about him falling in love with someone like me, but I can guess the truth: they weren’t without opinions; they just hadn’t yet processed the shock. However, the final outcome can only be one thing—

They will never accept me.

Chapter Text

I told them I had fallen in love with a man named Jensen Ackles, who is also from Virginia. I explained that I was willing to change my life plans for him, that I wanted to marry him, and I hoped they could accept us and give us their blessing.

I had imagined my father would erupt in rage, and my mother would break into tears. But neither happened. My father simply put down his fork and said, “I think you’ve been driving all day; you should get some rest.” My mother, on the other hand, just stared at me as if horns had grown out of my head. She didn’t regain her composure until my father slammed the door behind him. Their reaction rendered the persuasive arguments I had prepared completely useless.

I called Jensen to let him know the situation. I knew he would overthink, but I didn’t want to lie to him. I wanted him to feel my resolve. I wasn’t asking him to be my secret lover, and I wasn’t planning to leave him one day to get married and have children. I would get married, but only to him. I knew he might not have believed me last night. That was fine—I was prepared to say it again, twice, a hundred times, until I fulfilled my promise.

I believed he had never truly realized his own merits. Perhaps he was aware of his attractive appearance, but he didn’t think anyone could genuinely love him. He often interpreted others’ kindness as pity or charity, convinced he wasn’t worthy or good enough. This mindset was deeply ingrained, a result of years of negativity, leading him to see himself as a failure.

But I was determined to break this misconception. I wouldn’t just tell him; I would show him through actions that he was cherished, one of a kind. He was someone people dreamed of having as a friend, colleague, lover, and lifelong partner. He deserved love and happiness.

I also reminded myself that tonight’s dinner was just the first step, a warm-up. Tomorrow, I would do better because failure didn’t exist in my vocabulary.

***

I finally had a chance to sit down with my parents for dinner the following evening. In the meantime, I didn’t just sit around doing nothing—I visited the high school I attended and also went to see Bobby, as Jensen had specifically asked me to check in on him discreetly.

"So, tell me, what kind of person is he?" my father finally broke the silence during dinner.

This seemed like a decent start. At least my father was willing to hear me out instead of outright dismissing Jensen. "He's incredibly hardworking and willing to endure hardships. Even in difficult environments, he never complains. He's approachable and always considerate of others. He's mild-mannered, talented, and well-liked by all his friends and colleagues."

"Is that so? Funny, that's a far cry from what I heard," he said, raising an eyebrow. "From what I was told, he's shy, introverted, and has almost no friends. He's dull-witted, performed terribly in both academics and sports, and had a serious car accident in high school that left him in a coma for nearly two years. After he woke up, he seemed even more scatterbrained. When he returned to school, he started dating some eccentric, oddly dressed girl. You might remember this because he transferred to your high school after his recovery."

My expression must have darkened, but I simply gestured for him to continue. I was genuinely curious to hear what else he'd been told.

"He went against his family’s wishes and enrolled in some obscure art school, picked up bad habits working in a bar, and started engaging in gay relationships. He dropped out after his freshman year to run off with some man, and three years later, it turned out his boyfriend was a notorious crime lord." After delivering this summary, my father looked at me blankly, while my mother gasped, covering her mouth in shock—clearly unable to comprehend how I could know someone like that, let alone consider spending my life with him.

"It seems you've gathered quite a bit of information, spanning his entire life. I take it you went straight to his father for this?" When he nodded, I continued, "His father might not have been wrong from his perspective, but only because he’s always seen Jensen as a child he wished he'd never had. You only have me as your son, so there’s no comparison. But if I had a sibling who fell short in every way, would you stop loving them or cut ties with them to maintain the family’s perfect facade? It’s clear that’s exactly what Jensen’s father did."

They neither nodded nor shook their heads, but I could tell they were listening. "Compared to his older brother and sister, Jensen might seem ordinary. But does that justify being deemed unnecessary, stupid, or unworthy of love? Was the car accident that left him bedridden for nearly two years his fault? Afterward, he was sent to another town to attend high school, as if to make him disappear. Being labeled a weirdo for using crutches and wearing braces at a new school—did he choose that? And just because he didn’t attend a prestigious university and stuck to his artistic dreams, he was cut off financially and forced to work night shifts at a bar to pay for school and living expenses. I don’t see what grounds his father has to criticize him. However, he was honest about his sexuality, while I hid my attraction to men since high school. By that measure, he is indeed more foolish than I am." What I left unsaid was that I strongly suspected Jensen wasn’t even his father’s biological son—his father didn’t deserve a son like Jensen.

"So, you’re saying everything his father said was biased?" my father asked skeptically.

"Unless he cited specific examples. Plenty of students don’t earn straight A’s or make the sports team, but that doesn’t make them delinquents. Jensen never lied, stole, skipped school, or used drugs. Sure, he’s introverted and not very articulate, but isn’t that likely because his family constantly belittled and rejected him? Did his father mention that Jensen excelled in art? His art teacher once suggested his father encourage him to pursue that path. I doubt it, because his father didn’t believe art could put food on the table or that Jensen had any talent. Yet despite his father’s disdain, someone unrelated by blood plans to leave Jensen everything in their will."

My father frowned. "What do you mean?"

"During the two years Jensen attended my high school, he lived with a friend of his father’s, Bobby Singer, who runs a salvage yard. I visited Bobby today and realized he’s been deeply concerned about Jensen but hasn’t been able to get any news of him. Jensen’s father was right about one thing: after his freshman year of college, Jensen got involved with a crime lord named Mike. Mike exploited Jensen’s need for love, and Jensen didn’t know about his criminal background when their relationship began. When Jensen tried to leave, Mike threatened his family’s lives."

I saw the shock on both my parents’ faces. "You might find this hard to imagine, but Mike held Jensen captive for nearly three years until he was finally arrested. Once Jensen was free, he indirectly learned that his family still considered him worthless and abandoned him. That’s why he never returned to Virginia; he believed everyone had rejected and discarded him. This time, he asked me to visit Bobby. He said he’s always missed Bobby but felt too ashamed to face him. He probably didn’t expect Bobby to tear up the moment he heard news of him. Bobby said he’s been trying to get updates about Jensen through his father for years but always hit a dead end. Bobby also said Jensen is a wonderful kid who was just born into the wrong family. Since Bobby knows I’m a lawyer, he asked me to draft his will, leaving everything he owns to Jensen. Bobby’s estate is modest, maybe a little over a million, but I’m telling you this to show that everyone I know—except Jensen’s own family—likes him. It’s up to you to decide who you believe."

"You mentioned his boyfriend Mike earlier. Is he the same Mike who testified for the prosecution in your recent case?" my father asked sharply.

I hadn’t expected him to be so well-informed about the details of my cases. "That’s right," I admitted. "I deliberately lost that case. Jensen only found out I was representing Lion during the first court session. He told me the truth about Lion, so we worked with the prosecution to persuade Mike to testify against him."

"Doesn’t that violate legal ethics?" he asked disapprovingly. "You jeopardized your career for him? And how does he know Lion? Don’t tell me Lion also—"

"If you knew what kind of person Lion was, would you want me to let him walk free?" When they shook their heads, I breathed a sigh of relief. "This case taught me a lesson. At first, I completely believed Lion’s story because I was blinded by his reputation and my own desire to win. Yes, if it weren’t for Jensen, I’d still have a perfect record. But this verdict made me realize that doing the right thing and achieving the right outcome is the true victory. As for how Jensen knows Lion, it’s because he attended events with Mike during those three years and indirectly learned about Lion’s perverse behavior." I left it at that.

"Is he really worth giving up everything for?" my father seemed ready to end the conversation.

"I don’t feel like I’ve given up anything, but he has changed me. Without him, I might have continued hiding my sexuality and stuck to my planned path of marriage and children—or worse, I might’ve reached a breaking point and abandoned my wife and kids someday." I suddenly thought of Jeff and let out a bitter laugh. "I’m sorry I hid this from you for so long. I struggled to accept it myself because I knew being gay didn’t fit the traditional mold. I’m also sorry for dropping this bombshell during my visit. I understand if you need time to process this, but please don’t reject Jensen or be disappointed in me. My essence hasn’t changed; I still have ambition and drive. The only difference is that my vision of family has evolved. You might not have grandchildren to dote on, but you’ll gain a wonderful son."

"Your mother and I need more time to process this. That’s all!" My father pushed back his chair and left the table, with my mother following close behind.

Hearing the door close—without the sound of it being slammed—I decided to count this as a small victory.

Chapter Text

I called Bobby and told him how much I missed him and how sorry I was.

"You should feel sorry because you actually thought I didn’t care about you or want you! Let me tell you, if you don’t come home by the end of the year—our home—I’ll act like I’ve never known you!" he shouted loudly over the phone.

So Jared wasn’t lying? He said that when Bobby heard my name, his eyes welled up with tears, and he began scolding me for being ungrateful while simultaneously wanting to know how I was doing. He said I was foolish beyond saving but added that my family was worthless. According to Jared’s conclusion, Bobby practically regarded me as his own son, so I should immediately call him to repent.

I thought about how, three years ago, Chris went to Virginia to see my family. They told him I no longer existed in their eyes. And when Chris informed them about what I had endured over the past three years, they simply dismissed it as my own fault and stated that they had no interest in hearing any news about me in the future.

Because of those words, I thought no one cared about me anymore. I didn’t dare return to Virginia, nor did I dare disturb Bobby. For three years, during family and friends' festive gatherings, I could only curl up alone in my basement or drown myself in work to stave off the loneliness. But now, Bobby wanted me to come home—his and my home. I finally had a home!

"Who were you talking to just now? Why are you smiling like an idiot?" Chris waved his hand in front of me, looking concerned.

"Chris, Bobby wants me to come home—his home and mine." I pinched my cheeks to confirm that the call had indeed happened. "I really did talk to someone just now, right?"

"Yeah, I heard you say 'Bobby.' You’re not imagining things, and you weren’t dreaming." He plopped down beside me. "Bobby is the guy who took you in during high school for two years, right? Let me tell you, the only people in the world who don’t value you are that jerk of a father and your brother and sister. Everyone else treats you like a treasure!"

"What kind of good fortune am I experiencing lately? I’ve got a job I love, great colleagues and friends, someone who loves me, my best friends are dating, and now someone treats me like their own son," I said, looking at him. "Doesn’t that seem too good to be true?"

"You’re overthinking again. This is exactly what you deserve," he said, putting his arm around my shoulder. "Trust me, everything is exactly as it should be. Just think of it as the heavens slowly repaying you for all the hardships they owed you."

I leaned on his shoulder. "If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up."

He ruffled my hair. "No, you have to stay awake and fully experience this long-overdue happiness. By the way, did Jared mention how his parents reacted?"

Sigh. Couldn’t I stay immersed in my dream for a little longer? "He said he could tell they’re starting to soften. He’s confident they’ll accept me."

"But you’re not confident at all, are you?" He gently pushed me away and stared straight into my eyes.

I nodded. "Honestly, I think they’ve already booked tickets to fly to New York and kill me."

"You don’t watch enough movies. Rich people like them don’t need to get their hands dirty. A single phone call, and someone else will handle it. But don’t worry—I’ll protect you." He patted my shoulder and walked away.

That night, I had a dream. I was back at Bobby’s house, chatting with him when an assassin burst in, pointed a gun at me, and demanded I swear to leave Jared. As I hesitated, I saw his finger pulling the trigger. I screamed and woke up.

"Hey, don’t be scared. It’s me." His face appeared before me.

"Jared? Aren’t you in Virginia?" Was I still dreaming?

"I came straight here after returning to New York. Chris let me in." He took off his shoes and climbed into my bed, slipping under the covers and wrapping his arms tightly around me. "Had a nightmare? What was it about?"

"I dreamed your parents sent an assassin to warn me off." I buried my head in his chest.

He chuckled softly. "Have you been watching too many movies? That’s such a ridiculous scenario. My parents didn’t object; they just said they need some time. So stop overthinking."

If only thoughts could be turned on and off like a faucet—how wonderful that would be. But in any case, he hadn’t disappeared for good, so as long as his parents hadn’t taken any action, I could still have him.

I decided to heed Chris and Monica’s advice: to fully enjoy his love and humbly hope that, as Chris said, maybe the heavens were truly willing to grant me a little happiness.

I didn’t know how much happiness "a little" entailed, but it was evident the heavens had only given me 13 days—a truly unlucky number.

***

"I’m Sharon, Jared’s mother." An elegant and poised woman suddenly appeared at the studio, asking for me by name.

I stared at her, at a loss. Should I kiss the back of her hand or touch her cheek? But wouldn’t she disdainfully pull away? Did Jared know she was in New York? Had they finally reached their limit? Would she present me with a blank check to fill out if I agreed to leave Jared immediately, or would she beg me in tears to let her son go?

My mind swirled with questions, all of which were interrupted by her sneezing repeatedly. "Apologies. Something in here is triggering my allergies." She took out a handkerchief and covered her nose.

Twenty minutes later, we sat at a roadside café. I knew my face, arms, and probably even my hair still bore traces of spray paint stains I hadn’t had time to wash off. But even if I were spotless, my cheap clothes would still clash entirely with her sophistication. I quietly sipped my coffee, waiting for her to declare the death sentence on my relationship with Jared.

"I’ve met your mother, Lara. You have her beautiful eyes," she said, gazing at me. "We once chatted for an entire afternoon."

This was not the opening I had expected. When was this? What had they talked about? Their perfect husbands and children? Surely, I wasn’t part of that conversation.

"Back then, Jared was ten, so you must have been eleven. Did you know? She was always worried about you," she said calmly.

"I know. I wasn’t as good as my brother and sister," I said, lowering my head and blinking furiously to keep tears at bay. "I disappointed her. She started falling ill because of me. If I hadn’t existed, maybe…"

"You’ve always thought that, haven’t you? That your mother, like your father, didn’t love you, and that your siblings looked down on you, too?" she asked directly.

Why didn’t she just tell me to leave Jared and get it over with? Why did she have to use my mother and family to strike at me? Defeated, I nodded. "I’ve always been the extra."

"You’re wrong. In Lara’s heart, you were the child she cherished most. It’s just that your father didn’t like you and forbade the family from showing you care. But Lara truly loved you. She said that while you weren’t as outstanding as your siblings, you were thoughtful. Still, your father constantly emphasized your flaws, saying you’d never amount to anything and weren’t worth loving. Lara said she had never questioned your father’s judgments or actions regarding anyone or anything since marrying him. But sometimes, she felt confused—especially about your father’s attitude toward you," she said with a sigh. "We only met once. That day, I was at the park with Jared, and we ran into her with you. You and Jared started playing together while we sat on a bench and chatted. I could tell she was troubled and lost. She said she sometimes felt tired of maintaining the illusion of a perfect marriage because your father demanded that every family member follow his will and meet his expectations. But on the other hand, she had grown so accustomed to obeying him that she didn’t know how to, nor did she dare to, make any changes. She said she only wished for you to grow up healthy and live the life you wanted, rather than becoming a puppet controlled by your father’s strings, like your brother and sister, who were completely bound to the paths he had laid out for them."

I was so shocked that I couldn’t speak. I remembered my mother often looking at me with a distant expression. I always thought she was wondering if I was the wrong child or if some genetic mutation had produced such a defective offspring. But now Sharon was telling me that my mother actually loved me? "But she never said she loved me. She wouldn’t even attend my elementary or middle school graduation ceremonies."

"She said your father’s personality was very dominant, so perhaps she never managed to resist him. But I believe she absolutely loved you." Sharon sighed lightly. "In fact, back then, she only mentioned that her husband worked in banking. I only knew your and Lara’s names; we didn’t exchange contact information. I think she just needed someone unrelated to her life to vent to. It wasn’t until Jared brought up your father’s attitude toward you and mentioned that you had siblings that I suddenly remembered this encounter. So, I did some investigating and confirmed that Lara is indeed your mother."

"You must think I came here today to ask you to break up with Jared," she said with a smile. "I won’t deny that I was shocked when Jared first mentioned he was dating a man. But later, as I thought about how careful and serious he seemed, I realized he truly cared about you. I’ve seen the girls he dated before, but I’ve never seen him so nervous yet determined. I called Monica to see if there was still a chance between her and Jared. She told me Jared had already found the most important person in his life and started singing your praises. Jared’s father, Gerald, also called Chad to ask if he knew you. Chad said you’re very special because you’ve made Jared less obsessed with perfection and more like a regular person with emotions and desires. I don’t know if you bribed them in advance, but if you did, I must say you did an excellent job."

"I have a distant relative whose son is gay. For years, his family would sigh heavily whenever they mentioned him, wishing they had never had a son. Later, he left home and traveled with his boyfriend. One took photographs while the other wrote articles, and together, they ran a very popular travel blog. It was clear they were living a fulfilling and happy life. Meanwhile, many of their relatives and friends who got married ended up divorced. Over the years, his parents began to see things differently. Families come in all forms, but the most important thing is to create happiness for each other. Jared has never given us any trouble growing up. If he believes choosing you is right, we will respect his decision because it’s you who will walk with him for the rest of his life, not us." She glanced at her watch. "I’m meeting Monica at the department store, so I’ll have to leave now. Oh, if you visit Bobby in Virginia, be sure to take some time to stop by our home for a meal."

I stood there in a daze for a long time after she left, slowly coming to realize—

My happiness was truly within reach.

Chapter Text

I think he’s changed.

He still blushes easily, especially when Chad intentionally teases or plays pranks on him. Jensen’s face can alternate between red and pale in moments, which Chad finds endlessly entertaining. If it weren’t for Chad putting in a good word for Jared with his father, he would’ve been dragged into an alley by Jared and me for a proper beating by now.

Honestly, I don’t completely believe Chad’s spiel to Jared’s father—something along the lines of, “You may not particularly like me, but you definitely won’t dislike Jensen; if you find me somewhat acceptable, you’ll absolutely admire Jensen.” If Jared’s father could be persuaded by such an odd comparison, either his intelligence is lacking, or he never truly opposed Jensen in the first place. Still, Jared’s father did call Chad to ask about Jensen, so perhaps Chad deserves some credit after all.

Jensen remains oblivious to his own charm. When waiters frequently return to check on our satisfaction or ask if we need anything else—each time a different person—he interprets it as the restaurant being exceptionally attentive. When people at a bar vie to buy him drinks, he repeatedly checks whether the offer is meant for Jared or Monica. His naïve reactions are both hilarious and endearing, often leaving those rejected feeling oddly encouraged. Of course, we thoroughly enjoy the complimentary snacks and drinks, though Jared often looks sour, clinging tightly to Jensen like he’s marking his territory.

He smiles a lot more now. No, it’s not just smiling—his joy practically radiates from him, making him glow with vitality. People say women in love become more beautiful, but I haven’t noticed much change in Monica—though she’s always been beautiful (she insists I say that). But Jensen seems increasingly radiant and captivating, to the point that Monica can’t help but praise how he outshines everyone in any room he enters. Chad, on the other hand, grumbles about how women these days care more about faces than muscles, and since when did "beautiful" become a term for men? And as for Jared, he’s utterly entranced, often gazing at Jensen in a daze with a goofy, slack-jawed smile that’s utterly devoid of his usual sharp, lawyerly demeanor.

He’s become more confident. His personal project for the exhibition is nearing completion, and Adam has decided to nominate him for the IDA Design Awards while encouraging him to complete his college education. With the credits Jensen has accumulated over the past three years and what he can earn in the next two, he should be able to graduate. Adam even wrote a recommendation letter for him, and his interview went smoothly. He’s expected to return to college as a proper student in the upcoming semester.

He no longer sees himself as completely alone. Sharon’s words helped him understand his mother’s love and brought him newfound clarity. When he said, “Even though my biological father doesn’t want me, I have Bobby who loves me. Even though my siblings don’t want me, I have great friends like you all. I’m now living the life I want, and I’m genuinely happy and content. I believe my mother would be happy for me too,” I knew he had truly moved past the shadow of the family that had abandoned him.

He’s found true love. Compared to Mike’s twisted possessiveness, Jared’s possessiveness, while undeniable, remains within acceptable bounds. Considering Jensen’s unintentional allure and lack of self-preservation or awareness, Jared’s constant vigilance is understandable. Moreover, it’s clear that Jared doesn’t want Jensen to overexert himself but also respects Jensen’s dedication to his work and studies. Jared often heads straight to the studio after work, ensuring Jensen eats dinner but otherwise quietly accompanying him. This thoughtful care and respect are worlds apart from Mike’s oppressive control, and it deeply moves Jensen.

Jared has also kept his promises. He’s gained his parents’ acceptance of Jensen, completely dispelling Jensen’s worries. I’ll never forget the way Jensen reacted after meeting Sharon—crying and laughing as if he had just won the lottery but feared he had misread the numbers, or like someone misdiagnosed with terminal cancer who was suddenly told they were perfectly healthy. He couldn’t believe Jared’s parents had welcomed him with open arms.

But Monica undoubtedly played a crucial role. Her sweet-talking made Jensen seem like a fallen angel in need of care, greatly stirring Sharon’s maternal instincts. After spending an afternoon shopping together, Sharon returned with bags upon bags of spoils—80% of which were for Jensen, with none for Jared or me.

The most memorable moment, however, was the wedding. Don’t get ahead of yourself—it wasn’t Jared and Jensen’s wedding but Frank and Tod’s. While only Jared, Jensen, and Chad were invited, Monica and I tagged along for the celebration.

The wedding was lively yet heartwarming, with many guests offering their blessings to the couple. When it was Jared’s turn, he solemnly asked for everyone’s attention.

“I’m Jared. First, let me clarify that I’m not trying to steal the spotlight; I have Frank and Tod’s permission to take a bit of your time. Ever since high school, I’ve found myself more attracted to men than women, but I always denied these feelings and refused to admit I was gay—until I met someone. Without realizing it, I went from liking him to loving him. But I also hesitated and avoided facing my true feelings. Because of my indecision, I nearly lost him. Thankfully, he and his friends gave me another chance, allowing me to have him in my life again. Initially, I thought I’d have to give up many of my life plans for him, but the more time I spend with him, the more I realize he’s made my life even more complete. He once told me he wanted me to tell everyone I know that I love him. So, with this occasion and opportunity, I want to say it here: Jensen, I love you. I want to walk hand in hand with you down the street. I want to kiss you openly. I want to show off our love without caring about others’ opinions. Jensen, I love you. If you have even the slightest doubt, I’ll say it hundreds, thousands of times until you believe it. Today, I want everyone here to know you’re my boyfriend. And soon, I hope everyone who knows me will know you as my husband. Jensen, I love you. In this life and the next, I only want you and will only marry you. This is not just my promise to you—it’s my goal, one I’ll strive to achieve. I ask everyone here to witness this love and my unwavering commitment: Jensen, I love you.”

Unsurprisingly, his declaration brought the house down. Monica was moved to tears, Chad cheered loudly, and as for Jensen, he turned beet red and hid under the table, refusing to come out.

That night, I reflected on when I first heard Jared’s name—when Jensen mentioned him three years ago. To me, it seemed like nothing more than a fleeting, unrequited crush. It wasn’t until Jensen was hospitalized for acute pneumonia that I learned he and Jared had a one-night stand in Las Vegas before reuniting in New York. From that moment, I had a feeling their story was far from over.

I once wished to be the one always by Jensen’s side, caring for him. But I never crossed that line, whereas Jared had taken the first step years ago. So, in truth, I lost from the very beginning. Still, I’m genuinely happy for Jensen. He deserves a man who loves him wholeheartedly. I could’ve been that man, but Jared is clearly the one destined for him. Jared has given him love, commitment, and the happiness he’s always longed for, so I’ve decided to entrust him to Jared completely.

As for me? After dating Monica for a month, I formally met her parents. Compared to when I was vetted to be Jensen’s bodyguard—a process where a single misstep could’ve exposed my undercover identity and cost me my life—having dinner with her parents and explaining my background was a breeze. The worst-case scenario was ending up single again.

To my surprise, I hit it off with her father. I should’ve guessed from her cheerful personality that she had open-minded parents. They were simply cautious about her romantic choices but never demanded she marry into a wealthy family. Her father, who had always dreamed of becoming a police officer but couldn’t pass the physical, was thrilled to learn about my profession. By the end of dinner, he even joked that having a son-in-law fulfill his dream wasn’t so bad. Monica, of course, blushed and scolded her father for trying to marry her off so soon, which was the first time I’d seen her act shy. In that moment, I knew I’d found another person I wanted to protect forever.

Fate truly works in mysterious ways. I spent three years planning to move to New York to care for Jensen, only to never find the right moment. I also never expected to meet someone as concerned about him as I was, let alone for her to become my future partner in less than three months.

But don’t ask me to compare Monica and Jensen in terms of importance. I’m certain I love Monica, but that doesn’t mean I care any less about Jensen. It’s not because I harbor lingering feelings—it’s because ever since Jensen met Mike, I’ve had a lingering sense of unease.

I once asked Jensen what he and Mike talked about during their 20-minute meeting. Jensen said Mike asked about his past three years, to which he cautiously replied that he was working part-time and studying—without mentioning where he lived, studied, or worked. Mike didn’t press further.

After testifying, Mike returned to prison in Louisiana. I even asked Jim to keep an eye on him, but for over a month, there were no unusual incidents.

Yet last night, Jensen didn’t return home. He wasn’t at the studio or with Jared, and he didn’t answer his phone. I had a sinking feeling. Less than five minutes later, Jim called—

Mike had escaped while on medical parole.

Chapter Text

What happened? My vision was completely dark, but I quickly realized it was caused by a blindfold. When I tried to remove it, I found my hands cuffed behind my back. My mouth was gagged with a piece of cloth, leaving me weakly lying face-down on a cold metal surface. I could hear a loud, rhythmic rumbling noise, and occasionally I would bounce slightly due to bumps. It was clear I was in a moving vehicle, had I been kidnapped?

My last memory was being in the studio. I often stayed late to work after everyone else left, and sometimes Jared would come to keep me company. So when the doorbell rang, I opened it without hesitation or question. Standing there were two unfamiliar faces, and without a word, they pushed their way in. Before I could react, one of them roughly wrenched my arms behind my back, and as I was about to ask what was going on, the other pressed a cloth to my face. I lost consciousness immediately.

Who were these people, and what did they want? Revenge? That seemed unlikely, I couldn’t recall offending anyone. Was it Jared’s parents? Had they changed their minds and sent someone to get rid of me? Ransom? That was laughable, my father wouldn’t pay a cent and might even ask the kidnappers to finish me off efficiently. Lust? Don’t be absurd, I’m not nearly handsome enough to warrant such an elaborate abduction. But where were they taking me? How long had I been unconscious? Would Jared and Chris have realized I was missing? Surely, they must be worried. But I trusted they would figure out a way to rescue me. I told myself to stay calm.

I cautiously moved my body, trying to sense my surroundings. After some time, I deduced that I was in a small van. There was nothing in the cargo area besides me. I could faintly hear voices speaking intermittently, though I couldn’t make out the words. One voice, louder and gruffer, frequently cursed. The vehicle seemed to hit rough terrain, with the jolts becoming more frequent. I guessed we had turned onto a gravel road or were driving through a forest.

My head felt heavy—whatever they had used to drug me was still affecting me. A sharp turn threw me against one side of the van, and I blacked out again. When I came to, I was being roughly dragged out of the vehicle and dropped onto the ground.

“Hey, take it easy,” said a voice, as hands pulled me to my feet. “The boss said not to hurt him.”

“I didn’t do anything! He couldn’t stand up properly and fell over. What do you expect, for me to carry him out? Damn it! Just thinking about how I lost $3,000 the other day pisses me off. If you hadn’t rushed this plan, I’d have won it back. And now we’re stuck in this dump. Once this job’s done, I’m going to torch that casino,” came the rough, raspy voice—clearly the same one that had been cursing earlier.

“It’s not his fault you lost money. Don’t take it out on him. Don’t forget, we need him alive to get paid. Now hurry up and get inside, it’s freezing out here.” The voice, sounding calmer, steadied me by one arm and my shoulder. “Are you awake? Can you walk?”

I realized he was addressing me when he gave me a little push. I nodded, and he guided me forward. We seemed to pass through two doors before he sat me down. He uncuffed my hands, only to re-cuff them in front of me. “Listen,” he said, “my brother has a bad temper, and losing that money has only made him worse. If you behave, I’ll take off your gag and blindfold. But this place is in the middle of nowhere, no one will hear you if you scream, and you’ll only make my brother angrier. Understand? Nod if you do.”

I nodded quickly. True to his word, he removed the gag and blindfold. Blinking against the sudden light, I asked, “Who are you? Why did you take me?”

He didn’t seem concerned about revealing anything. “I’m Billy, and my brother’s Brice. Our boss hired us to grab you. Don’t ask me who that is, I don’t know. But they’ll be here soon. Until then, stay put and don’t ask questions. Got it?” He patted my face. “I’ll get you something to eat, you must be hungry.” Without waiting for a response, he left.

I took the opportunity to look around. A closed curtain prevented me from determining the time of day. From their repeated mentions of “the other day,” I deduced I had been kidnapped for at least 24 hours. If they had been driving nonstop, we were likely far from New York. My hands were cuffed to the bed frame. Nearby, on a nightstand, lay a file folder. Stretching as far as I could, I managed to drag it closer with my chin and flipped it open using my mouth. Inside were printed photographs of me, Chris, and Jared—both individual shots and group photos. All were taken secretly within the past two months.

Two months? My mind immediately jumped to Lion’s case. Was this revenge? Had Mike’s testimony led to this? But I hadn’t appeared in court, would they even connect me to the case? Or…was Mike the mastermind behind this?

There wasn’t time to speculate. My eyes fell on a paperclip attached to the folder. I was no stranger to tools, and the handcuffs didn’t seem too complex. With effort, I retrieved the paperclip and tucked it under the pillow before nudging the folder back to its original spot.

Before long, Billy returned with a bowl of something and a bottle of water. He placed the water on the nightstand and scooped a spoonful of what looked like microwaved macaroni. He intended to feed me.

Feed me? I frowned. “Could you uncuff one of my hands so I can eat? And I need to use the bathroom.”

“That’s not a good idea,” he replied but grudgingly unlocked one cuff before immediately cuffing my hands behind my back again. Pulling me to my feet, he steered me to the bathroom. As I stood in front of the toilet, he reached to unfasten my pants.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I screamed and twisted my body to get away from him, but he quickly pressed me against the wall. My face and chest were pressed against the cold tiles, and he pulled off my zipper with one hand. He quickly reached into his crotch and pinched my penis hard. It was so painful that I almost peed.

“Do you know that I have been following you for nearly two months? I often look at you through the camera like this. Every time I see you and that tall man rubbing elbows on the street, do you know what I am thinking?” His hands rubbed my penis and scrotum, and my whole body trembled. “I won't hurt you, as long as you behave.” He whispered in my ear.

I remembered his earlier words: “The boss said not to hurt him.” If the mastermind was indeed Mike… “Did your boss tell you not to touch me?” I gambled.

His hand immediately froze. After a tense moment, he withdrew it and shoved me toward the toilet. “Go.”

This was probably the longest I had ever stood in front of a toilet since learning to relieve myself on my own. However, I didn’t dare provoke Billy, so I resolved in my heart to avoid drinking water as much as possible from now on.

Back on the bed, he cuffed me to the headboard again before picking up a bowl and spoon. As he fed me, he began talking about how much he liked one of my dark red shirts, how he admired the way I swung my leg over my motorcycle, and even how he was captivated by the unconscious gesture of me licking my lips. I didn’t respond to any of it. Just holding back the waves of nausea while forcing myself to eat each spoonful he fed me consumed all my energy. I could only hope this meal would end as quickly as possible.

After what felt like an eternity, the bowl was finally empty. He stood up, wished me good night, and turned to leave. Only then did I finally exhale in temporary relief.

In the darkness, I waited for what felt like an eternity. Only when the light beneath the door disappeared, signaling that they had gone to rest, did I cautiously retrieve the paperclip I had hidden and carefully unlock the handcuffs. Pulling back a corner of the curtain, I looked outside. Trees—nothing but trees. After gauging the size of the window and confirming it was big enough for me to crawl through, I decided to take the risk.

I had thought it through: since the mastermind behind my abduction had instructed not to harm me, it had to be Mike. And Billy had mentioned that Mike would be coming soon to join them, did that mean he had escaped from prison? I didn’t know where Mike planned to take me once they reunited, but I was certain that when that happened, I’d have no chance to escape with him constantly by my side. Moreover, the two brothers in this house—one with a temper like a ticking bomb and the other downright creepy—made me all the more desperate to get as far away from them as possible.

I cautiously pushed the window open and climbed out. The darkness enveloped everything around me. Not far away, I spotted a small truck. After considering my options, I decided to walk in the direction of its tailgate. I wasn’t sure how long I had been walking until I heard the rumble of an engine approaching from behind—they had discovered my absence. I quickly darted into the nearby woods, hesitating between hiding motionlessly or running further. The silence of the forest made me fear that any movement would betray my location, so I decided to press myself tightly against a large tree, praying silently that they hadn’t seen me earlier.

Clearly, luck wasn’t on my side. The vehicle stopped right where I had altered my path. They must have seen me after all. Without a second thought, I bolted in a panic, running aimlessly. I felt the beam of their flashlights catch me a few times, but I kept running. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out.

“Are you insane? What if you hit him?” Billy’s frantic shout pierced the night.

“Don’t stop me! This little brat made me chase him out here in this freezing cold. I need to teach him a lesson. Hey, kid, no matter how fast you run, you can’t outrun a bullet!” Brice’s voice was full of rage.

Brice’s words were clearly aimed at me, and the threat in his tone made it obvious that if he caught me, I wouldn’t escape unscathed. I pushed myself to run even faster. Then, in the distance, I saw headlights. Deciding to gamble one more time, I veered toward the road.

I sprinted desperately toward the main road. Just as I was about to burst out of the forest, another gunshot rang out. At that moment, it felt like my back had been split open. An indescribable pain shot through my spine, and my body lurched forward uncontrollably. That’s when an oncoming car, unable to stop in time, hit me. I felt myself being flung into the air…

Before losing consciousness, I thought I saw Mike’s face.

Chapter Text

After that meeting with him, I started planning our new future.

It was only two years later that I truly understood. The reason he wanted to leave me was his disgust for the origins of the money. His emotional outbursts often occurred after witnessing my business dealings or when I punished those worthless people who tried to escape. I shouldn’t have let him see those scenes, but I couldn’t bear having him away from me. Ignoring the fear on his face and his trembling reactions, I forced him further and further away, ultimately leading to the final tragedy. But I am certain that he loved me.

I’m going to take him to the small island I bought years ago. I no longer need to run those illegal businesses; the money I’ve already earned is enough for us to live in luxury for several lifetimes. On that island, we’ll just enjoy life together, greet every dawn and nightfall like we did in the early days when we were together—when I cared for him meticulously, and he gave himself to me unreservedly.

During our meeting that day, he was very cautious not to reveal any information that could lead me to him. But they forgot—I could start with Chris. My cellmate in prison, Tony, had just completed his sentence. I asked him to find out as much as he could about Jenny and Chris after his release. Within half a month, I knew they were living together in New York, and he had a boyfriend—none other than the lawyer who handled Lion’s case. It seems Lion was deceived by his own lawyer, never imagining that the person who ruined him would be Jenny.

Once I knew Jenny’s situation, I had Tony keep an eye on him to lower Chris's guard while I made arrangements. Over these three years, I’ve kept a low profile but spared no expense. I understand all too well that money opens doors. Even in prison, I could bend the world to my will. Once everything was in place, Tony and I finalized the date and time for our operation: Tony’s men would take Jenny while I feigned illness to secure medical parole and escape. We would rendezvous in Florida and sail away together.

Everything went smoothly. Jenny’s boyfriend visited the studio almost daily, so I had Tony’s men tamper with Jared’s car to delay him. Before taking Jenny, they used his phone to send a text to Jared and Chris, saying he was heading out to get supplies and would be back late. By the time they realized he was missing, we would already be far from New York.

After escaping from the hospital, Tony picked me up, and we rushed to Florida. Tony informed me that his men had already brought Jenny to the cabin. Following strict instructions, they sedated him with ether and gave him a tranquilizer. He didn’t resist and was completely unharmed. In just a few hours, I would finally see Jenny.

But what happened next was beyond my imagination. I saw his familiar figure rush onto the road. Before I could even shout for the car to stop, he was hit. His body was flung two or three meters onto the ground. I scrambled out of the car and ran to hold him in my arms, only to feel the warmth of blood on his back. That’s when I remembered the gunshot I’d heard earlier. He’d been shot?! Who fired the gun? How dare they shoot him?!

I heard Tony scolding his men, their excuses blending with my frantic calls of his name. But I couldn’t hear him. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t move. Only blood continued to pour from his back.

No! I wouldn’t let him die in front of me again. I had waited so long for this moment—this couldn’t be the ending. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, but I forced myself to stay calm. Feeling the faint pulse in his neck, I made a decisive order: "Tony, we’re taking Jenny to the cabin. You two, find a doctor immediately!"

Once inside the cabin, I immediately examined his injuries. Aside from the gunshot wound on his left back and some abrasions, there were no other visible injuries, but I couldn’t be sure if any ribs were broken. Tony had slammed on the brakes but still ended up hitting him hard enough to send him flying. His left arm was clearly fractured, showing that the impact had been severe.

Over an hour later, a disheveled doctor in his fifties was brought into the room. Remarkably calm, he approached Jenny without asking questions and began his examination. His findings were consistent with my suspicions—Jenny had at least two broken ribs but no signs of piercing the chest cavity, as he wasn’t coughing up blood. However, the bullet in his back had penetrated deep into the muscle, likely compressed further by the severe impact, making its removal a time-consuming task.

“His blood pressure is slightly low, and the blood packs I brought aren’t enough. He needs X-rays, so it’s best to move him to my clinic,” the doctor suggested while cleaning his bloodstained hands after dressing the wound.

I glanced at the blood-soaked bed where he lay, his face pale as if devoid of life—a stark contrast that made me hesitant to immediately act on the doctor’s recommendation.

“There’s nothing here to treat complications if they arise. Taking Jensen to the clinic is the best option. I guarantee the doctor won’t contact anyone, nor will he disclose your identities or movements,” one of Tony’s men chimed in. I couldn’t recall if his name was Brice or Billy, but he wasn’t the one who fired the shot. From the start, he had actively assisted the doctor in treating Jenny, seemingly concerned for his welfare.

“Brice and I will stay here to finalize the arrangements for boarding and gather essential supplies. Billy will accompany you to the clinic,” Tony said, patting me on the shoulder. “The priority is ensuring his condition stabilizes in time for departure.”

An hour later, we arrived at the doctor’s clinic, located in a quiet, small town. Dr. Zara’s home was combined with his clinic, standing at a reasonable distance from neighboring houses. Once inside, I instructed Billy to disconnect all phone and internet lines and even had Zara’s mobile phone smashed. Zara, unfazed, focused entirely on Jenny, taking an X-ray that confirmed three broken ribs. He wrapped Jenny’s chest to stabilize his ribcage, applied a splint to his fractured arm, and carefully rechecked his wounds and blood pressure before silently stepping out.

I sat by Jenny’s bedside, gazing at him. Memories of the past resurfaced—whenever he fainted from my punishments, I would clean his sweat and blood with a towel before gently applying ointment to each wound. My fingers would feel the involuntary tremors of his skin, and at times, he’d furrow his brow, sob softly, or shed large, glistening tears. The fragile beauty of his face in such moments always filled me with both anguish and a twisted longing.

In fact, I usually only punish him at the beginning, just like a child with a tantrum who will be frightened and shut up if he is punished even slightly. At that time, I liked the way he curled up in my arms, sobbing intermittently and begging for forgiveness. But later, probably because his tolerance improved, he no longer showed a pitiful look but changed into a stoic expression, and the painful moans coming from his clenched teeth became more and more intense. It becomes more and more challenging, but it fascinates me even more. I'm often surprised at how every expression of his can arouse my nerves, and every touch of his body can make me put it down. I never touch drugs because I know the dangers of addiction, but he is more exciting and more exciting than drugs. The temptation makes me even more attached and ecstatic.

As I stared at his sleeping face, the thought of possessing his body once again sent a shiver of excitement through me. The exhaustion of the past 30 hours vanished, replaced by an uncontrollable thrill coursing through my veins...

***

He finally woke up around noon the next day. He looked at me in confusion, blinking several times before speaking. “Mike? Is it really you? Did you… escape from prison?”

“Yes, for you,” I nodded, reaching out to touch his face. I felt him flinch slightly but suppressed my displeasure. My fingers traced along his jawline, down to his collarbone, and stopped at the bandages on his chest. “You’ve broken three ribs, fractured your left arm, and took a bullet to your back… This is the price of your escape. Why do you never learn? Why do you always try to run away?”

“You know exactly why.” He stared at me fearlessly, his gaze unwavering and resolute—something I had never seen before.

I tilted my head, scrutinizing him. “You’ve changed. The last time you came to the prison begging me to accuse Lion, you weren’t like this.” He glared at me in silence, his pale complexion accentuating the vivid green of his eyes. Yet the stubborn expression on his face stirred a long-dormant desire within me.

Gripping his jaw, I forced him to look into my eyes. “Are you trying to provoke me again? Do you remember what happened when you misbehaved before?”

Fear flickered briefly in his eyes, but he quickly retorted defiantly, “What? Beat me until every bone in my body was broken or until I was bleeding internally?”

Oh, so the little kitten is holding a grudge? “You’re still angry with me?” I sighed. “Jenny, what happened back then was a mistake on both our parts. To be fair, you deliberately provoked me, while I acted unintentionally. But don’t worry; I won’t treat you like that again. I won’t engage in those deals you hate anymore. On the island, I’ll fish, row, and grill for you while you happily work on your art. How does that sound?”

“Island?” He frowned.

“I bought a private island in the Gulf of Mexico a long time ago to surprise you,” I said. His confused expression reminded me of when I told him I had bought him a house. Back then, I gave him a house; now, I was giving him an entire island. Surely, he would understand how much I loved him. “I’ve already arranged for a boat. In three days, you’ll see the home I’ve prepared for you. You’re going to love it.”

His calm façade crumbled, and he suddenly looked tense. “Where is this? I… I’m not in New York anymore, am I?”

“This is Florida,” I replied, instantly understanding what he was thinking—those two pesky flies. Did he think they could save him? They didn’t even know where he was. “I know you’ve always needed someone to take care of you. I can forgive your infidelity over these past three years, but from now on, you’d better forget about those people.”

He stared blankly for a moment before slowly and painfully propping himself up. His jaw tightened as he spat through gritted teeth, “The person I want to forget the most is you!”

Was he trying to provoke me into losing control again? Here I was, speaking kindly to him, and yet he insisted on clinging to his delusions? A surge of anger flared up within me, and I stood abruptly. “Why are you always so ungrateful, so unwilling to face reality? You are mine! You can only ever stay obediently by my side.”

“No! Don’t even think about it!” he shouted. But his sudden outburst seemed to aggravate his wounds, and he collapsed back onto the bed, his face contorted in pain.

He dared to defy me! He was forcing my hand!

Overwhelmed by a mixture of anger and exhilaration, I slowly unbuckled my belt.

“It seems I’ll have to reteach you the rules!”

Chapter Text

Surveillance and covert photography are skills I excel at, which is probably why Tony reached out to me. Our parents passed away early, and when Brice turned 18, he took me out of the orphanage, renting a place for us to live. He worked at a nightclub as a bouncer and got acquainted with Tony. I barely scraped through high school and ended up working for a mediocre detective agency. Tony always looked out for my brother and me. Whenever there was a chance to earn some extra cash—though not entirely legal but not outright criminal—he’d involve us. Even after being jailed for drug trafficking for two years, we kept in touch.

When he got out, the first job he gave me was to investigate Jensen, with an unbelievably high payout.

I’ve handled many surveillance cases involving both men and women, most of them being wives trying to catch their husbands with mistresses or husbands suspecting their wives of infidelity. But tailing a gay man was a first. Moreover, my assignments usually ended once I had enough evidence, unlike this case where I had to monitor him for nearly two months—even though it took me less than two weeks to gather everything about him, including his work, residence, social circle, and relationship status.

His daily routine was consistent. Whether he stayed at his rented place or spent the night at his boyfriend’s, he’d leave around 9 a.m., spend the day in the studio—sometimes stepping out for lunch—and usually leave around 8 p.m. Either his boyfriend would drive him back to that mansion, or he’d ride his bike home. On weekends, he’d walk the dog or go out with his boyfriend, or sometimes meet up with friends.

He was the most straightforward subject I’d ever tailed—no secrets, no dangerous entanglements. The only anomaly was his roommate, Chris—who also happened to be a cop—constantly on edge, as if suspecting someone was following Jensen. Jared, his boyfriend, also showed signs of tension, but I could tell the difference. Chris worried about any potential threat around Jensen, almost as if he suspected surveillance. This made me extra cautious whenever Chris was around. On the other hand, Jared’s anxiety was more like a kid constantly afraid someone would snatch his favorite toy. Though, coming from someone nearly 6'5", his possessive body language was intimidating. In essence, Jensen had two bodyguards with him at all times.

Tony never told me the real purpose of tailing Jensen. Considering his simple routine and straightforward associations, there was no real need for constant surveillance.

But I just couldn’t stop.

He was a stunning man, flawless from every angle. Through my high-resolution zoom lens, I often found myself studying him, even counting the freckles on the bridge of his nose once. His eyes resembled a deep green lake, flecked with gold, captivating enough to draw you in, leaving you willingly submerged. Then there were his lips, so alluring. Whether he was unconsciously licking them, giving a shy smile, or with a dollop of white foam from his coffee on his upper lip, they stirred something deep inside me. Every time Jared met or parted from him, there’d be a passionate kiss. From Jared’s reluctant expression during their goodbyes, I could tell those lips weren’t just enticing but must have been utterly delectable.

Sometimes, I wondered if I’d fallen for him. Ever since starting this surveillance job, I’d wake up before 8 a.m. daily, just to ensure I wouldn’t miss seeing him leave at 9 a.m. Even if I had to endure watching Jared kiss him, it was worth it just to catch a glimpse of him. My favorite moments are when he rides alone to the resource recycling site or buys materials. He has a curved butt, and the tight lines extending from his back to his buttocks when he is half lying on the motorcycle always attract people's imagination. I sometimes follow him. Behind him, I would think of my chest pressed against his back, my body pressed against his hole, and I was fucking him on the motorcycle.

I envied Jared. I’d seen him pin Jensen against the wall, his hands exploring every inch of him. I’d watched them getting hot and heavy in the backseat of Jared’s car. Seeing Jensen draped over Jared like he had no bones, or the two of them rocking the car vigorously, I couldn’t help but imagine how his skin felt to touch, how his lips might feel around my nipples, or how his tightness would feel around me. Then, I’d curse the unfairness of life. Jared already had it all—looks, wealth, height—and now, he had Jensen too. Meanwhile, I could only watch from afar, using my imagination to satisfy my growing desire for him.

Naturally, I’d fantasized countless times about what he’d look like naked, but I never expected my first real glimpse of him in the nude to be in such circumstances…

***

As soon as Zara and I heard noises from the room, we began to feel uneasy. Mike instructed us to stay outside, saying he would take care of Jensen and call us if needed. Every time Jensen’s IV was changed or his wounds were checked, Mike would quickly urge us to leave. Tony had given me strict orders beforehand to follow all of Mike’s instructions, so Zara and I stayed outside except when delivering meals or providing essential care. Jensen had woken up twice since last night but only for less than three minutes each time before falling back into a deep sleep. Zara said his condition wasn’t particularly abnormal—no fever, and his pulse was relatively stable. His lethargy was likely due to his weakened body after the blood loss.

Faintly, I heard voices inside the room. Though I couldn’t make out the words, it seemed like an argument. Gradually, I heard rhythmic slapping sounds, accompanied by muffled groans, followed by the sound of an IV stand crashing to the ground and Mike’s furious yelling. Zara and I exchanged a glance and decided to go into the room, and I was stunned by what I saw.

He was lying naked on the bed, his right hand and legs bound with white bandages secured to the headboard and footboard. His hips and thighs were covered in intersecting whip marks, and the bandages on the wounds on his back were soaked through with bright red blood.

"Are you crazy? He’s already injured, and you’re doing this to him?" Zara was the first to react. Without hesitation, he pushed past Mike, grabbed a pair of scissors, and quickly cut through the bandages restraining Jensen.

"He deserved it. He forgot who he belongs to," Mike growled through clenched teeth.

I noticed Mike’s right hand clutching a belt while his left hand gripped the footboard so tightly his knuckles turned white. He still looked enraged. Summoning my courage, I lightly tugged on Mike’s arm and persuaded him, "He’s severely injured and not thinking clearly. You’ve been caring for him all night; you must be exhausted. Take a rest, Zara and I will handle this."

He glared at me, his bloodshot eyes giving me the illusion that he might shoot me on the spot. I quickly released my grip and stepped back.

"Get me a cup of coffee!" he barked, then adjusted the chair that had toppled over and sat down heavily, staring at Jensen in silence.

While Zara was busy re-dressing Jensen’s wounds, I wrung out a warm towel to wipe his face. He had already passed out. His forehead was covered in sweat, his long, thick eyelashes stuck to the skin below his eyes, and his cheeks were streaked with tear stains. His lower lip bore bloodied bite marks, a sight that filled me with anguish.

Once the old wounds were treated, Zara prepared to apply ointment to the horrifying new injuries. Suddenly, Mike spoke up, "You two can leave now! I’ll take care of the ointment. Billy, go get some food." His voice carried a calm weariness.

Watching Mike’s fingers move tenderly over Jensen’s skin, as if Jensen were made of glass, I could sense he had returned to being the gentle, protective person he was the night before. Zara and I had no choice but to retreat in silence.

I remembered that after Tony confirmed the timing of Jensen’s abduction with us, he repeatedly instructed that Jensen must not be harmed or improperly touched. At the time, I wondered how the client funding this case could care so much about someone being touched if they could tolerate him having a boyfriend. And last night, when Mike decided to move Jensen to Zara’s clinic, he repeatedly asked how to hold Jensen without worsening his injuries due to the bumpy roads. I even overheard him in the car murmuring, "Jenny, we’re almost there. Hang in there," soothing the unconscious Jensen. Honestly, if I hadn’t seen Mike wielding the belt with such a ferocious expression earlier, I never would have believed the person hurting Jensen was the same man before me.

That night, Jensen developed a high fever and began to mutter incessantly—occasionally calling out Jared and Chris’s names. The fever medicine, which was painstakingly administered, was vomited out within two minutes. Afterward, he dry-heaved intermittently. Watching him clutch his chest in pain, lips trembling, eyes tightly shut, and tears streaming down his face, my heart wrenched for him. His back wounds started bleeding again from the strain. He struggled like this until late into the night before finally drifting off to sleep, his pallid complexion making Zara shake his head in concern.

Everyone was utterly exhausted that night, even Mike. However, as he left the room, he instructed me to wake him in two hours. Watching his retreating figure, I almost suspected he had a split personality—one who genuinely loved Jensen and another who cruelly hurt him.

***

Zara and I were startled awake again by a loud shout. This time, we didn’t waste a second before rushing in. We saw Mike gripping Jensen’s shoulders, who appeared semi-conscious, and shaking him violently. “Shut up! They’re not coming to save you. You belong to me. Even in your dreams, you’re only allowed to have me. Do you hear me? Stop calling their names!”

I quickly grabbed hold of Mike, trying to calm him down. “Relax, you’re going to kill him.”

Zara took out a penlight, pried open Jensen’s eyelids to examine him closely, listened to his heartbeat, and touched his forehead and skin. “I think his condition is very serious. We’d better take him to a major hospital immediately,” he said, turning to Mike.

“No! He must board the ship tomorrow! Give him fever reducers, painkillers, sedatives—any miracle drug to stabilize him,” Mike said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“How can he possibly get on a ship in this condition?” Zara glared angrily at Mike without backing down. “You’re going to kill him!”

Mike suddenly pulled out a gun and aimed it at Zara. “If you can’t save him, I’ll take your life first!”

It looked as if Zara was about to get her head blown off when a weak voice interrupted the tense scene. “Mi... Mike...” Jensen’s feeble words cut through the tension.

Instantly, all our eyes turned to Jensen. He was trying to sit up but failed. Mike immediately shoved Zara aside and rushed to hold Jensen’s face in his hands, asking him what he needed.

“Don’t... don’t shoot...” Jensen struggled to say a few words before closing his eyes again. “It’s my fault... I’m sorry... don’t hurt them...” Tears rolled down the corners of his eyes, and he fell unconscious once more.

I looked at him slumped in Mike's arms. He was haggard in just a few days. He was completely different from the one leaning against Jared. At that moment, his shy smile, happy smile, and happiness flashed through my mind. smile...

I want to see him smile again. I don’t want to see him cry—

I silently made up my mind.

Chapter Text

I will never forget the torment of being kept outside the emergency room over three years ago, feeling utterly helpless. I never expected that three years later, the nightmare would repeat itself. Even now, with Jared beside me, it does nothing to alleviate or share the growing pain in my chest.

After discovering Jensen's disappearance, we first pulled surveillance footage from the roads surrounding the studio. However, the kidnappers had clearly done their homework and took him from a back alley without any cameras. On the other hand, Mike’s efforts to cover his tracks ran deep. From prison to the hospital, everyone who had interacted with him was a suspect, yet there was no direct evidence. But that wasn’t my concern; those people wouldn’t know where Mike would escape to next. That was Mike’s style—planning and controlling everything, ensuring that no one working for him ever knew the full picture of his plans.

The police quickly identified Mike’s accomplice as his recently released cellmate, Tony. Investigations revealed that over the past two months, Tony had traveled between New York and Louisiana and had twice used his credit card to book accommodations in Florida. This reminded me of Mike’s previous interest in some abandoned islands, and near one of the motels Tony stayed at was a deserted dock, reportedly a favorite spot for smugglers and illegal immigrants.

Lacking other leads, I decided to go to the Florida motel for a closer investigation, and Jared insisted on coming along. I could tell Jared’s nerves were stretched to their limit, ready to snap at any moment. Unable to contribute to the investigation, he could only stand by, riddled with anxiety and blaming himself for suggesting that Mike testify against Lion in court or for agreeing to let Jensen meet with Mike. I couldn’t console him because I had also been against it at the time, but we couldn’t override Jensen’s determination.

On our way to Florida, we both received an anonymous text message with an address. A quick search revealed it to be a clinic, located in the same area we were heading toward, run by a doctor named Zara. With no time to dig deeper into the source of the message, I floored the gas pedal toward the clinic.

On the way, I notified the Florida police, requesting backup and urging them not to alert the suspects. However, when we arrived at the clinic, we found the surrounding area already cordoned off with yellow tape.

Sheriff Judy explained that they had sent officers disguised as patients to ring the bell multiple times, but no one answered. However, three vehicles were parked in the backyard, two of which had no license plates. When neither the clinic’s phone nor the doctor’s phone was answered, they decided to break in. Just as they made their move, a bullet shot through the door, wounding one officer in the shoulder. Judy immediately ordered all personnel to retreat to a safe distance and tried to negotiate with the people inside. As expected, the mastermind was Mike. He claimed to have a hostage and threatened to kill him if the police made any rash moves. The standoff continued.

The clinic’s curtains were fully drawn, making it impossible to see inside. A search of the premises revealed no exits other than the front and back doors. We had no idea how many people were inside or whether Mike’s so-called hostage was real.

Judy suggested that since Zara lived alone, the hostage was likely Zara. As for Jensen, I didn’t believe Mike would use him as a bargaining chip. What puzzled me was why they had chosen to gather at a clinic. Was someone injured or ill? If so, who could it be?

We broke into the three vehicles parked in the backyard. One, registered to Zara, appeared normal. However, the two unregistered vehicles raised suspicions. One was a small truck filled with clothes, sleeping bags, and dry food—almost as if prepared for camping or possibly smuggling. The other was an ordinary car with almost nothing inside, except for a large, dried bloodstain on the back seat. Blood tests quickly confirmed it belonged to Jensen. Upon hearing this, my stomach churned involuntarily, and I saw Jared collapse to his knees with a guttural cry of anguish.

The police outside the clinic were utterly at a loss. Judy, thinking on her feet, asked Mike if they needed food or supplies. After a ten-minute pause, Mike replied with a list: three large pizzas, saline solution, fever reducers, antibiotics, bandages, and gauze. Jared and I exchanged a glance. From his helpless gaze, I could see my own rising anxiety reflected back at me.

When everything was ready, Mike instructed Judy to place all the items at the doorway and step back far enough. The door opened, and Zara emerged. He quickly picked up everything and disappeared behind the door before Judy could signal him to crouch down and move forward.

Everyone was on edge. We didn’t know how much longer we would have to wait, nor whether to remain on standby or launch an attack. Judy speculated that, since the group ordered three pizzas, there must be at least four to six people inside. Excluding Jensen and Zara, the perpetrators likely numbered four. If we split into two teams and attacked from the front and back doors simultaneously, there was a high chance of subduing them all.

Judy's reasoning was sound, but my concern lay with Mike. He would undoubtedly stay by Jensen's side. While Mike wouldn’t use Jensen as a shield, he also wouldn’t let go of him without a fight.

Just as we finished deploying and waited for Judy's signal, commotion erupted inside the house, followed by gunfire. Without hesitation, the police officers stationed at the front and back doors broke in simultaneously, and I rushed in with them. Gunfire continued to ring out, interspersed with cries of pain.

After a storm of bullets, the house fell into chaos. Two individuals, one shot in the thigh and the other in the wrist, had been subdued. Mike, unharmed, was restrained but thrashed like a wild animal, desperately trying to break through a door. He kept shouting frantically, "None of you are taking him away! He’s mine!" The door he was trying to break down had been battered but was blocked by a large object. Furious, I raised my gun’s stock and struck Mike hard on the back of his head. He let out a muffled groan before falling unconscious.

The wail of ambulance sirens filled the air. Three officers had sustained injuries, but none were serious and required only on-site first aid. The only person wheeled out on a stretcher was Jensen. His face was as pale as a sheet, and his breathing was so faint it was nearly impossible to detect any movement in his bandaged chest. At that moment, it felt like I had stopped breathing too.

"Jensen! Jensen!" Jared reached him before I could but was held back by a man who restrained him.

"Don’t interfere. Jensen needs immediate medical attention." He gave Jared a push. Jared and I stared blankly at him. "I’ll explain everything. I’m the one who sent you the text."

As Zara and the medical personnel loaded Jensen into the ambulance, the three of us got into my car and followed it. The man began explaining everything.

He said his name was Billy. After following Jensen for nearly two months, he kidnapped Jensen under Tony’s orders, planning to meet with Mike and Tony at a cabin before escaping by boat. Everything was going smoothly until Jensen attempted to escape. During the attempt, Jensen was shot and then hit by a car. To ensure Jensen received proper medical care, Billy and Mike stayed at Zara’s clinic to look after him, while Tony and Brice handled the logistics of their departure and confirmed all boarding arrangements.

During the two days spent caring for Jensen, Billy noticed that Mike’s emotions were extremely unstable. Mike could spend hours gazing lovingly at Jensen, but he could also fly into a rage and cruelly harm Jensen for resisting or even just murmuring someone else’s name in his sleep. Seeing that Mike insisted on boarding the boat despite Jensen’s worsening condition, Billy grew increasingly uneasy. So, when he saw Tony and Brice arrive after completing their preparations, he sent a text message to alert us.

Shortly after Tony and Brice arrived, Mike sensed something suspicious outside. He instructed Tony and Brice to guard the front and back doors while claiming he would figure out a way to find help. He said that once reinforcements arrived, they could break through and head straight to the dock. He assured them the police would not dare act recklessly, so they only needed to hold out for another half a day or so.

Since his brief moment of consciousness earlier, Jensen had remained comatose. His fever hadn’t subsided, he experienced intermittent convulsions, and his wounds were inflamed and swollen. Zara once again urged Mike to take Jensen to a hospital, volunteering to stay behind as a hostage. However, Mike flatly refused, declaring that he would never let Jensen leave his side again.

Taking advantage of Mike stepping out of the room briefly, Billy quickly pushed Zara into the room, locked the door, and barricaded it with a large cabinet. Almost immediately, they heard Mike firing his gun to break the lock while shouting furiously for them to open the door. All they could do was silently pray for the police to arrive in time to storm the place.

***

I never expected that Billy, who had kidnapped Jensen, would also be the one to tip us off. I didn’t ask Billy why he betrayed Mike—perhaps he wasn’t cut out for a life of crime and lost his nerve—but it was clear to me that he genuinely cared for Jensen. The concern he showed was evident. As soon as he stepped out of the car, he was taken away by the police, but he begged me to let him know about Jensen’s condition.

Jensen was rushed into the emergency room upon arriving at the hospital, leaving Jared and me to wait anxiously outside. Jared had been silent since getting into the car and now stood staring blankly at the red light above the emergency room door. I couldn’t tell if he was willing it to turn off with sheer willpower or if he had completely detached himself from the situation.

“Jensen has survived a serious car accident and sustained severe injuries before, but he pulled through every time. He’ll make it this time too, especially since he knows how many people love him now. He’ll fight for us,” I said, patting Jared’s shoulder, trying to encourage both him and myself.

Jared looked at me with a blank expression, showing no reaction. I sighed. Since the incident, I’d hardly seen him eat anything besides coffee. “Come on, let’s grab something to eat. Don’t collapse on yourself first,” I said, pulling him toward the hospital cafeteria.

He seemed to ignore my words and didn’t budge. Frustrated, I dragged him to the vending area and pushed him into a plastic chair. I ordered a hot coffee and a bagel and placed them in front of him. “Eat this, and then we’ll head back,” I said.

He mechanically picked up the bagel and washed it down with the scalding coffee in just a few bites. Then, he stood up abruptly and left. I didn’t chase after him—I knew he wouldn’t listen to anything right now. Honestly, I wished I could knock myself out so I wouldn’t have to think about Jensen lying lifelessly on a hospital bed.

Unknowingly, I drifted off and dreamt of Mike holding Jensen hostage. In the dream, Mike first shot Jensen in the chest and said, “We’ll be together forever,” before shooting himself in the head. I jolted awake and immediately realized the gunshot I’d heard wasn’t from the dream.

I rushed toward the emergency room and found Jared and Mike grappling on the floor. Zara lay injured nearby, and several terrified doctors and nurses huddled in a corner. Bloodstains were scattered across the floor.

The next second, Jared shoved Mike away. A scalpel was lodged in Mike’s left shoulder, but he still tried to lunge forward. Without thinking, I aimed at his forehead and pulled the trigger—

This was something I should have done three years ago.

Chapter Text

I hastily shoveled the food Chris placed in front of me, completely devoid of appetite. The only thing I wanted was to stay by his side, tightly hold his hand, call his name, and pray for him to wake up soon... Dear God, it's only been three days, but it feels like three years. No, I have to go back immediately. I need to be there the moment he opens his eyes. I've already been away from him for too long...

But I couldn't suppress the churning in my stomach. I ran to the bathroom, knelt beside the toilet, and vomited everything I had just swallowed in one big gulp. My mind was flooded with images Billy described: the bullet in his back... him being flung into the air by the car... blood gushing from his wounds... that beast tying him up... whipping him... him calling out to me in his dreams, asking me to save him... but I did nothing...

That's right, I did absolutely nothing. While Chris was busy tracking clues to the kidnappers, I was just anxiously pacing on the sidelines. When they confirmed that Mike was involved in the kidnapping, all I could do was blame myself in hindsight and offer no help. When I learned he was injured and trapped in the clinic, I could only sit helplessly outside, waiting. When the gunfire erupted and Chris's team stormed the clinic, I was held back behind the police barricade. Even when he was loaded onto the ambulance and rushed to the hospital, I still couldn't be by his side...

At this thought, I realized I was wasting even more time. He might already be awake. I hurriedly got up, went to the sink, and quickly tidied myself up, trying to look somewhat presentable—I didn't want Jensen waking up to be frightened by my haggard appearance.

Supporting myself against the wall, I slowly made my way back, only to see a doctor rush into the emergency room from a distance. What happened? I quickened my pace but was abruptly stopped by a roar, "Get out of here!" followed by a deafening gunshot. Nurses and doctors scrambled out screaming in terror.

I burst into the emergency room and saw Zara lying on the floor, blood streaming from her thigh. Two or three medical staff crouched on the ground, frozen. Then I realized the "doctor" who had just entered was actually Mike! He held a gun in one hand, pointing it at everyone, while hurriedly removing the tubes attached to Jensen with the other.

The moment Mike saw me, he fired. I dodged, but the bullet grazed my shoulder. Ignoring the pain, I instinctively lunged at him, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the metal cart twice until the gun fell to the floor. But immediately, a searing pain shot through my lower right arm. Blood quickly spread along a long gash—I barely registered it was caused by a scalpel before he attacked again. Without thinking, I grabbed his wrist again, and we both tumbled to the ground, wrestling in a chaotic struggle. The only thought in my head was: Even if it costs me my life, I won’t let him near Jensen again.

I don’t remember how I managed to grab the knife, how I stabbed it into his body, or how I pushed him away. I don’t even recall if it was the gunshot or his blood splashing on my face that snapped me back to reality. I only knew that he was finally dead, Jensen was finally safe, and my only regret was that I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.

Later, I learned that Mike had been knocked out by Chris but was carelessly handcuffed with only one arm secured and left in the backseat of a police car. During transport, he overpowered the two officers in the front, stole their gun, killed them in cold blood, and then came to the hospital.

We weren’t sure if he intended to take Jensen away or die with him, but I completely agreed with Chris’s actions. No one thought Chris had overstepped his authority; everyone present agreed that only Mike’s death could put an end to this horrific ordeal.

Jensen woke up amidst the chaos. The moment I heard his faint groan, I rushed to his side. I completely forgot about the blood covering my face until he blinked several times to recognize me, only to show a terrified expression. That’s when I realized I had scared him.

The next few minutes felt like a surreal reunion. His tears wouldn’t stop flowing, and I was crying uncontrollably too. Chris later said he had never seen two grown men cry like that, though he himself couldn’t stop rubbing his eyes either.

Five days later, we transferred Jensen back to New York—to no surprise, it was another hospital run by Chad's family. He stayed for half a month before being discharged. During that time, Chris, Monica, and I took turns taking care of him. By the time he was discharged, all three of us had lost weight—and Jensen even more so. Chad awkwardly admitted that he was just as worried about Jensen, despite his usual chubby cheeks, but we all knew his provision of top-notch medical care, free of charge, was his way of expressing concern.

***

I often sat quietly by his bedside during his hospital stay, watching him sleep and reflecting on the journey we’ve had together.

For him, I came up with every possible plan, even using a dog just to find a way to get close to him.
For him, I was restless, breaking into his home simply because I couldn’t reach him for an entire day.
For him, I lost my composure, speeding through red lights while rushing him to the hospital in his unconscious state, only to end up handcuffed in a police station.
For him, I vacillated, torn between wanting and not wanting him, loving and not loving him.
For him, I succumbed to selfishness, considering keeping him just to stop others from touching him.
For him, I was filled with anxiety, worried that my parents wouldn’t be able to accept him.
For him, I lost my appetite, helpless as he fell into Mike’s hands.
For him, I risked everything to block Mike from approaching him again.

Everyone was shocked by Mike’s insane actions—escaping from prison, kidnapping Jensen, and even killing a police officer—all for Jensen. Everyone, except Chris and me. Chris understood because he’d been by Mike and Jensen’s sides for years and could trace Mike’s behavior back to its origins. I, on the other hand, understood because, when it came to Jensen, I wasn’t much more rational myself.

I remember, when I finally wrestled the scalpel away, my only thought was to plunge it into Mike’s heart. As his blood splattered onto my face, the only thing in my mind was the urge to fire more shots to ensure his demise. It was the first time someone had died in front of me, yet I didn’t feel a shred of shock—only a deep sense of satisfaction. This feeling starkly contrasted with everything I’d been trained for: justice through the law, the determination of guilt, and sentencing through due process.

This wasn’t even the first time I’d crossed my principles. Back when Jensen asked me to help convict Lion for Tom’s sake, I had already broken the rules.

So I understood—though never condoned—Mike’s madness. The difference was that I wouldn’t try to control Jensen with threats or force; I would win his heart with love and respect.

***

After Jensen made a full recovery, we returned to Virginia for a visit. Bobby cooked up a feast to help him regain his strength, but what Jensen loved most was the pile of scrap metal in the garage. Watching him crawl in and out of the junk, utterly absorbed, Bobby laughed and said that since both he and Jensen treasure recycled materials like gold, they should have been father and son.

Bobby truly treated Jensen as family. The room Jensen had lived in during his high school years was untouched, with his sketchbooks, craft projects, and magazines still perfectly preserved. What caught my eye, however, was the only poster pinned on the wall: a commemorative poster of the football team I captained, celebrating our state championship.

“I remember we held a signing event for this. Why doesn’t this poster have a single signature?” I asked curiously.

He shrugged. “I only dared to watch you from afar back then. I didn’t even have the courage to stand in front of you.”

I ruffled his hair with a sigh. “You’re such a fool.”

Turning, I spotted a crutch leaning in the corner of the room and was reminded of a photo I’d seen in the yearbook. “Did you walk around school for two years with this crutch?”

He nodded and seemed to mull something over before speaking. “The only interaction we had in high school was because of this crutch. I fell, and the crutch flew out of reach. Then, out of nowhere, you appeared, helped me up, and handed the crutch back. Before I could even say my name, you ran off.”

I couldn’t recall it at all. “And that’s when you fell for me?” Seeing his shy smile, I gave a pained laugh. “How could you be so easily won over?”

He shrugged again and pouted slightly. “Maybe…not many people were nice to me, so even small acts of kindness moved me deeply.”

That’s far too dangerous! “From now on, more and more people will be kind to you, but you mustn’t be so easily moved, understand?” I warned him earnestly.

The next day, we visited my parents’ house together. My parents warmly welcomed Jensen, steering the conversation toward his art and creativity while avoiding any mention of his family. After a lavish dinner, they left the space for just the two of us.

We spent three days in Virginia before returning to New York. My mother packed the car with food and clothes—something she’d never done for me on my trips back before. Meanwhile, Bobby filled several boxes with small parts for Jensen. Looking at my luxury car now turned into a cargo van, I couldn’t help but sigh. But I didn’t complain, knowing that, to him, this was a representation of boundless love.

***

He officially returned to campus for his studies. During the weekdays, he stayed in the school dormitory. On Fridays after work, I would pick him up, and on Sunday evenings, I would send him back to school. I paid particular attention to his roommate, who had a steady girlfriend of two years, so overall, I felt relatively assured. Of course, I often got the impulse to drive three hours to see him—uh, I absolutely wouldn't admit it was to conduct a surprise check. As a result, I was acquainted with almost all of his classmates. Once, his roommate couldn't help but pull me aside and say, "You really don't need to deliberately declare your sovereignty. No matter how many people try to court him, his answer is always the same: 'I already have a boyfriend.'"

But I wasn't entirely satisfied with that answer, so I enlisted Chad to help me.

***

At the end of his semester, we made time to return to Virginia. This time, we were accompanied by Chad, Chris, and Monica.

We specially went back to our high school alma mater, saying it was to show Chris and Monica around. But after parking the car, Chad and I found an excuse to slip away. We waited on the sports field for ten minutes before the three of them arrived. At my command, the originally scattered team members immediately lined up in a single row and then walked up to him one by one.

"Jensen, I'm Mack. Jared told me he really likes you."

"Jensen, I'm Hale. Jared told me he won't love anyone else in his life but you."

"Jensen, I'm Damon. Jared forced me to come, but now I'm glad I came."

"Jensen, I'm Bain. Jared told me he worries every day that someone will steal you away, so he asked us to help."

"Jensen, I'm Balch. I drove all night to get here and am dead tired, but seeing you made my eyes light up."

"Jensen, I'm Comell. Jared's a great guy. There's no need to hesitate anymore."

"Jensen, I'm Oliver. If you get tired of Jared, please call me immediately. I'm confident I can do better than him."

"Jensen, I'm Owen. Honestly, I've always been jealous of Jared, but now I'm even more jealous of him."

"Jensen, I'm Caleb. My girlfriend wants me to secretly ask which doctor you went to for plastic surgery."

"Jensen, I'm Barlow. I always thought Jared peeked at me naked. I'm glad you made him come out."

"Jensen, I'm Nash. I forgot what Jared wanted me to say, but I think you're more handsome than him."

"Jensen, I'm Dave. Jared really loves you, and I believe he'll make you happy."

"Jensen, I'm Harris. Knock Jared's arrogance down a peg. Don't agree to him too easily."

"Jensen, I'm Larry. I'm great at French kissing and would be happy to demonstrate for you."

"Jensen, I'm Elbert. Jared wasn't even this nervous during the championship. So say yes to him!"

"Jensen, I'm Chad. I know you probably want to bury yourself underground or run away, so Chris and Monica are here to stop you. Um, what I want to say is that I'm genuinely thrilled about your presence. You've made Jared completely different and given us teammates a new perspective. We've seen our always calm and perfect captain act like a fool. Although I'm curious about how tragic Jared would become if you dumped him, watching his lovestruck antics has been entertaining enough. I believe he'll continue being crazy, so say yes to him!"

"Jensen, I'm Jared. Initially, I just wanted to tear down that poster and have everyone sign it as a belated gift. But then I remembered you said you used to sit in the stands, watching us, knowing every detail about us, even though we knew nothing about you. So I asked them to come here not only to meet you but also to witness my love for you. Although their performances deviated entirely from the script, I've come to accept that life is full of uncertainties. For me, the one constant is my love for you. So, will you marry me? I don't want to wait until I'm 28. I don't want to wait until you've finished school. I want you to wear this wedding ring now and tell the world that we belong to each other."

Don’t tell me you can’t guess the outcome. Of course, he was moved to tears and said yes on the spot. So, my life goal—getting married before 28—was achieved early at 26. As for what's next? I no longer set any goals because, as long as I can be with him, I want nothing more.

I remember Chad once worried that I might go astray for Jensen and never return. But as we walked this path, I felt fortunate not to have turned back. I gradually realized that there’s no "right path" in the journey of love. As long as we hold each other's hands firmly and walk together, every path leads to happiness and joy.

I will never let go of Jensen’s hand. And since his heart is solely mine, I believe we can make it.

Chapter Text

They said I should say a few words, too.

Once, I had nothing. Now, I have everything, exceeding my expectations for joy and happiness. I want to thank Bobby, Sharon, and Gerald for treating me like their own. My many friends: Chris, Monica, Ruby, Chad, Ash, Adam...

And the most important person in my life—

Jared, thank you. And, I love you forever!

END