I keep playing that moment over in my head—his face when he said those words to me. The tightness in his jaw, the crack in his expression. I hadn’t known what to say, not really. The words had hit like a blindside punch, all the more brutal because he believed them. He said it like a fact, not an apology. Like it was obvious. Like it was true.
He thinks he’s not good enough.
It’s the kind of thing I can’t get out of my head. It sits there, turning over and over, refusing to settle. Like a splinter in the softest part of me.
What the hell made him feel that way? What kind of life taught him that he has to apologize for simply existing? That letting someone care for him should be a threat?
There are stories in him I haven’t heard yet—wounds I don’t know how to name.
But I want to.
God, I want to.
I drag a hand through my hair, then reach for my phone. I stare at the screen, checking the time, knowing it’s almost time for our lesson, and Mike should be on his way to pick him up by now. I just hope he doesn’t tell Mike that he won’t be coming, just like he did the past two days.
Just then, my phone buzzes with a call.
“Hello, Mr. Alexander,” my doorman says, “your brother, Anton, is here to see you.”
“Send him up,” I reply.
I walk towards the bar and take out a bottle of whiskey.
The elevator door dings after a while, and heavy footsteps echo towards the living space. When he sees me at the bar, he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. I gesture silently towards my balcony, and he nods.
We step outside and settle into the outdoor dining set, the city sprawled beneath us in glittering silence. I pour Anton a glass first, then mine. The bottle of Macallan rests between us on the table, like a silent referee.
Anton lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate calm.
“Father’s pissed,” he says flatly.
I exhale, then take a long drink.
“Good. Maybe that means I said something worth hearing.”
Anton sighs, eyes shifting toward me with quiet scrutiny.
“You’re being reckless.”
“With what exactly?” I meet his gaze. “The argument I had with Father or the fact that I care about Lucas?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he says,
“With the fact that you’ve fallen head over heels for a particular boy.”
I can’t help the way my lips twitch into a smile. No denial. No defense. Just the truth, laid bare between us and the bottle of whiskey.
“And that’s reckless?” I murmur.
He shrugs, “It’s reckless since it’s making you go against father, and he’s been crashing out for days, saying shit about cutting you off.”
“You know I don’t care,” I say with a dry laugh.
“I do,” he replies simply, “Mom will rather die than see him cut you off, though.”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light.
“Mom likes Lucas.”
