God, I hate myself.
“Do you like it?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as possible.
His eyes fly open. He nods fast, a quick, bright movement. He signs something simple—“So good.”
“Try another,” I say, voice lower than I mean it to be. I reach out, point.
“This one. Nigiri. Dip the fish side in soy sauce. Not the rice.”
He nods again, copying my gesture as he lifts the piece. He does it exactly right. Then takes a bite. His lips part as he chews, then he swallows.
“Oh my God,” he says under his breath, voice quiet but full of wonder.
I snicker, can’t help it.
He blushes, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now. I lean back a little as I take a bite of my own. We fall into a rhythm where he tries something new and I watch him react. It’s quiet between us, but not uncomfortable.
He slurps his ramen next—messy, unapologetic, and he sighs after the first mouthful like he’s finally warm. Like something in him just unlocked.
Then he looks at me.
And Smiles. Not a half-hearted twitch, but a real one.
Small but full. The kind that lights up his face.
I feel it like a hit to the chest.
He didn’t even smile when he was trying on the clothes, not like this. Not since… hell, I don’t remember the last time I saw that smile, or if I’ve ever seen them before. It’s fucking blinding, beautiful in a way that almost makes me want to bundle him and make him not leave my sight.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper,
“Thank you.”
I don’t know what to say. The words catch somewhere between my ribs. I just stare at him, like a starstruck idiot.
He looks down quickly, back at his food, a smile still lingering on his lips. And maybe I should say something. Something kind, or careful, or warm.
But I can’t.
All I can do is watch him.
Like if I blink, he might vanish.
***
I don’t bother with music right now. The engine’s low growl is enough.
The city falls away behind me like a bad taste I’m spitting out, swallowed by the woods stretching vast and endless. My grandfather’s estate waits at the end of this road — carved out of stone and shadow, hidden from the world in a small town that pretends it doesn’t know what festers here.
The gated drive looms ahead. Floodlights snap on as the cameras catch my plates. A buzz, heavy iron teeth parting, and the gates drag open. Two guards in black nod as I pass.
The road curls deeper, lined with flickering ground lights that throw restless shadows over cracked statues and roots gnarled like veins. Then the mansion appears—dark stone strangled in ivy, its narrow windows like slit eyes.
I cut the engine. The silence is heavier here, thick with memory and blood. Before I reach the steps, the front doors heave open. Guards bow their heads slightly as I pass. Inside, the corridor exudes the scent of old wax, oak, and iron.
“Alexander.”
Greg’s voice carries like gravel dragged across steel.
