“What about you?” he asks. “What do you like?”
I scoff. “This isn’t about me.”
“Too bad,” he says. “I answered. You’re turn.”
I consider deflecting. It’s what I always do. But something about the way he’s looking at me—open, curious, unafraid—makes lying feel cheap.
“I don’t watch much,” I admit. “When I do, it’s usually whatever is on. Terrible chick flicks. Horror movies. Too many action films with no plot.”
“That explains a lot,” he mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saidSinging in The Rainand you looked clueless.”
I chuckle. “I don’t have much time or tastes for musicals.”
He smiles, then grows thoughtful. “Do you ever wish you could just…be normal?”
The question isn’t accusatory. It’s gentle. Almost hopeful.
I look down at him. At the boy who was traded for peace and still believes in happy endings.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly.
He nods like that’s enough. Like he isn’t trying to fix me. Just understand.
He yawns, the sound small and unguarded, and his head drops back against my chest. I pick up the remote and rentSingin in the Rain. Music hums through my room. My hand finds his hair again without conscious thought, fingers threading through silk-soft strands.
“Lucian?” he murmurs, already drifting.
“Yes?”
“Thank you…for asking.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice.
He falls asleep a second time, this one deeper than the first, completely at ease. The memories of the movie lulling him into something I don’t understand. I stay still, memorizing the weight of him, the sound of his breathing, the dangerous pull of imagining a future where questions like these aren’t rare.
Where gentleness doesn’t feel like a sin.
I know better than to hope.
But for this afternoon, I let myself wonder what kind of man I might have been if someone had asked me these questions first.
And what kind of man Elias is becoming, curled warm and safe in my arms.
10
Elias
Isleep in Lucian’s bed now.
It isn’t something we discussed. There was no order, no negotiation, no sharp look that said this is how it will be. It just…happened. Quietly. Like most things that matter.
The first night, I wake up tangled in black sheets that smell like him—clean soap under something darker, something iron-sharp that never quite leaves. I panic for half a second, muscles tightening, brain scrambling to remember where I am and what I might have done wrong.
Then I feel the weight of his arm across my waist.
