The car ride was silent.
Not the awkward kind—just still.
As if even the sound of breathing feared breaking whatever fragile thread existed between them.
Yuuto sat curled up in the backseat of the sleek black car, Aiden's coat wrapped tightly around him like armor. He kept stealing glances at the man beside him—silent, unmoving, staring out the window with a jaw set like stone.
Was he angry?
Regretting his decision?
Why had he helped him at all?
The silence stretched on until the car finally turned past large iron gates and into a private driveway. Yuuto's eyes widened.
A mansion.
Tall, elegant, glowing faintly with warm golden lights—like something out of a drama.
> "This is your house?" he blurted before he could stop himself.
Aiden didn't answer. He stepped out of the car without a glance back. Yuuto scrambled after him, bare feet slapping the cold stone steps.
The door opened before they reached it. A butler bowed.
> "Mr. Aiden."
> "I need clothes. A warm meal. And a guest room. Now."
> "Yes, sir."
Yuuto followed him inside, stunned. Everything gleamed—high ceilings, polished floors, clean air that smelled faintly of cedar and money.
He suddenly felt… small. Like a speck in a world too rich for someone like him.
Aiden turned, voice low but firm.
> "You—shower, eat, sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Yuuto hesitated. "Why are you… doing this?"
Their eyes met. Aiden's were unreadable.
> "Don't ask questions tonight."
Yuuto opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. There was something in Aiden's expression—not coldness, but… exhaustion. A kind of tired that lived deep in the bones.
He saved me… but looks like he's the one breaking, Yuuto thought.
---
The bath felt like heaven.
Yuuto scrubbed until his skin stung, as if he could wash away the fear, the shame, the memories of that hotel.
When he stepped out, soft clothes awaited him—simple but warm, perfectly his size.
He padded into the guest room and gasped.
It was bigger than his entire house.
The bed looked like it could swallow him whole.
He sat. Then slowly laid back.
Silence.
Clean sheets.
Safety.
His eyes blurred with tears.
For the first time in years… he felt safe.
And that safety came from a stranger with cold eyes and a broken soul.
---
Meanwhile, in his study, Aiden sat alone.
An old medical file lay open on his desk.
> Ten years.
At most.
The doctors had sugar-coated it, but he wasn't naïve.
He rested a hand over his chest where the dull ache lived—a constant, quiet reminder that his time was limited.
He thought of the boy.
Wet. Terrified. Shaking.
Still begging to live.
Why had he helped him?
He didn't know.
Impulse? Guilt? Anger?
But for the first time in a long, long while…
He didn't feel entirely numb.
Just tired.
And maybe—just maybe—
A little bit alive.