Morning light, a pale, insistent whisper, stretched long across the polished floor-to-ceiling windows of the Davenant penthouse. It painted the vast, opulent space in hues of pearl and rose, a stark contrast to the thrumming, indignant pulse in Maurice's temples. His eyelids, heavy with the residue of a night he refused to recall, fluttered open. The world, initially a blur of soft pastels, sharpened into focus:
the soaring ceiling, the intricate, barely-there texture of the silk sheets, the unfamiliar weight of the blanket draped over his hips. His hand, as if guided by an unseen force, rose to his chest. Bare. Utterly, undeniably bare.
The vibrant, almost offensively magenta suit he'd worn last night, a sartorial declaration of his professional gravitas, had vanished. A soft, cashmere blanket, smelling faintly of sandalwood and something distinctly Leon, was his sole covering. He clutched it, the fabric a flimsy shield against the indignity of his current state. Maurice, a man whose medical precision extended to every facet of his life, detested imprecision.
He was a doctor, yes, but one whose temper flared with the speed of a chemical reaction, his green eyes often narrowed to slits of emerald fire.
Beside him, a form lay sprawled, oblivious to the simmering rage that radiated from Maurice. Leon, a symphony of tousled blonde hair and mismatched eyes—one blue like a summer sky, the other a warm, rich brown—slept on his stomach, a picture of serene contentment. The sight, so peaceful, so utterly unbothered, ignited the last vestiges of Maurice's patience.
"You!" Maurice's voice, a raw, ragged bark, tore through the morning quiet.
Leon stirred, a slow, languid uncoiling of limbs. His eyes, the blue one and the brown one, blinked open, heavy-lidded and unfocused. A soft groan rumbled in his chest, a sound like distant thunder.
He reached out, his arm snaking around Maurice's waist, pulling him closer. The warmth of Leon's skin, the faint scent of sleep and something musky, made Maurice flinch, a violent tremor running through his body.
"Why are you up so early?" Leon's voice, hoarse and thick with sleep, was a low rumble against Maurice's ear. His fingers splayed across Maurice's bare abdomen, a possessive, gentle weight. "Sleep more."
"You old beast!" Maurice shoved his arm, but it held fast, an anchor of unexpected strength. "You dare to—"
Leon leaned in, his breath warm on Maurice's cheek, cutting off the indignant protest. "Let me sleep a little bit more," he murmured, his voice laced with a playful threat, "or else." His fingers migrated, a slow, deliberate crawl, until they found the peak of Maurice's nipple.
A sharp, stinging pinch.
Maurice gasped, a choked sound of surprise and pain. "You shameless bastard!"
Leon chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through Maurice's ribs. "You didn't seem to care about 'shameless' last night, did you? You knew exactly what you were doing."
Maurice struggled, twisting against the unyielding embrace, his face a mask of furious crimson. He pushed, he squirmed, but Leon held him captive, a solid, immovable presence. "Let me go, you stupid beast!"
Leon's grip tightened, his head dipping closer. "Say that again," he whispered, a dangerous glint in his mismatched eyes, "and see if I can't bite your ear."
Maurice, incandescent with fury, nearly shrieked. "You insolent beast! Stay away from me!"
"Aha."
A sharp, sudden pain pierced Maurice's earlobe. Leon's teeth, not hard enough to break skin, but firm enough to sting, clamped down. Maurice cried out, a high-pitched sound of shock and outrage. He yanked back, clutching his throbbing ear, his green eyes blazing with pure, unadulterated hate.
"You bastard!"
Leon only chuckled, a deep, satisfied rumble. "It's okay, Mr. Doctor. You'll get fine easy. Since you are a doctor yourself."
"You'll pay for that!" Maurice hissed, his voice tight with suppressed violence.
Leon's eyes twinkled, a mischievous sparkle. "Tch. How can I pay you that way?" He tilted his head, a predatory smile spreading across his lips. "Ohh, don't tell me that you're a whore."
The words, delivered with such casual insolence, struck Maurice like a physical blow. Insulted, humiliated, he burned with a rage so intense it threatened to consume him. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white against the cashmere blanket.
"I'll kill you!" Maurice spat, the words laced with venom. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You bastard! Let me go and see if I can't kill you!"
Leon's smile faltered, replaced by a look of mock concern. "Oh, no, no, no, no. If you are going to kill me, then stop thinking about getting away."
The threat, delivered so calmly, struck a nerve. Maurice froze, his breath catching in his throat. He bit his lip, a tiny tremor running through his frame. The anger, momentarily, receded, replaced by a flicker of fear.
"Please, Leon," he whispered, his voice almost impossibly soft, stripped of its usual sharp edges. "Let me go. I won't do anything, I swear."
Leon's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. A blush, faint but undeniable, bloomed high on his cheekbones. This angry, precise little doctor, speaking his name with such unexpected softness, was a revelation. Instead of releasing him, Leon leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Maurice's throat.
Maurice flinched, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with cold.
"I never believed that Mr. Doctor could speak people's names so softly." Leon's voice was a low purr, his tongue tracing a lazy, teasing path along Maurice's jugular. Inside, Maurice burned. The rage, momentarily banked, roared back to life, a wildfire consuming his composure.
When Isidore opened his eyes, the world was quiet.
Soft light slipped through the curtains, laying pale ribbons across the marble floor. The air smelled faintly of his pheromones. He blinked, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and for a heartbeat he forgot where he was. Then memory returned: the guest room, the dizziness, the unfamiliar warmth that had carried him to sleep.
He sat up slowly. The heat was gone, replaced by a strange hollowness. The sheets slid down his shoulders, whispering against his skin. Everything felt too still, too emptied of sound, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
Pushing the covers aside, he stood. His feet touched the cold marble floor; it startled him awake completely. The mirror across the room showed him as he truly was—hair unbound, eyes faintly red, the color returned to his cheeks but his soul still bruised.
He crossed to the door and opened it.
Silence greeted him.
The corridor stretched long and golden in the morning light. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—all gone. Only the faint scent of champagne lingered, sweet and decaying. The party had died, leaving behind a mansion heavy with aftermath.
Isidore stepped out, his bare feet soundless against the carpet. He wanted nothing more than to find his room—to see Julian, to make sure his little boy was still safe, still his.
As he descended the stairs, his gaze wandered toward the great hall.
And there—beneath the grand chandelier—he saw him.
Tristan.
The man was sitting on the edge of a velvet couch, still in his dark waistcoat, the glass in his hand half-filled, forgotten. His hair had fallen messily over his forehead; his head rested against the backrest, eyes closed, as though sleep had come only after losing a battle.
Isidore's heart gave a startled twitch. He turned his face away at once.
"It's not my problem," he muttered under his breath. "He can drink himself to death for all I care."
The words felt hollow even to him. But he forced his feet to move.
Step by step, he left the hall behind, walking the familiar path to his own chamber. The scent changed as he neared it—clean linen, lavender, and the faint sweetness of milk soap. Home, of a kind.
The guard standing outside his door straightened at once, stepping aside with a bow. Isidore gave a small nod and slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The room was dim. Curtains half-drawn, light spilling in gentle threads across the bed.
Julian lay asleep, one small arm curled around a pillow, the other flung over his head. His breathing was deep and even, mouth slightly parted. The sight of him eased something raw in Isidore's chest.
He sat on the edge of the vast bed, reaching out to brush his son's golden hair. His fingers trembled.
"My baby," he whispered, voice barely a breath. "I'm sorry I wasn't here last night."
Julian didn't stir, only sighed softly in his sleep.
Isidore smiled faintly—fragile, fleeting—and then lay down beside him. His hand found its resting place over Julian's small stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall beneath his palm. Warm. Steady. Real.
But his mind wouldn't rest.
Tristan's face returned to him—the quiet look in his eyes last night, the steadiness of his hands as he'd helped him. The heat of shame that followed—the slap, the anger, the confusion that came after.
Why had he helped him after that?
Why had he stayed?
He shut his eyes tightly, shaking the thoughts away. He didn't want them. Didn't want him.
"I don't like him," he whispered into the silence. "I hate him."
Yet the words felt fragile, like paper burning too quickly.
He tightened his hold on Julian instead. "He will not take you from me," he murmured fiercely. "Never."
The thought of Tristan—his calm voice, his quiet persistence—made Isidore's chest twist. He despised the man. Truly. And yet… a part of him feared something worse than hatred: the uncertainty that he might, somehow, begin to understand him.
He bit down on that thought until it vanished.
Outside, the house was still.
Inside, Isidore lay beside his child, staring at the soft morning light that crept across the ceiling.
He whispered one last vow into the silence, voice steady, almost cold.
"I will never forgive him."
The light shifted, golden and merciless, spilling over the fragile peace he tried to build—and somewhere deep inside, something trembled anyway.
Down in the hall, Tristan's eyes fluttered open—not from sleep, but from pretense.
He had never truly slept; he had only been still, listening to the footsteps that faded upstairs.
The silence left behind was unbearable.
With a sigh, he straightened, setting the half-empty glass on the table. Morning light poured through the high windows, slicing across the floor in pale gold. Dust motes floated like ghosts between beams of light, dancing on the edges of his loneliness.
"How heartless of you, my adorable omega," he murmured to no one. His tone was half-mocking, half-wounded—a man trying to laugh through the fracture in his chest.
From above the stairs, he had seen Isidore's fleeting glance. Just one—quick, startled, then turned away as though Tristan were a shadow unworthy of notice. That single, effortless dismissal hurt more than any slap.
His heart ached, hollow and aching in its cage of ribs.
He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. "You looked at me," he whispered, "and still pretended not to care. Cruel, cruel Isidore."
Footsteps echoed behind him—measured, confident.
Zayn.
The man stepped into the hall, his expression unreadable, a trace of dry amusement in his eyes. "I told you, Mr. Ashford," he said lightly, "Davenant needs time. Trust doesn't return overnight."
Tristan rose from the couch, every movement slow, deliberate, theatrical. "Time?" he repeated, scoffing softly. "What am I supposed to do with time, Zayn? Count the seconds until I lose my mind?"
He paced a few steps, running a hand through his red hair, disheveled from his false repose. "Tell me," he said, his voice trembling just a little. "What am I going to do without him? I can't live like this. Those three years without him already felt like a dream I never wanted to wake from. And now that I've found him—he doesn't even want to see my face."
Zayn leaned against a column, arms folded. His tone softened. "It's all right, Mr. Ashford. Things have a way of getting better, even when we least expect it."
Tristan pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and sighed dramatically. "Oh, I am so devastated," he declared. "I am not good for this world, Maverick. People adore me, of course—but what's the point of being loved by everyone when the one person I love despises me the most?"
Zayn's mouth twitched—caught between sympathy and laughter. "Are you complaining about your misery, or complimenting yourself again, Mr, Ashford?"
Tristan blinked, affronted. "Oh, whatever," he said, waving a hand. "Don't twist my poetic agony into narcissism. Just tell me—what should I do, Maverick?"
Zayn tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin, pretending to ponder as though it were a matter of global diplomacy. "Hmm," he said after a moment. "How about… a date?"
Tristan froze.
Then, slowly, his expression bloomed—like a candle catching light.
"A date," he echoed dreamily. "A date with him. And little Julian, perhaps. Just the three of us. Dinner—yes, yes, I can already see it…"
His voice softened, almost wistful. "He's smiling at me across the table. The light catches his hair. He's saying, 'Thank you, Tristan.'"
His cheeks burned pink. "That would be—fantastic."
Zayn arched a brow. "Assuming he agrees to such a thing."
Tristan sighed, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. "Ah, but will he ever listen?"
"We'll think of something," Zayn said with a smirk. "But maybe first—try existing like a normal person for one day."
Before Tristan could retort, his phone vibrated on the table, shattering the calm. He snatched it up. "Yes? What is it?"
Joshua's voice came through the line, clipped and urgent.
"Tristan, for heaven's sake, people are starting to notice. You're still at the Davenant house, your car is parked outside, and if anyone connects the dots—well, you know how rumors work."
Tristan exhaled, half exasperation, half resignation. "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll be leaving soon."
"Good. Before the press starts speculating about you and owner of the penthouse omega."
He hung up before Joshua could say more.
Zayn watched him with folded arms. "Well? Trouble?"
Tristan shrugged. "Joshua being Joshua. Always panicking before the storm even starts."
But Zayn didn't respond immediately. His gaze had shifted slightly—out the tall windows, toward the drive. His expression darkened, almost imperceptibly.
Tristan frowned. "What is it?"
Zayn turned his head back, his voice low and sharp now. "That bastard," he said.
Tristan blinked. "You mean Joshua?"
Zayn's lip curled slightly. "Whatever his name is. Doesn't matter. I just don't like him."
Tristan sighed, glancing one last time toward the grand staircase.
His gaze lingered where Isidore had vanished moments ago—up the steps, beyond reach.
"Goodbye for now, my stubborn little miracle," he whispered under his breath. "You'll forgive me someday."
He straightened his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and gave Zayn a faint smile. " I'll be get going before I start writing poetry about him again."
Tristan hesitated for only a moment—then walked forward, the echo of his footsteps fading into the brilliance of day.
Behind him, the mansion remained still.
Only the silence, heavy and golden, kept his secret.