---
The days that followed the letter were quiet.
Not peaceful. Not tense.
Just… quiet.
Lucien never brought it up. Not even once.
He wanted to—every time he looked at Arin, he saw it lingering just behind his tired eyes. But Arin didn't mention it, didn't scold him again, didn't even acknowledge that Lucien had read the note.
It was as if they'd both agreed to pretend it didn't happen.
So they did.
Lucien cooked. Arin cleaned. They watched TV together in silence, shared the same blanket without speaking. Their routine returned. But something had shifted underneath the surface, like a hairline fracture spreading slowly.
Until one morning, everything felt just slightly… different.
---
Sunlight cracked through the grimy windows, painting pale gold across the floor. Arin had left the curtain slightly open that day—not because he wanted the light, but because he'd forgotten to close it.
He stirred awake, blanket tangled around his legs, shirt bunched up at his hip.
Lucien wasn't in bed.
Again.
Arin groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow. "You never sleep in," he muttered to the empty room.
The smell of tea drifted faintly in.
He padded barefoot to the doorway, rubbing his eyes—and stopped.
Lucien sat by the window, cross-legged on the floor, hunched over his sketchpad. Shafts of sunlight slid down his bare shoulders—he hadn't bothered putting on a shirt yet. His broad back looked impossibly still, like carved stone. But his hand moved delicately, pencil scratching paper in steady strokes.
Arin's brow lifted.
He took a few silent steps forward, peering over the man's shoulder.
And froze.
It was him.
Lucien had drawn him.
Not just a sketch—a study. Arin's eyes, the curve of his lashes, the slight tilt of his lips when he smirked. The sharp line of his collarbone, his wrists, the way he curled one hand under his chin when thinking. Dozens of versions, like Lucien had been drawing him in secret for weeks.
"...Is that me?" Arin asked, half amused, half stunned.
Lucien jumped slightly. Then quickly closed the sketchbook, like a guilty teenager caught red-handed.
"I—I just draw sometimes," he said, clearly flustered. "It's nothing."
Arin stared at him. Then, slowly—he smiled.
Not a smirk. Not sarcastic.
A real smile. Small. Honest. Quiet.
"You really think I look like that?" he teased, pointing to the sketchbook.
Lucien rubbed the back of his neck. "...Yeah."
"Huh." Arin folded his arms, a smirk curling on top of the smile now. "You've got talent. Also, a weird obsession."
Lucien didn't reply. His ears had turned slightly red.
Arin sat beside him, legs crossed. He didn't ask to see the sketch again. He just sat there, bathed in morning light, watching dust dance in the beams.
After a while, he asked, "What were you doing on that rooftop the night I found you?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
But then—he spoke.
His voice was low, even, like he was talking about someone else's life.
"I'm a part-time fighter. Underground matches. I lost a game two weeks ago… badly."
Arin tilted his head. "That's what put you up there? Losing a fight?"
Lucien shook his head once. "Not the loss. The debt."
Arin was quiet.
Lucien continued, "I've been paying it since I was eighteen. To one man. I don't know how much I owe anymore. He says the interest keeps going up. He says... I still have some 'debt to pay.'"
Arin's jaw clenched, just slightly. "What kind of debt?"
Lucien swallowed hard.
"He wants my body now," he said, voice quiet. "Says if I agree to… sleep with him, he'll cancel everything. He's obsessed. I don't know why. I've tried to vanish, move cities. He always finds me."
Arin didn't move.
Lucien's hands tightened around the sketchbook.
"He almost killed my little sister once. Said she was 'insurance.' She's with my friend now—Elsa. Safe. I hope."
His voice cracked on that last word. Hope.
Then silence again.
Lucien didn't finish the sentence. Didn't explain further.
It was like the words froze in his throat.
Arin watched him closely.
He didn't reach out. Didn't give him a hug or say "I'm sorry" like people in books do.
He just... listened.
And said nothing.
Because sometimes silence is kinder than the wrong words.
Lucien blinked slowly, like he was waking up from a confession he didn't mean to make.
Arin's voice came after a while. Low. Steady.
"You cook too well to sell your body to some old pervert."
Lucien huffed softly. The laugh that escaped him was short, but real.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You're welcome," Arin said, already standing up, brushing imaginary dust from his pants. "Now stop sketching my eyelashes like I'm a tragic anime girl."
Lucien smiled.
They didn't talk much more that day. But something had shifted again. Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just a thread pulled a little tighter between them.
---
That night, Arin was standing in the kitchen when his phone buzzed again.
2:13 a.m.
Lucien turned to glance.
But this time—it wasn't the same number.
It was one saved in the phone.
"Father."
Arin stared at the screen.
Then answered.
"...Hello?"
Lucien watched him, silent from the other side of the room.
Arin's face didn't change much. But his fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.
"When?" he said.
A pause.
His jaw clenched.
"Fine."
He hung up without a goodbye.
Lucien raised a brow. "Who was that?"
Arin didn't look at him.
"My father," he said coldly. "He's coming tomorrow."
Lucien frowned. "You don't look thrilled."
Arin finally turned to face him.
There was no humor in his voice.
"I'm not."
---