The room was dark, lit only by the glow of Noah's phone screen.
Outside, night had swallowed the city. The distant rumble of the subway drifted through the window. He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tingling slightly.
There had been no word from Asher all day.
At the end of the day, this was just a contract—a name on a piece of paper that no one outside the two of them even knew existed.
His thumb traced the edge of his phone, throat dry enough that no sound would come out.
The screen buzzed suddenly.
It was from Asher. Just three words: [Come downstairs.]
Noah froze for a few seconds, almost dropping the phone.
Before he could reply, another message appeared:
[I'm picking you up.]
No punctuation, but the weight behind it left no room for negotiation.
Noah's grip tightened instinctively. He stood without thinking, rushing to the window and pulling back the curtain just enough to peek outside.
The streetlight below was dim, but he still spotted the familiar car parked at the curb.
Low-key in design, yet obscenely expensive.
The window wasn't even all the way down, but he knew that profile.
—It was Asher.
He'd actually come.
Noah's breath hitched. He spun around, yanking clothes from his suitcase and pulling them on in a hurry.
He didn't know whether to be excited or afraid.
And only now did he truly realize—the contract wasn't just words on paper.
---
The city's neon bled into soft halos on the windshield, and the air felt thicker inside the car.
When Noah slid into the passenger seat, his fingertips were icy, but heat prickled up his spine.
He still clutched his phone, the messages staring back at him: Come downstairs. I'm picking you up.
He hadn't expected Asher to come in person.
Even less had he expected him to show up in that six-figure car, idling at the curb outside his cheap apartment, window sliding down with no small talk, no explanation—just as if it were a given: you signed, so you obey.
His fingers knotted the seatbelt strap.
The car was quiet except for the low hum of the tires on asphalt. No music, no conversation. One of Asher's hands rested on the wheel; his thumb turned his silver ring in slow circles.
Noah glanced at him from the corner of his eye before quickly looking away.
What was he supposed to say?
Thank you?
Good evening?
Or… nothing at all?
His throat felt tight, so he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
At a red light, Asher finally spoke. "Where you're living now—it's not very safe."
Noah made a small sound of agreement, unsure if it was meant as criticism or concern.
Another stretch of silence. Then Asher's gaze slid over to him, cool and assessing, as though studying something already caged.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Noah startled, turning toward him.
"…No."
Asher's lips curved in faint amusement, like he'd heard something absurd.
"You're not yet. You will be."
Noah's fingers twitched, and his phone nearly slipped from his lap.
---
It was late by the time they arrived—a gated, high-end residential complex in the north of the city, complete with closed security checkpoints.
Noah's unease grew as soon as they passed the gates.
By the time Asher scanned them into the elevator, he understood exactly how far this place was from anything in his old life.
The walls were mirrored on all sides, reflecting everything in crisp detail.
He looked down at himself—cheap hoodie, worn backpack straps—like someone who'd wandered into the wrong place.
Behind him, Asher leaned casually against the wall, black shirt sleeves rolled to the forearm, silver ring catching the light.
They didn't speak.
The elevator climbed, the silence pressing in.
Then Noah realized Asher was watching him.
In the mirror, the man's eyes were half-lidded, scanning him the way one might examine a newly acquired possession.
There was no warmth there, but the pressure in that gaze spoke louder than words.
Noah's back stiffened, heat creeping up his ears.
The soft ding of the elevator doors opening felt like a breath of air after holding it too long.
---
Cool air spilled out as the apartment door opened.
The space was vast, all clean lines in black and white, neat to the point of looking untouched.
Noah stood frozen in the entryway for a moment.
Without turning, Asher said, "Come in."
He obeyed.
The main lights were off; only a small lamp near the sofa was on, painting the room in muted gold and shadow.
As he passed the couch, Noah caught a trace of scent in the air—not floral, but crisp, clean, masculine.
Like Asher himself.
Asher went to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses, and handed one to him.
"You're legal, right?"
Noah nodded. "…I'm twenty."
"Then drink."
Noah raised the glass toward his lips, but Asher's voice cut in again.
"Do you know what the first night after signing means?"
He froze, hand suspended mid-air.
Asher stepped closer, setting his own glass down on the table. His tone was calm, almost businesslike.
"Tonight, you're mine."
Noah's breath caught.
He knew exactly what those words meant. But hearing them—hearing them in that voice—sent his heart into a wild, uneven rhythm, like someone had gripped it and dropped it into boiling water.
When he didn't move, Asher reached out and caught his chin lightly between his fingers.
"Are you scared?"
Noah shook his head instinctively, not realizing his hands were trembling.
A soft laugh. Asher let go. "Being scared won't change anything, Noah."
"You signed."
"From now on, when I speak, you listen."
Noah bit down on his lip, saying nothing.
Technically, he could refuse. On paper.
But life wasn't a script.
Standing here in this cold, immaculate apartment, with no company backing him, no connections, no way out—refusal wasn't an option.
So he nodded. Slowly.
It looked like surrender.
It felt like handing himself over.
---
"Go shower." Asher tipped his head toward the hallway. "First door on the left. When you're done, come out."
Noah blinked. "…Here?"
Asher tilted his head. "You thought you were just here for a visit?"
Noah didn't answer. He dropped his gaze and walked toward the bathroom, the tips of his ears burning crimson.
Behind him, Asher's gaze followed, steady and unreadable.