He poured the coffee the same way every morning. Black, no sugar, just a single cube of ice to cool it down fast.
He always made two cups. One for him. One for me.
Even though I never asked for it.
Even though I hate coffee.
I sat at the breakfast island, dressed in a sweatshirt two sizes too big. He handed me the cup, his long fingers brushing against mine just briefly. It was stupid how my whole chest tightened from that tiny contact.
He didn't look at me. Just sipped his coffee and scrolled through his phone like he hadn't once dragged me out of bed at 6 AM "to keep a healthy schedule."
Like he hadn't been the one to chase my classmate Sam away last week just because we went out for lunch twice.
He owned everything around me. The apartment, the company, the life I was living.
Hell, even my name probably belonged to him now.
Don't forget your therapy session this afternoon, he said without looking up.
My stomach turned. I stirred my coffee just to have something to do with my hands.
They're going to try a new method today. I talked to Dr. Klein. He thinks it could help you open up more about that side of you.
That side of me.
Like it was a stain he kept scrubbing off, hoping it would finally fade.
I nodded like a good boy. "Yeah, sure."
He finally looked at me eyes sharp, calculating, but soft in that twisted way only he could manage. He looked at me like he owned me like I was both his burden and his responsibility.
And maybe I was.
"You've been good lately," he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Not while he touched me. Not while he praised me like that.
You haven't talked to anyone new, have you?
I shook my head. "No."
"Good." He smiled faintly. I'm proud of you.
God, that smile. That stupid, sweet smile that made me hate myself more every time it made my heart skip.
He got up and adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, perfectly tailored to his lean frame. I have a meeting at Zeignar HQ in an hour. Don't be late for your appointment.
I stood slowly. Okay.
And text me if anything feels off.
Do you mean if I feel gay again? I wanted to say. But I didn't.
He left without a goodbye kiss. Not that he ever kissed me. Not that he ever would. But I always watched him walk out like I was waiting for a miracle.
I didn't go to therapy.
I wandered the city instead. Hood up. My hands are in my pockets. A ghost in my own body.
Every street, every building it all reminded me of him.
The restaurant where he first told me. He'll protect me.
The bookstore where he ripped a number out of a stranger's hand before I could even say hi.
At the hospital where he lied to the nurse and said I had episodes.
I could've screamed. Could've burned it all down.
But instead, I sat in a quiet park and stared at my reflection on the screen of my dead phone. I still had that photo of him. Hidden deep in a locked album. I hadn't looked at it in weeks.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I wanted him too much.
My chest ached with guilt, with shame, with something darker.
I was in love with a man who didn't believe people like me deserved love.
And the worst part?
He still called me family.
Later that night, I got back to the apartment, expecting silence. But he was already home, shirt off, hair wet from a shower. He looked up from the couch and frowned.
"You didn't go to therapy."
I wavered. "Sorry."
"You lied to me."
"I just needed a break."
He stood and crossed the room in two long strides. He wasn't violent he never touched me in anger. But the weight of his presence was enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
I do everything for you, he said, voice low. I take care of you. Protect you. And you can't do one thing I ask?
I said I'm sorry.
You're not sorry, he snapped. You're just selfish.
I bit the inside of my cheek, grounding myself in the pain. Better that than cry.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling. I don't want to lose you to this disease. I've seen what it does to people. You think I'm being cruel, but I'm saving you.
He meant it. I knew he meant it.
That was the scariest part.
"I don't want to be saved," I whispered.
He looked at me like I'd slapped him.
Well, I'm not giving you a choice.
You're going to that place tomorrow, Win said, his voice calm. And I'll drop you there myself.
I clenched my fists. "I'm not going anywhere." My voice shook, but I stood my ground. I need a break, Win. Do you even hear yourself? How many times have we done this? How many hospital visits already? I'm not sick, I pointed at my chest, I know myself, I'm fine.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue. He just stared at me with that quiet, indistinct expression.
Then he stepped closer and brushed my hair gently behind my ear. His touch made me freeze.
"That's the thing," he said softly, You can't know when you're sick. But I do. I know because I've seen you at your best. I know what you look like when you're okay. And right now… this isn't it.
He paused, letting the silence do the rest.
That's why you're going to see Dr. Klein tomorrow. I already made another appointment. And you can't miss it.
I looked up at him, searching for some space to breathe, some way out.
"I don't want to go anywhere," I whispered, desperate.
His voice dropped to something colder. Then here's your choice. Either you go, he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen or I call your mom. I tell her everything. Let's see how proud she is when she hears what's going on with you.
My heart dropped. No, don't. I panicked. Please, don't call her.
He raised an eyebrow, pretending to scroll through his contacts.
Fine, I shouted, I'll go, Just don't call her.
He smiled then slowly satisfied.
"Good boy," he said as if I'd just passed some silent test. You'll be fine. Okay?
I turned away, throat tight, and rushed into my room before he could say anything else.
But just as I was closing the door behind me, his voice rang out down the hall.
We had a deal, King. You don't get to back out now.