Bruises You Can’t See

Cassian wasn’t sure what woke him the sharp blade of sunlight cutting through the penthouse curtains or the dull ache pounding behind his eyes. Either way, morning didn’t feel like a beginning.

It felt like punishment.

The sheets tangled around his legs like restraints. His mouth was dry, his chest heavy. The pillow beneath his head was cool, but not in a comforting way. It was the chill of solitude.

The images from last night returned in pieces, like shards of broken glass he had to crawl across: the flashing cameras, the alcohol, Julian’s hand on his arm, Rowan’s voice like thunder. That touch Rowan’s thumb brushing along his jaw it lingered far longer than it should have.

Cassian rolled onto his side, trying to push it all down. But something had shifted. And ignoring it only made it worse.

He eventually forced himself out of bed, padding into the kitchen barefoot. He expected the usual quiet, maybe a note left on the counter. What he didn’t expect was Rowan, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows like a dark sentinel, coffee mug in hand, his silhouette carved out of morning light and muscle.

Cassian paused at the edge of the kitchen, taking in the tension in Rowan’s shoulders, the way he stared out at the skyline like he was guarding more than just a spoiled billionaire’s heir.

“You sleep standing now?” Cassian asked, his voice hoarse.

Rowan didn’t turn. “You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You drank on an empty stomach. You’ll crash by noon.”

Cassian rolled his eyes but opened the fridge anyway. He pulled out a bottle of water and drank in slow gulps, each one cold and unsatisfying.

“You regret stepping in last night?” he asked.

Rowan finally turned to face him. “No.”

“Even after I almost kissed you?”

Rowan’s jaw ticked, but his voice was even. “Especially after that.”

Cassian stared at him, the ache in his chest growing sharper. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like I matter.”

Rowan walked past him, quiet and controlled. “Because you do.”

Cassian didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. Every answer felt too small.

The Wesley estate was a fortress of glass and polished silence. The kind of place that echoed wealth in every inch, and affection in none.

Cassian hated it.

He and Rowan stepped inside, the marble floors reflecting their footsteps like a mirrored accusation. He could already hear the rustle of newspapers and clink of fine china from the breakfast room.

As expected, Preston Wesley sat at the head of the table, pristine in a navy suit, the day’s papers neatly folded beside him. Sloane, ever elegant in cream silk, nursed a cup of coffee with the sort of composure that only came from years of being married to a storm.

Cassian took a seat slowly. Rowan remained standing quiet, watchful.

“You’re trending again,” Preston said, not bothering with a greeting.

Cassian smirked. “Well, I’ve always been a giver.”

Preston didn’t return the humor. “You looked high in half the pictures. The other half, like you were seconds from publicly undressing Julian Ward.”

Cassian’s smile cracked. “Maybe I was just tired of pretending.”

“You think being gay gives you an excuse to embarrass this family?”

“No,” Cassian said, voice tight. “But it does mean I shouldn’t have to apologize for who I am.”

Preston slammed his hand on the table. “You want to be a martyr? Fine. But don’t drag your mother down while you burn.”

Sloane flinched. “Preston, that’s enough”

Cassian stood. “She’s the only reason I haven’t jumped off a damn balcony.”

The silence was immediate. Dense. Shocking.

Sloane’s breath hitched. “Cassian…”

Preston’s face turned to stone. He rose slowly, as if disbelief alone kept him from lunging.

And then Rowan moved.

He stepped between them like a shield, eyes unreadable but voice steady. “That’s enough.”

Preston looked him over like an insect. “Is this what I’m paying for now? Moral lectures from a bodyguard?”

“You’re paying for someone to keep your son alive. Maybe that includes keeping him from you.”

Preston’s glare could’ve scorched steel, but he said nothing. He turned, grabbed his coat, and stormed out.

Sloane reached for Cassian’s hand, her own trembling. “He’s just… he doesn’t know how to express things.”

“He knows exactly how,” Cassian said. “He just doesn’t care who he wounds.”

She looked at him then really looked and something in her expression cracked. But Cassian didn’t want pity.

He turned and walked away.

Back at the penthouse, Cassian collapsed onto the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. The city outside glittered like a promise he’d stopped believing in.

Rowan sat across from him, silent as always.

“You ever think about disappearing?” Cassian asked suddenly.

“Sometimes,” Rowan said. “Why?”

“I think about it a lot. Just… driving until the skyline fades and no one knows my name.”

Rowan didn’t answer, but something flickered in his eyes.

Cassian sat up. “You never ask me why I act like this.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Would you answer if I did?”

“Probably not,” Cassian admitted. “But still.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Rowan said, “You ever think that maybe surviving this long… means you’re meant for something more?”

Cassian blinked.

It was such a simple sentence, and yet it hit like a punch. He didn’t know what “more” meant. All he’d ever been was a headline. A scandal. A disappointment.

“I used to dream of being someone my father would be proud of,” he said quietly. “Like, genuinely proud.”

Rowan leaned forward. “What changed?”

“I realized that even if I won a Nobel Prize, he’d still say the wrong tie ruined the photo.”

Rowan didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “Then maybe the goal isn’t winning his approval. Maybe it’s building your own life, one that doesn’t require it.”

Cassian swallowed thickly. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not. But it’s necessary.”

That night, the penthouse was quiet again, but the silence felt different.

He stood outside his bedroom, heart oddly heavy. Rowan was stationed in the hallway, arms crossed, the way he always was. But there was something in his eyes less guard, more person.

Cassian hovered in the doorway. “Will you be out here all night?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “Would you… stay? Just until I fall asleep.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

Cassian nodded. “I just… I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Rowan stepped inside. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t pry. He simply sat in the armchair by the window, legs stretched out, posture relaxed but alert.

Cassian climbed into bed, the blankets cool against his skin.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then: “You ever feel like you’re too broken to fix?”

Rowan’s voice was quiet. “Every day.”

Cassian turned to look at him, surprised.

Rowan didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

The silence between them wasn’t awkwardit was honest. Shared.

“You’re the first person who ever stayed,” Cassian whispered.

Rowan looked over at him. His eyes didn’t soften, but they didn’t harden either.

“I’ll stay,” he said.

Cassian turned toward the wall, eyes blinking fast.

And for the first time in a long time, he slept without dreams.