chapter 2

**Twenty years ago.**

The party hall was hectic in the way only the gatherings of wealthy people could be — buzzing with overlapping conversation, the clink of crystal glasses, and the low, constant hum of ambition dressed up as small talk. Adults drifted from group to group like moths circling the same flame, sipping wine, exchanging business cards, weaving gossip into polite smiles that never quite reached their eyes. The room was thick with perfume, posturing, and the weight of competition nobody dared to name out loud.

Amid all of it, a small boy clung tightly to his mother's hand. His eyes wandered past the sea of unfamiliar faces, past the towering adults who smelled like cologne and old money, until they landed on something — or rather, someone — far more interesting than anything else in the room.

Across the hall, near the dessert table, another boy sat completely unbothered by the noise around him, cheeks stuffed full of cake. Frosting smeared the corner of his mouth, and his eyes sparkled with the kind of unfiltered joy only a child could have — as though he'd discovered heaven itself in every bite. He didn't notice the adults. He didn't notice the chatter. He existed in his own small, sugar-coated world.

Without warning, the boy gripping his mother's hand lifted his arm and pointed straight across the room, his tiny voice cutting clean through the hum of adult conversation.

"I WANT HIM."

Everything stopped.

Heads turned. Conversations froze mid-sentence. A few people chuckled under their breath; others raised their eyebrows, caught somewhere between amused and scandalized. His mother blinked, completely thrown, glancing down at her son as if she might have misheard him. But the boy didn't flinch. He stood proudly beside her, utterly unbothered by the sudden attention, still pointing, still staring, with the kind of seriousness that felt far too heavy for someone his age.

And across the room, the cake-covered boy finally looked up, a dollop of cream still clinging to the tip of his nose, and met the eyes of his unexpected admirer for the very first time.

Neither of them looked away.

---

**This morning.**

Silius's eyes shot open.

For a moment he just lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, his heart still racing from the dream — if it even *was* a dream. It had felt too vivid, too detailed, too much like a memory that belonged to someone else and had somehow wandered into his sleep.

"Ughh... why did I have to dream about that?" he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He reached over, grabbed the phone resting beside him, and squinted at the screen through bleary eyes.

The time hit him like a bucket of cold water.

"Ooh shit... I'm late."

He shot out of bed so fast the blanket nearly took him down with it. There was no time to dwell on dreams, memories, or whatever strange mixture of both had just played out behind his closed eyes. He fetched his clothes in a blur of motion and bolted for the bathroom, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

By the time he emerged, dressed and somewhat presentable, his hair still slightly damp, he made his way out of his room and headed straight for the kitchen, drawn by the unmistakable smell of something good already cooking.

Cero Volkov stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, completely absorbed in whatever dish she was preparing. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, like butter and spice and home.

"Let me help you too," Silius offered, stepping closer, his voice still a little rough from sleep.

Cero glanced over her shoulder and smiled the moment she saw him. "Ooh, you're awake," she said, amusement coloring her tone. "I'm almost finished here."

"Oww... I'm so sorry," Silius said, wincing as he came to stand beside her. "I kinda overslept."

Without even turning fully around, Cero reached over and flicked his forehead — light, fond, the kind of gesture that came from someone who'd done it a hundred times before. "Don't apologize," she said firmly. "I always told you, you don't have to wake up early to help me out. There are maids for that." She paused, stirring the pot in front of her with practiced ease. "I love cooking. That's the only reason I'm doing it."

"But still..." Silius pouted, crossing his arms loosely. "*Pout*"

Cero chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, the kind of laugh that filled a kitchen the way sunlight filled a window. She studied him for a moment, clearly debating something, before a small, knowing smile crept onto her face.

"Then... can you go and wake Michael up?" she asked.

Silius blinked. "Ooh... y... yeah," he said, a little too quickly. "I... I'll go now."

*This must be my lucky day,* he thought, already turning on his heel and practically running for the stairs, his earlier exhaustion forgotten entirely.

He took the steps two at a time, his pulse quickening with each one, and didn't slow until he reached the door at the end of the hall. He stood in front of it for a second, smoothing down his hair and checking his reflection in his phone's camera screen before he allowed himself to knock.

No answer.

He knocked again. Still nothing.

After a beat of hesitation, he decided to ease the door open just enough to peek inside.

The room was dim, curtains drawn against the morning light, and there, sprawled across the king-sized bed in a tangle of blankets, was a figure still deep in sleep. Silius slipped inside quietly and shut the door behind him, then crossed the room and stood at the edge of the bed, just staring.

"Blush." He's so handsome, he thought, the words slipping out under his breath before he could stop them.

He reached out, almost without meaning to, and gently brushed his fingers through the boy's dark hair. So soft.

"How can someone be so handsome even while sleeping?" he whispered, shaking his head slowly, one hand pressed lightly to his own chest as though it might actually combust. "My poor heart can't handle this. Mumble."

A hand shot out and closed around his wrist before he could pull away.

Silius froze, breath caught somewhere in his throat, heart slamming against his ribs.

"Startled." "M... Michael," he managed, voice barely above a whisper. "Is he awake now?"

Michael didn't answer with words. Instead, eyes still closed, he lifted Silius's captured hand to his lips and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to his knuckles, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do half-asleep.

Silius's mind went completely blank. "/(/ /•-/•/ /)/" was all he managed, some garbled noise of pure flustered panic escaping him before he tried again. "Mi—"

"Five more minutes, Dan~" Michael mumbled, voice thick with sleep, and pulled Silius's hand against his cheek like it belonged there.

Silius stood frozen at the bedside, hand still trapped, heart hammering somewhere up near his throat, utterly unsure whether to laugh, panic, or simply melt into the floor.

Dan? he thought weakly. Who in the world is Dan?

Whatever answer there was would clearly have to wait — because Michael, despite the urgency of the morning waiting downstairs, showed absolutely no intention of letting go.