All Chapters of Gold & Sand: Chapter 241 - Chapter 250

The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n

Clark stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, glasses fogging slightly as he adjusted them with one hand. A loose t-shirt clung to his frame, baggy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, flip flops slapping lightly against the hardwood as he moved.The scent hit him before he reached the living room—rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet. His stomach, traitorous as ever, growled on cue.Adam was at the stove, shirtless, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted with each movement, smooth and effortless as he stirred something in a pan.Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “You cook like that and still act surprised people want to fuck you.”Adam didn’t turn. “You flirt like that and still wonder why you end up bruised.”Clark smirked, stepping further in. “Touché.”Adam plated without a word, setting two dishes on the table like it was routine. Like they weren’t still bruised from each other in all the wrong ways.Clark raised an eyebrow. “Settin

Matthew trailed behind Masahiro like a shadow with better cheekbones.He wasn’t subtle.“I’m just saying,” he muttered under his breath as they moved down the hallway, “people don’t just get bruises like that unless they’re either in a fight… or a very specific kind of entanglement.”Masahiro didn’t respond.Matthew kept going anyway. “And judging by Clark’s energy? I’m betting on entanglement."“Drop it.”Matthew grinned. “Can’t. It’s too fun.”Before he could push further, the surgery doors swung open.A doctor stepped out—tall, late forties, the kind of exhausted that came from saving lives and drinking too much vending machine coffee. He peeled off his gloves and looked straight at Masahiro.“You must be Yumi’s cousin, right?”Masahiro gave a stiff nod. “I am.”The doctor sighed, tugging the mask down from his face. “He’s stable. The stab wound missed the kidney by a few millimeters. No damage to the spinal nerves or major arteries. A

Mashiro drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, his focus laser-straight. The streetlights slid across the windshield in steady rhythm. Beside him, Matthew leaned against the window, gum in his mouth, jaw ticking with every thoughtful chew.In the backseat, Arthur sat stiffly, staring out his own window like the night sky had answers.The silence lasted a beat too long.Then Matthew spoke.“So...” he began, voice too casual to be innocent, “what exactly were you and Cassidy whispering about after we left?”Arthur blinked. “I– we weren’t— I mean—” He tripped over every syllable.Matthew grinned. “Wow. You’re really bad at lying.”Arthur sank a little in the seat.“So,” Matthew continued, stretching the word like elastic, “you two are still a thing? After all this? Adorable.”Arthur stayed quiet.Matthew glanced at Masahiro, as if expecting some reaction. None came. Of course.He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, one brow lift

Clark was on his fifth whiskey.Not a tasting flight. Not an indulgent double.Five.He sat hunched at the bar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his glasses slightly crooked like even they were too tired to argue. His fingers drummed on the rim of his empty glass like it had personally betrayed him.Adam stood a few feet back, arms crossed, watching with the patience of a man who had once broken someone’s jaw for looking at him wrong—but currently didn’t feel like doing paperwork.“Didn’t you say you needed a drink?” Adam finally asked, voice dry.Clark didn’t look at him. Just raised a lazy hand and signaled for a sixth. “It’s called metaphor, Adam. Try it sometime.”Adam scoffed. “This ain’t metaphor. This is a cry for help in a ten-dollar glass.”“Then let me cry in peace.” Clark muttered, elbow on the bar, head in his hand.Adam stepped closer, looming just enough to annoy. “You’re done.”Clark turned his head slowly. His smile was razor-shar