Sin to Priest

by Corvina_Neven

Summary:

He was taught to pray the desire away. But now desire lives next door- and it smiles like the devil himself.

 

He begged God to save him from temptation.
Then he moved in next door.

 

One of them clings to the holy lie that love only comes in one form.
The other? Has never followed any rules, especially the ones about love.

A story of guilt, lust, identity, heartbreak, and finding peace in your own damn sin.

Notes:

Note: Sorry, English is not my first language. I'd be really grateful if you keep that in mind while reading the story. And enjoy the story. Please leave comments and vote for it. Thank you. 

Chapter 1: Ch 1: The First Taste of Sin

Note: Sorry, English is not my first language. I'd be really grateful if you keep that in mind while reading the story. And enjoy the story. Please leave comments and vote for it. Thank you.

 

(Chapter: 1)

Ezran;

 

I didn't know his name then. Didn't know he lived across from me. Didn't know that man would eventually rip my life in half and leave me crawling toward the part of myself I didn't know existed. Cause that part? God forbid me- was not right. Men only like women. Then why the fuck my dick twitching looking at him when he didn't even noticed me?

 

All I knew was that he was standing on his balcony, half-naked, soaked in sunlight and sin.

 

Boxers slung low on his hips like even that piece of cloth was begging him to let go. Wet hair dripping down his bare chest. A single sentence carved across his chest in black ink-meant something, probably, but I couldn't read that from where I stood. Cigarette clinging between his lips like it belonged there more than I did anywhere near that view.

 

And me?

 

I was frozen.

 

Halfway through hanging my laundry, toothbrush still in my mouth, staring like a fucking idiot while my freshly washed boxers dripped onto the concrete. I hadn't slept. My back ached from unpacking. But suddenly none of that mattered, because he was standing there like the cover model for every mistake I was never allowed to make.

 

And he didn't even notice me.

 

Didn't glance. Didn't nod. Didn't exist in my direction.

 

He just... watered his plants. Nonchalantly. One hand holding a ridiculous plastic watering spray, the other lazily scratching his stomach like he hadn't just walked out of someone else's bed, lit a smoke, and declared war on every single moral of the society.

 

I'd seen attractive people before. I'm not blind. But he?

He was the kind of man you don't look at-you survive.

 

I wasn't supposed to react. Wasn't supposed to feel that twist in my gut. That pull. That heat. Not because I was religious-I wasn't. I didn't even believe in hell, but suddenly I was half-convinced I was already in it.

 

Because my eyes wouldn't move.

 

Because my fingers tightened on the railing.

 

Because I hated him. Immediately. Viscerally. Unfairly.

 

Not for being attractive.

But for making me feel something wrong which felt dangerously right.

 

Because that meant something was wrong with me. Very very wrong. So fucking wrong.

 

And where I come from? That kind of wrong doesn't get talked about.

 

It gets silenced. Mocked. Caged. Beaten out.

 

I dropped my toothbrush. Didn't even notice.

 

Didn't pick it up either.

 

I backed into my apartment like the balcony had caught fire and I'd been stupid enough to stand in it.

 

I shut the door.

Locked it.

 

And for the rest of the day, I pretended like I hadn't seen anything.

 

Like I didn't spend the next three hours trying not to remember the shape of his spine, the cut of his hips, or the way the smoke curled from his mouth like a fucking promise I wasn't allowed to hear.

----

I didn't sleep that night. Not really.

I laid down, sure. Flopped onto my shitty single mattress, closed my eyes, and told myself to forget. But my brain was a rabid mutt that hadn't been fed in years, and now it had a taste for something dangerous.

 

And by dangerous, I mean six-foot-something of half-naked, tattooed, cigarette-smoking apocalypse with wet hair and no fucks to give.

 

Keal Hyrjon.

 

I didn't know his name in the morning. But now? Thanks to the moaning idiot he was fucking last night, I do. Thin walls.

Even thinner patience.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop-swear to God-but it's kind of hard not to when the man next door sounds like he's auditioning for a porn remake of Les Misérables.

 

And between the headboard slamming, the "Harder, Keal-fuck-harder," and the throat-shredding final act, I was left with a name. A voice. And the horrifying realization that my dick had twitched the second I heard his. Not his partner's. His.

 

I knew how his back flexed when he reached for a plant.

I knew how his jaw tensed when he exhaled smoke.

 

And I knew, without a doubt, that Keal didn't give a single fuck about who heard what or who saw what. He wanted to be seen. Loudly. Shamelessly. That balcony wasn't a balcony-it was his goddamn stage.

 

And I was front row, palms sweating, heart on fire, pretending I didn't pay for the ticket with my sanity.

 

I didn't sleep.

 

Instead, I tossed. Turned. Fought my own hands.

 

I shoved a pillow over my face.

Like that would help.

Like smothering the sound of Keal’s deep groans would somehow scrub him from my brain.

 

I fumbled blindly for my earbuds, shoved them in, scrolled through every damn playlist I had—Bollywood sad bois, instrumental lo-fi, bone-shattering hip-hop, even ear-splitting electro-trash.

Nothing.

Nothing worked.

 

Keal’s voice leaked in anyway.

Like the universe was punishing me for sins I don't know I committed.

 

The guy had begged—voice wrecked, body shameless. Called himself Keal’s slut, cried for cock like it was his only salvation.

 

I tore the earbuds out and launched my phone across the mattress.

 

This isn’t happening.

This is a nightmare.

This is homesickness, anxiety, maybe low blood sugar. Not… this.

 

I curled in on myself, fists clenched, heartbeat slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.

 

Don’t think it. Don’t imagine it. Don’t fucking feel it.

 

I rolled over.

Then again.

Then again.

 

My skin was too tight. My boxers felt like torture. My cock pulsed like a traitor with no loyalty. I slammed my fist against the bed—once, hard, like I could bruise temptation out of my bones.

 

No. I wasn’t going to do this.

 

I closed my eyes and whispered verses I hadn’t touched since high school.

Begged God to erase the images in my head.

To make it stop.

To make me stop.

 

But Keal’s voice didn't leave.

It just… shifted.

 

Now it was saying my name.

 

Beg for it, Ezran…

 

And that was the moment something cracked.

Maybe the wall.

Maybe my will.

Maybe me.

 

---

 

🔞🔞🔞

 

The phone's screen glared 3:12 a.m., its light a cruel spotlight on my pathetic state. I staggered into the bathroom, the cold tile biting my bare feet, each step a slap of reality I couldn't escape. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel, locking me in with my guilt. No light. I didn't deserve it. Didn't want to face the mirror and see the disgusting fuck staring back, eyes wild, sweat dripping down my temples, cock already straining against my boxers like a traitor begging to be caught.

 

My hands shook as I leaned over the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain until my knuckles screamed. My breath was a mess, shallow and jagged, my chest tight with a need I despised. My dick throbbed, hot and heavy, leaking through the fabric, a wet spot spreading like evidence of my blasphemy. I tried to stop, tried to lie to myself, my voice a hoarse whisper in the dark.

 

"It's just stress," I rasped, the words sour and useless. "It's just loneliness. It's just the shock of moving."

 

Bullshit. It was Keal. His name was a fucking brand on my brain, seared in by that voice-low, rough, dripping with control. I could still hear him through the walls, every word a knife twisting in my gut. "Keal, harder, please... oh my god, yes yes," the guy had whined, his voice raw with desperation. And Keal's response-fuck, it had gutted me. "You want harder? Then beg for it. Show me what a slut you're for my cock." And the guy did, sobbing, "Please, Keal, I'm your slut, I need your cock, fuck me, please," his words a humiliating surrender that had set my blood on fire.

 

I didn't know shit about gay sex. Never let myself think it, never dared look it up, never let the word "gay" even form in my head. It was forbidden, a one-way ticket to hell in my world. But now, my brain was a porn reel I couldn't shut off. It wasn't the other guy begging anymore. It was me. Me, on my four, ass up, Keal's hands gripping my hips so hard they'd bruise, his voice a growl in my ear. "Beg for it, Ezran," he'd say, and in my head, I was, my voice a broken mess, pleading for something I didn't even understand.

 

"Fuck," I groaned, my hand betraying me, ripping my boxers down so fast they tore at the seam. My cock sprang free, rock-hard, the tip glistening with precum, veins pulsing like they were angry. I gripped it, my fist tight, the first stroke a brutal shock that made my hips buck and my breath hiss. I braced my other hand on the sink, my arm trembling, my head hanging low like I was bowing to my own damnation.

 

My strokes were frantic, slick with precum, the wet sound of it loud and filthy in the silence. I pumped my cock hard, my grip punishing, my thumb dragging over the slit, smearing the mess and sending sparks up my spine. I bit my lip until it bled, trying to stay quiet, but a choked moan slipped out, then another, needy and pathetic. Keal's voice was everywhere, that "Tell me what a slut you're for my cock" looping in my head, and I pictured him-his tattooed chest heaving, his wet hair clinging to his neck, his eyes locked on mine as he fucked me.

 

I didn't know how it worked, but I imagined it, raw and obscene. Him behind me, his cock-thick, heavy, slick-pushing into my ass, stretching me open, the burn making me wild. "Beg," he'd growl, and in my head, I did, my voice hoarse: "Please, Keal, I'm your cockslut, fuck me, fuck me harder, please." My hips snapped forward, fucking my fist like it was him, my balls tight and aching, my thighs trembling. I pictured his hands on me, one gripping my throat, the other spanking my ass red, his voice mocking, "Look at you, Ezran, such a desperate little whore."

 

I hated myself, every stroke a reminder of how fucked I was. I was raised to be better, to want women, to be normal. This was wrong-sick, a betrayal of everything I was supposed to be. But I couldn't stop, my hand a blur, my cock leaking so much it dripped down my balls, splattering the tile. "I'm sorry," I gasped, tears stinging my eyes, but my body didn't care, chasing the edge with a hunger that made me want to puke.

 

"Fuck-Keal-please" I whimpered, his name a prayer I shouldn't say. My orgasm exploded, a violent, shattering wave that tore a sob from my throat the second he ordered his partner in that sin wrapped growl, "Come for me. Show me what a good slut you are." Cum shot from my cock, thick ropes splattering my hand, the sink, the floor, hot and sticky, marking me like a criminal. My knees buckled, my body convulsing as I milked every pulse, my fist slick with my own mess, my breath a broken wail. It was the hardest I'd ever come, a pleasure so intense it felt like a blade, cutting me open.

 

Then it was over.

 

The shame hit like a freight train, crushing my chest, choking me. I slumped against the wall, my cock softening, still dripping, my hand coated in cum, the smell of it thick and damning. I stared at the mess, my breath hitching, my stomach lurching so hard I gagged, dry on my lip. I'd jerked to a man. Imagined Keal fucking my ass, owning me, breaking me, while I begged like a whore. I was a monster, a failure, everything my family'd spit on.

 

I turned on the faucet, the water roaring, and scrubbed my hands until they bled, the soap stinging like holy water on a demon. I grabbed toilet paper, scrubbing the floor, the sink, my thighs, my softening- anywhere, frantic, like I could wipe out the truth. But Keal was in my soul now, his smirk, his tattoos, his voice, and no scrubbing would make me clean.

 

I collapsed on the tile, knees to chest, head buried in my arms, shaking. This wasn't a fluke. This was me, cracking open, and Keal was the fucking fault line.

 

---

 

"It's just stress."

"It's just loneliness."

"It's just the shock of moving."

 

But none of that explained why I came harder than I had in months.

 

Or why I felt like throwing up after.

 

---

 

Morning came like a slap to the face.

To bright. Too loud. Too fucking real.

 

I dragged myself into the kitchen, shirtless, eyes half-shut, hair sticking up like I'd fought my demons and lost. My flatmate wasn't due to move in for another week, which was good-he didn't need to see the wreckage that was me.

 

I poured a cup of lukewarm coffee and stepped onto the balcony.

 

The same balcony where everything had gone to hell.

 

And guess who was still allergic to shirts?

 

Him.

 

Keal stood there like nothing had happened. Like the walls hadn't screamed his name last night. Like he hadn't just carved his existence into the back of my eyelids. Like he hadn't made me do shit I never knew existed. Cigarette between his fingers. Music playing faintly behind him-some upbeat synth-pop that made no goddamn sense coming from a man who looked like he'd chain-smoke through a funeral and flirt with the widow.

 

And then-

 

he came out.

 

The guy from last night.

 

Bare-chested. Still marked up from the fuckfest. Eyes sleepy, lips swollen, body language screaming claimed. He walked out like he belonged there, like he'd done this a thousand times before, like this wasn't a casual hookup but a goddamn tradition.

 

He slid his arms around Keal from behind.

Kissed his shoulder.

Smiled into his skin like he owned it.

 

My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles cracked.

 

Don't look. Don't look. Don't-

 

Keal looked.

Right at me.

 

His head tilted, brow raised like he'd caught me mid-sin.

 

"Morning, neighbor?"

 

He said, voice rough and stained with smoke reminding me the shameful act I was engaged in last night.

 

I choked on my coffee. Cough. Gag. Regret. Immediate full-body cringe.

 

"Hey,"

 

I rasped, eyes jerking away from his chest to the cracked concrete between us.

 

He grinned.

 

Of course he fucking did.

 

"You moved in yesterday, right?"

 

I nodded, because apparently I had a death wish.

 

"Cool. I'm Keal."

 

He didn't offer a hand. Just leaned on the railing, letting his nameless bedwarmer drape over him like a cheap luxury coat. He was still watching me with that look-the kind that peeled your skin off layer by layer and dared you to pretend you liked it.

 

"I'm Ezran."

 

"Ezran"

 

He repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like it was something he'd taste later.

 

"Nice. You look like a science guy."

 

I blinked.

 

"Uh. I am."

 

"Yeah, you've got that whole don't-talk-to-me-I-have-midterms vibe."

 

I should've walked away.

Should've shut the door.

Should've scrubbed my brain with bleach.

 

Instead, I stayed. Like a dumbass. Like a moth to a shirtless, sarcastic, possibly bisexual flame.

 

And in my world?

That word doesn't exist. There is no word like that.

 

Because men only like women.

Women only like men.

Period.

 

No commas. No exceptions. No room to breathe.

 

Keal took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the tin can at his feet. Bullseye. Then he turned to the guy still wrapped around him and whispered something I couldn't hear-but it made him laugh.

 

And then, just like that, Keal nodded at me.

 

Like this was normal.

 

Like we were normal.

 

And he walked inside.

 

I stood there a minute longer, face numb, coffee forgotten.

 

Then I went back in.

 

And slammed the door.

 

Because now he had a name.

And that made him real.

And real things?

Real things fucking ruin you.

 

----

 

THANK YOU FOR READING.

 

[This is my first story. Please leave comments and let me know if you're enjoying it. I'll update regularly.]

 

-----

 

(To be continued)

Chapter 2: Ch 2: Before the Fall

Summary:

Keal Hyrjon—cocky, unfiltered, and unapologetically loud—first notices Ezran the day he moves in, dragging his sad cardboard life into the apartment complex. Keal sizes him up instantly: emotionally fried, twitchy, tightly wound—definitely not his type. But curiosity is a dangerous little thing, and Ezran’s repressed glances become a game Keal can't resist playing. What starts as casual amusement turns into a full-blown experiment in unraveling. Every moan Keal makes with someone else becomes a weapon, each morning a battlefield of silent stares and clenched jaws. He watches Ezran spiral—from denial to fascination to the first signs of inner crack—and Keal? He’s utterly hooked. Not for love. For the destruction. Because he doesn’t fall for people. He makes them fall apart—and Ezran Sharma is already halfway there. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Notes:

Note: English is not my first language. So please I'd really appreciate if my readers keep that in mind while reading. Happy Reading. Please leave comments.

(Chapter: 2)

Keal;

I noticed him the moment he moved in. No dramatic entrance. No flair. Just some guy dragging a box labeled "Kitchen Shit" up two flights of stairs like he was carrying the weight of his dead dreams in that cardboard coffin. Sweat soaked his shirt like sin clinging to a saint, hair sticking to his forehead in limp clumps, and eyes-those damn eyes-glassy with the kind of burnout you don't get from finals week. That was a man who'd been emotionally evicted long before his lease even started.

Funny. Not my type, though.

I mean, sure, I noticed him. I notice everything. You don't run four businesses in a city crawling with fake IDs, trust fund trash, and Instagram sex fiends without noticing shit. But him? He had that wide-eyed, twitchy energy of someone who didn't know if he was here to live, die, or cry about both.

And I don't fuck confused.
Confused gets clingy. Confused asks questions I don't have answers to. Confused assumes pillow talk is a gateway drug to relationships. I've danced with confused before. They always come with baggage and a playlist full of sad boy songs. They want to be saved. I'm not a savior-I'm the storm that drowns them.

He looked like a baby deer on the freeway. Or a virgin at a sex club, realizing the "Choke me, daddy" wasn't his massage to read.

Cute? Maybe. In a "don't come near me unless you want to spiral" sort of way. He didn't scream 'fuck me.' He is the type to whisper 'break me.'

And that's...boring.

That day, I was watering my plants. Shirtless, obviously. Not for the neighbors-habit. I like the sun. I like the way it licks at my skin. And yeah, maybe I like giving a free show. The abs cost me hours in the gym and a lifetime of trauma. Might as well get the appreciation I was never hugged for.

Before him, whoever lived in that apartment, I've fucked. Hell, I've probably fucked half this complex. Some of them twice. They knew the rules: no sleepovers, no cuddling, no kisses and no names unless you're screaming mine.

So when I caught him staring-frozen mid-laundry, toothbrush still in his mouth, boxers in one hand-I grinned.

Not my type.

Still...

He didn't look away.

He tried. Backed into his apartment like I'd pulled my dick out and recited some book named 'Gay Revelation 101'. But I saw it. That flicker. Not lust-yet. Disgust, confusion, panic. But underneath all that straight-boy denial was a seed. Just a little one.

Curiosity.

And curiosity is the first sin. The most terrifying sin.

I didn't dwell. I had shit to do. Liquor invoices, DJ schedules, supplier tantrums. When you run two bars, a strip club, and a lounge full of people who think mood lighting counts as personality, you learn to prioritize.

From noon to five? Businessman.

From eleven to five AM? Sin incarnate.

I flirt. I drink. I dance. I fuck. I rinse. I repeat. I live fast, reckless, and unapologetically loud. Because I know what silence tastes like. I know what it's like to grow up invisible, unheard, told to sit still and be someone I'm not. Fuck that. I'd rather burn out than fade in the background again.

So that night, I had someone over like every other night. A hotshot dancer. Flexible. Loud. The kind of guy who thinks astrology explains his toxic personality. I let him ride me until his knees gave out. He screamed. I growled. I don't fuck gentle. I fuck like I'm trying to erase myself in someone else's skin.

No apologies.

Next morning, I was out again. Coffee in one hand. Cigarette in the other. Shirt still MIA, of course. Why hide the goods? Society already forced me into pants; they're not getting my torso.

Then he came out.

Ezran.

Still looking like desire had personally throat-punched his soul.

His eyes locked on me like he couldn't decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees and pray.

And I knew.

He heard us. Every damn sound. Every moan, every curse, every filthy, degrading whisper I gave that dancer. I saw it in the way his ears turned pink, in the way his hand trembled holding that coffee cup.

I said, "Morning, neighbor," with my most casual, most sultry voice.

He choked.

On the coffee. On his thoughts. On the sheer panic of being caught in his own reaction.

Fucking nirvana.

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I kept my neutral face. Because repression? That shit's intoxicating.

Ezran-tight shoulders, clean lines, brows furrowed like judgment was a second language. Closet case, clearly. The type raised on shame and Sunday sermons. The kind who says "I'm not gay" like it's a prayer and not a lie.

And those are the ones who break best.

I wasn't obsessed. He is the kind I usually don't even bother to glance twice. But I watched him. Not in the creepy way. I didn't stalk. I observed. There's a difference. Creepers hide in shadows. I stand in the sun and dare them to meet my eyes.

He avoided mine.

Every time.

Until he didn't.

Until the morning I caught him staring again. This time through his window. Sitting in his table, probably his study table. But his eyes were anywhere but the book open in front of him. His eyes was on me. Hard. Confused. Curious. Thought he was slick. Thought a cracked curtain could hide him.

It couldn't.

I was shirtless again. This time doing nothing but existing. And he stared like he was angry at me for existing like that. Like I was tempting him. Like I was the reason his hands were shaking when he pulled the curtains.

I started timing it. Every night I had someone over, I'd catch glimpses of him the next morning. Eyes puffy. Face red. Like he hadn't slept. Like the walls weren't the only thing paper-thin. Like he hated the part of himself that liked the sounds I made someone else scream.

And hate?

Hate is almost as powerful as desire, if not more.

One night, I made it louder on purpose. Told the guy to beg louder. Told him to scream. Moan. Call me his God.

Ezran didn't come out the next morning.

But I saw the lights in his place flicker at 2 AM.

Saw the shadows pacing.

He was unraveling.

And I? I was fascinated.

There's something delicious about watching someone so tightly wound start to fray. Something holy in the destruction of something pure. Not because I want to hurt him.

But because I want to see what he becomes when he stops lying to himself.

The thing about repression is-it doesn't disappear. It festers. It grows teeth. It turns into obsession. And sooner or later, that boy is going to break. Maybe it'll be a drunken mistake. Maybe it'll be a whispered confession. Maybe he'll just snap and get on his knees and beg to god like he thinks it'll fix something.

It won't. Because the next time he'll kneel, I'll be his God.

Only God.

Just to see how fast he falls.

Because that's what I do. I don't love. That shit is for stupid people. I unravel. I ruin. I teach people how to set fire to their old selves and dance in the ashes. And Ezran Sharma?

He's already burning.

He just doesn't know it yet.

----

THANK YOU FOR READING.

Chapter 3: Ch 3: Echos of want

Summary:

A call from home unravels Ezran’s fragile denial, but it’s a misdelivered package that shoves him straight into Keal’s world—wet skin, bourbon breath, and chaos wrapped in a towel. He should’ve walked away. Instead, he stepped inside. And now? He’s not sure he can ever stop.

Notes:

Note: Hello, fellow readers. English is not my first language. So please be considerate while reading. Happy reading. And please leave comments. Its my first story. Your opinion means a lot.

(Chapter 3)

Ezran;

The phone rang at 6:15 p.m., the screen lighting up with “Maa” like a summons from a past I couldn’t outrun. I stared at it on the kitchen counter, my hands frozen mid-chop over a half-diced onion. The knife trembled in my grip, my pulse hammering in my throat. I knew what was coming. Same script, different day. But today? Today, I was already a mess of guilt and shame, my skin crawling with the memory of last night’s betrayal—my hand, my cock, Keal’s voice in my head like a fucking demon I couldn’t exorcise.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel, the rough fabric scraping my palms like penance, and picked up the phone. “Hello, Maa,” I said, voice flat, trying to sound normal, like I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours spiraling into a pit of self-loathing.

“Ezran, beta, Howre you?” Her voice was warm, laced with that mix of love and expectation that always made my chest ache. “Are you eating timely? You’re not skipping meals, are you?”

“Hmm, haan, Maa,” I mumbled, leaning against the counter, my eyes fixed on the cracked tile floor. My stomach twisted, not from hunger but from the weight of what I’d done. Jerking off to Keal. To a man. His name burned in my brain, a sin I couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard I’d tried in that bathroom at 3 a.m.

“Accha, listen,” she continued, her tone shifting to that familiar lecture mode. “Your Papa and I were talking. Now you’re in a new city, new apartment, new job. You have to be careful, beta. These places, they have all kinds of people. Bad influences. You know how it is—alcohol, drugs, wrong company. Stay away from all that nonsense. You're our good boy.”

“Ji, Maa,” I said automatically, my voice hollow. Good boy. The words landed like a slap, stinging worse than the soap I’d scrubbed my hands with last night. Good boys didn’t imagine their neighbor—a man—fucking them, didn’t beg for it in their head, didn’t come so hard they sobbed afterward. Good boys didn’t hide in their apartment, avoiding their balcony because they were terrified of seeing him again, shirtless, smirking, like he knew exactly what he’d done to me.

“Ezran, are you even listening?” Her voice sharpened, pulling me back. “I’m serious. You’re alone there, no family to guide you. Don’t get mixed up with the wrong crowd. Focus on your work, your studies. Find a nice girl, settle down soon. Your cousin Anil, he’s getting engaged next month. You’re not getting younger, beta.”

“Haan, accha,” I rasped, my throat tight. A nice girl. Settle down. The life I was supposed to want, the one I’d been raised for—clean, straight, normal. My family’s world was black-and-white: men marry women, have kids, build a life. No room for gray, no space for the way my body had reacted to Keal’s voice, his body, his existence. I pressed my free hand to my forehead, my skin clammy, my heart pounding like it wanted to escape my chest.

“And beta,” she went on, oblivious to the war inside me, “stay away from those modern types, you know? The ones who don’t respect our values. Drinking, partying, living like they have no shame. You’re from a good family. Don’t let anyone pull you into their dirty ways.”

“Ji, Maa,” I whispered, my voice cracking. Dirty. The word hit like a knife, slicing through the thin armor I’d tried to build since last night. I was dirty. Filthy. Wrong. I’d grown up hearing it—homosexuality was a sin, a sickness, a choice you didn’t make unless you were broken. My uncle’s voice echoed in my head from years ago, spitting about “those people” at a family dinner, how they were unnatural, how they’d burn in hell. And now I was one of them, wasn’t I? My hand shook, the phone slipping slightly against my ear.

“Ezran, what happened? You sound off. Are you sick?” Her concern was a fresh wound, because I didn’t deserve it. I wasn’t her good boy anymore. I was a liar, a coward, a disgusting fuck who’d defiled himself to thoughts of a man who didn’t even know what he’d done to me.

“Nah, Maa, just tired,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “Long day at work.”

“Accha, take rest then. But promise me, beta, you’ll stay on the right path. We trust you. You’re our pride.”

“Hmm,” I managed, the sound choking me. Pride. I wanted to laugh, bitter and broken, but instead I just stood there, my eyes burning, my chest caving in. I was their shame, their failure, if they ever knew. If they knew what I’d done, what I’d felt, what I couldn’t stop feeling.

“Okay, beta, I’ll call tomorrow. Take care. Love you.”

“Love you too, Maa,” I said, the words mechanical, and hung up before she could hear the hitch in my breath.

I dropped the phone on the counter, my hands gripping the edge, my knuckles white. The kitchen spun, the onion’s sharp smell mixing with the sour taste of guilt in my mouth. I was dying inside, every word from Maa a hammer to the cracks Keal had already carved into me. Stay away from bad influences. Keal was the definition of bad—loud, shameless, fucking men like it was his birthright, flaunting it on his balcony like a middle finger to everything I’d been taught. And I’d liked it. I’d jerked off to it, come to it, cried over it.

I slid to the floor, my back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest. My hands shook as I dragged them through my hair, tugging hard, like the pain could pull Keal out of my head. But he was there, his smirk, his tattoos, his voice—“Beg for it, Ezran”—and my body reacted again, a traitor even now, my dick twitching in my jeans like it hadn’t learned its lesson.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice breaking. I pressed my palms to my eyes, hot tears leaking through, because I was wrong. So fucking wrong. Where I came from, this wasn’t just a mistake—it was a death sentence. Not literal, maybe, but social, emotional, familial. My parents would disown me. My cousins would mock me. My world would collapse, and for what? A neighbor I didn’t even know, who’d probably laugh if he knew how much he’d fucked me up?

He knew I’d heard him that night. Maybe he knew more—maybe he could see the disgusting truth I was trying to hide. And the worst part? I wanted him to see me again. I wanted his attention. I wanted to be on my knees, to know what his hands felt like, what his mouth felt like, and that thought made me want to puke.

I wasn’t raised for this. I was raised for Sunday pujas, for engineering degrees, for a wife I didn’t love but married anyway. I was raised to be straight, to be good, to be safe. But Keal was none of those things, and now neither was I. I was a hypocrite, a sinner, a man who said “Ji, Maa” while his soul screamed for something he could never have, never be.

I stayed on the floor until the kitchen grew dark, the onion forgotten, my coffee cold. I didn’t move, didn’t eat, didn’t dare step onto the balcony. Because if I saw him again, I didn’t know if I’d run—or if I’d fall.

And falling wasn’t an option.

Not when I was already broken.

 

The package squatted on my doormat like it had been waiting for me to blink first.

It wasn’t mine. My name—Ezran Sharma—would never be scrawled so recklessly across a cardboard box, all smudged ink and jagged capitals screaming indifference. The label read Keal Hyrjon, the letters bleeding into each other like they were trying to escape. The tape along one seam curled upward, half-peeled, as if the box itself was itching to spill its secrets.

I stood there, frozen in the dim hallway of our crumbling apartment block, staring at it for a solid seven minutes. My sneakers scuffed the worn linoleum, the only sound in a building that always felt too quiet at dusk. The box didn’t move, but it might as well have pulsed. It wasn’t going to explode—not literally. But I knew what it meant to knock on his door.

My skin prickled, a warning I ignored.

I could leave it. Let the hallway’s resident thieves claim it. Blame the delivery guy, who must’ve been drunk or cursed to drop this at my door, of all places. Not my problem. Not my fault.

But that would be wrong.

Wouldn’t it?

My hand hovered, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to obey. The air felt thick, pressing against my chest.

Just grab it. Knock. Drop it. Leave. You don’t have to see him.

But my brain, ever the traitor, whispered something worse.

What if he’s not alone?

What if I knocked and heard it again—that sound? The slap of skin, stifled gasps, the bed frame’s rhythmic creak like a taunt. What if he opened the door and I saw a her—or a him—lounging in the half-dark, wearing nothing but a smirk and his borrowed shirt? What if I had to stand there, clutching this stupid box, while my pulse betrayed me?

My stomach churned, acid climbing my throat.

I crouched, snatched the box—its edges sharp enough to bite—and marched three doors down. The hallway stretched, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air was stale, heavy with the ghost of cigarette smoke and regret. My knuckles rapped against his door before I could talk myself out of it.

One beat. Two. Three... why he's not opening?

Knock.

 

The door swung open, and the world tilted.

Keal Hyrjon stood there, fresh from a shower, a vision carved from reckless abandon. His dark hair was slicked back, wet strands clinging to his forehead, dripping onto his collarbone. A low-slung towel clung to his hips, barely holding on, water tracing slow, indecent paths down his chest. A thin silver chain glinted against his skin, half-tangled at the hollow of his throat. His chest...that tattoo. I couldn’t make out what  his tattoo was saying that day. But now? Now its clear. "Worship at my altar, baby" a single sentence carved at his chest in black ink. His one hand rested on the doorframe, casual, like he hadn’t just shattered every defense I’d built.

“Yo,” he said, voice low and gravelly, still laced with sleep. “What’s good?”

I forgot how to form words. My mouth went dry, I gulp down. My grip on the box tightening until the cardboard creaked.

“Uh.” I thrust it toward him like a shield. “This...this got dropped at my place.”

His hunter eyes flicked to the box, then back to me. A slow, easy smile curled his lips—not smug, not predatory, just… disarming. “Shit, my bad. Thanks, man. Ezran,  right ?”

He took it with one hand, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. My skin burned where they’d grazed.

I turned to leave, my boots heavy, already halfway to safety.

“Hey, hold up.” His voice stopped me cold. “You wanna come in? Least I can do is pour you a drink.”

My pulse stuttered.

'Say no. Walk away. Now.' My mind screamed.

“I—uh, I shouldn’t,” I stammered, hating how small my voice sounded. “Just wanted to—”

“C’mon, one drink.” He stepped back, holding the door wider, his towel shifting slightly lower. “Don’t make me beg, neighbor.”

My brain screamed to run. My body, traitor that it was, stepped inside.

His apartment was a fever dream of chaos and warmth and...luxury. The air hit me like a wave—soap, cigarette smoke, and something faintly cedarwood, faint alcohol and...oddly Keal. Clothes littered the floor: a flannel shirt crumpled by the door, a pair of jeans slung over a chair. An ashtray teetered on a stack of dog-eared books, cigarette butts spilling over the edge. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the kitchen table, catching the dim glow of a single overhead bulb. A hoodie draped across a chair seemed to watch me, its sleeves limp like it had given up.

 

And there, by the sagging couch, a crumpled condom wrapper glinted under the light.

My neck snapped as I looked away, heat crawling up my face. I shoved my hands into my pockets, fingers curling into fists.

“Sorry for the mess,” Keal said, not sounding a bit of a sorry.  He went striding past me with the box tucked under one arm. His towel swayed dangerously, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. “My usual crowd doesn’t give a shit about tidiness, y’know. And neither I'm any clean freak. Haha.”

That laugh. Low, careless, like he was sharing a private joke I wasn’t in on.

Usual crowd. Right. They come-strip-fuck-and-leave kind. The kind who leave their wrappers and their marks and don’t care who sees.

I swallowed, my throat tight with something I fail to recognise.

He vanished into the kitchen nook, setting the box down with a muffled clink. Glasses clinked, liquid sloshed. He didn’t ask what I wanted—just poured two fingers of something into mismatched mugs and slid one across the counter toward me. I caught it before it could spill, my fingers brushing the handle, still warm from his grip.

“I saw you that day. Med student, if I remember right. Yeah?” he said, leaning against the counter, one hip cocked. His towel dipped lower, revealing a faint trail of dark hair. He was still shirtless, skin still damp, utterly unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of the havoc he was wreaking havoc. “Thought I’d seen you around.”

I nodded, my voice stuck somewhere deep. “Yeah. 3B.”

“Cool. I’m 3E. Been here a year and change. Place is a dump, but it’s got… character.” He grinned, sipping from his mug, his throat working as he swallowed.

“I've never tried alcohol,” I blurted, desperate to fill the silence. “I...I dont know. Just not something....we do. Conservative family.”  Stupid stupid me. Ezran, just die. Did he asked you!

His brows lifted. “No kidding? That’s hardcore. I can't live a day without my vodka, tonic, gin. Even got my business. Pubs, clubs, bars and all—only if I bother to show up.”

I clutched my mug, the bourbon–as he said, fumes stinging my nose. I don't drink. Never drank.

Keal’s phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with an unsaved number I couldn’t read. He glanced at it, then ignored it, his attention sliding back to me. “So, you been here recently?”

“Few weeks,” I said, my voice steadier now. “Came to this country last month.”

“Nice. You settling in okay? Your place can be a lot.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the building, maybe the whole damn city.

I nodded, glancing at the sin-drink at my hand to avoid answering. The bourbon was looking expensive, but I wouldn't know.  Never had any.

He wasn’t looking at me—not really. His gaze drifted to the box he’d set on the counter, then back to the room, like he was half-lost in thought. He wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t trying to charm me. He was just… there, existing with an ease that made my chest ache with something unfamiliar.

And that was the worst part.

Because I wasn’t just there. Not with the way my pulse hammered every time he shifted. Not with the way my eyes kept snagging on the chain at his throat, the tattoo on his left chest, the way his fingers curled loosely around his mug. Not with the way I was drowning in his orbit, and he didn’t even notice.

---

The box sat on the counter like an accusation. Its edges were dented now, the label’s ink smudged worse than before. I wondered what was inside—something mundane, like textbooks or takeout menus? Or something heavier, like the kind of trouble that followed guys like Keal? The kind that ended in late-night fights or hushed deals in back alleys?

“You get a lot of packages?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He glanced at the box, then at me, his smile just goofy. “Sometimes. Just the usual–lubes, condoms and a toy or two."

I choked on air. How can he say something as if he's reading weather reports. I don’t want to know. Or maybe I do, and that scared me more.

His phone buzzed again, insistent. This time, he picked it up, thumbing the screen with a frown. “Clingy ass” he muttered, tossing it back down.

I should’ve left then. Set the mug down, mumbled thanks, and bolted. But my feet stayed rooted, my fingers tight around the ceramic.

“You ever get used to it?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant. “The noise. The chaos.”

He tilted his head, studying me for the first time—lthere was not a bit of seriousness in his eyes. As if everything is just 'have fun, toss away and move on'. “Boy, I run multiple bars, clubs, pubs. Noise and chaos is my life. And life's too short to be Prim and proper.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Yet I muttered, "I'm not boy. I'm 24." He was absolutely what I was taught to stay away from for my entire life. But...there's a but. And I don't have any explanation for it.

He laughed. Loud. Carefree. "And I'm 31, med-boy."

My eyes widened. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Keal sipped his bourbon, his eyes drifting to the window where the city’s lights bled through the blinds. I followed his gaze, catching the faint reflection of us in the glass—him, in nothing but a loose towel and unbothered, me, stiff and unraveling.

“I should go,” I said, setting the mug down with a clink. The bourbon sloshed, nearly spilling.

“Yeah? Alright.” He straightened, pushing off the counter. “Thanks again for the delivery, Ezran.”

My name in his mouth hit like a shockwave. I only told him my name once. I didn’t think he'd even remember it.

I nodded, muttered something incoherent, and made for the door. My hand was on the knob when he spoke again.

“Yo, 3B.” I glanced back. He was leaning against the doorframe, towel still precarious, eyes glinting with his usual cocky mischief, "Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

I managed a nod, then fled.

 

---

Back in my apartment, the walls closed in. My hands shook as I locked the door, the click too loud in the quiet. I sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, the bourbon’s smell still lingering on my mind.

I didn’t sleep that night. Couldn't.

Not because of what Keal said. Not because of the way he looked, half-naked and untouchable. Not because of the condom wrapper or the buzzing phone or the box with its smudged, cryptic label.

But because of what didn’t happen.

Because he, the Keal who supposedly fucks like a madman, hadn’t flirted. Hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t done anything but offer a drink and a smile.

And that normalcy—that indifference—was what carved me hollow.

I lay there, replaying every second, every glance, every word. The box loomed in my memory, its contents a question I wasn’t sure I wanted answered. And Keal, with his careless charm and shadowed edges, felt like a puzzle I’d never solve.

But the worst part? The part that kept me staring into the dark until dawn?

I knew I’d knock on his door again. And I'm already hating myself for it.

----

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Chapter 4: Ch 4: Hands and Hesitations

Summary:

After breaking up a bar fight with his fists, Keal returns home bruised and bloodied—only to run into Ezran in the hallway. What starts as casual teasing turns into unexpected tension when Ezran insists on treating Keal’s wounds. Inside Ezran’s spotless apartment, a moment of physical contact sparks something raw and electric. Ezran panics, Keal smirks, but both are left shaken. Keal brushes it off—Ezran isn’t his type—but the lingering heat in his chest says otherwise.

Notes:

Note: Hiii, everyone. Or maybe.. just one. Anyways, thank you for giving Sin to Priest a chance. Please know that English is not my first language. So please be considerate about my grammatical mistakes and other deeds. Let me know how you feel about it. And also let me know if you advice any improvement in my writing style. Love you.

(Chapter 4)

Keal;

I wasn’t supposed to throw punches anymore. Not with these hands. These were my money-makers now—long, calloused fingers that signed liquor licenses and smoothed over polished mahogany countertops, not ones meant to split lips or crack jaws. I’d sworn I’d left that life behind, the one where my knuckles were always scabbed and my nights ended in sirens. But some nights, the itch for violence crawls under my skin like a fever, and I’m right back in the muck.

The second those kids swaggered into my bar, I knew they were trouble. Underage fuckers, no question—baby-faced, drowning in too much cologne, with daddy’s credit cards burning holes in their pockets and mommy’s arrogance etched into their sneers. Leather jackets too new to be broken in, hair gelled to hell, and that try-hard bravado that makes my blood hum with the urge to teach them a lesson. It took them less than an hour to prove me right. One of them groped a waitress’s ass, another sparked a turf war over a spilled drink, and suddenly my bar was a powder keg with a lit fuse.

I could’ve stayed out of it. Should’ve. Let my bouncers handle the mess. But when your name’s on the deed and the liquor license, you can’t just stand by while a pack of drunk, hormonal hyenas tears your floors apart. Besides, I was already on edge—I hadn’t slept more than four hours in three days, okay, that's an excuse. I was just fucking. Though, I waded in.

They started it. The blonde one, all of nineteen with a trust fund smirk, tossed his drink like a toddler denied a toy. Glass shattered across my bar counter, amber liquid pooling like piss. His buddy, a lanky prick with a man-bun, threw slurs at my bartender like confetti, ranting about respect and service like he owned the damn place. I tried to play nice—flashed my customer-service grin, offered them free drinks to cool off. Keal the diplomat, keeping the peace.

Then the tall one spit on my floor.

So yeah. I cracked his nose. And maybe a rib or two.

Ten minutes later, my knuckles were split, my shirt was sticky with their blood, and a bruise was blooming across my jaw like a storm cloud. Still looked sexy, though—just a little more rugged, like I’d stepped out of a gritty movie poster. The cops showed up, but they knew me well enough to let it slide after I comped their next round. Perks of owning the most decent (Lie), luxurious bars in this entire city.

I limped back to my apartment building like I didn’t give a fuck. Because I didn’t. If I bled a little on the carpet in the hallway, maybe the old landlady would finally replace that god-awful shit, okay, fineee. It's not that awful, I just don't like the colour, in my defense. I climbed the elevator. I remember fucking that redhead here– wait, or was that blonde? Or blackhead? Fuck if I remember or care.

When I reached my floor, I fumbled with my keys, the metallic jingle loud in the quiet hall. That’s when I heard it—footsteps. Not the clumsy thuds of the neighbor’s kid or the soft shuffle of Ms. Lee’s house slippers. These were light, hesitant, like someone trying not to be noticed. My hand stilled on the doorknob, every nerve in my body going taut. I turned.

And there he was.

Ezran Sharma, standing at the end of the hall, clutching a trash bag like it was a lifeline. His plain white t-shirt and jeans too clean, his dark hair swept back but slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His dark-brown eyes widened when they landed on me, taking in the busted lip, the bruise purpling my cheek, the blood staining my shirt. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, his lips parting but no sound coming out.

“Sup, med-guy,” I drawled, leaning against my doorway with my ever charming grin. My voice was rough, scraped raw from yelling over the bar fight.

He flinched, just a little, his fingers tightening on the trash bag until the plastic crinkled. “You’re bleeding,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

I glanced down at my knuckles, raw and glistening under the flickering hallway light. “Bar brawl. Romantic, right? Looks worse than it is. That fat-ass fucker got it worse, trust me.”

Ezran’s eyes darted to my hands, then back to my face, his brows knitting together in that worried way that made him look like a kicked puppy. “You… you should disinfect that,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “It’s… not clean. It may cause...”

I snorted, amused by how he couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Forgot you’re a med student. The charity type, huh?”

He froze, his face flushing his honey-brown skin. “It’s… it’s not charity,” he said with a hint of stubbornness, his voice shaky but insistent, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “It’s just… right.”

Oh, fuck me sideways. Mr. Saint Ezran, savior of the reckless. I rolled my eyes, pushing off the doorframe. “Well, doc, I appreciate the concern, but I’m good. And it's nothing serious, anyways.” I turned back to my door, jangling my keys for emphasis.

“Wait—” he blurted, then immediately clapped his mouth shut, like he regretted it the second it left his lips.

I pivoted slowly, one brow arched. “What’s that?”

He shifted on his feet, the trash bag rustling in his grip. His eyes flicked to the floor, then back to me, nervous and unsteady. “You… I mean… you should let me… look at it,” he stammered, barely audible but insistent. “It’s… it’s not a big deal.”

I laughed, low and rough. “You offering to play nurse, Doc?”

His face went bright red, the flush creeping up his neck and ears. It was almost too easy to mess with him. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but instead, he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It… it could get infected,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on anywhere but me. “I… I have a kit. It’ll take… five minutes.”

I opened my mouth to brush him off, but he spoke again, his voice so shaky that I almost missed it. “Please?”

That got a smirk out of me. “Bruh, I get worse than this on a slow Tuesday.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, clutching that damn trash bag, his eyes big and pleading. But there was something stubborn in them, though—a quiet refusal to back down, even if he looked like he might pass out from nerves. And something in me twitched. Curiosity, maybe. Or boredom. Or maybe the tiniest flicker of interest in seeing those ears turn red again. Fuck, it was adorable.

“Fine,” I sighed, all dramatic flair, like I was doing him a favor. “Lead the way, Dr. Charity trip.”

His apartment was a shock to the system. Spotless. Organized. Freakishly so for a bachelor foreign student living on his own. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something herbal—tea, probably. Books and notes were stacked in neat towers on a small desk, folders labeled in precise handwriting. Medical textbooks with titles I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole loomed like sentinels. The bed was made with military precision, the blanket tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. It was the opposite of my place—the largest apartment in the building, sure, but a chaotic mess of empty beer bottles, condoms, takeout containers, and clothes I’d meant to wash last week.

“Careful,” I said, eyeing a precarious stack of books as I stepped inside. “Don’t wanna knock over your life’s work.”

Ezran didn’t respond, just gestured vaguely toward the bed, his hand trembling slightly. “Um… sit,” he mumbled, barely meeting my eyes before scurrying to a drawer to grab his first-aid kit. His movements were jerky, like he was second-guessing every step.

I sat, the mattress barely dipping under my weight. He fumbled with the kit, nearly dropping it, and I had to bite back a grin. Poor guy was a mess. As he rummaged, the collar of his t-shirt shifted, exposing a sliver of skin above his collarbone. And there it was—a tiny mole, barely noticeable, just a speck against his warm, honey-brown skin.

My eyes locked onto it like it was glowing neon. It wasn’t even sexy,...that much. Just… his. Something small and real on someone who always seemed so nervous, so tightly wound. My fingers itched, and I told myself to knock it off.

Don’t touch.

Don’t touch.

Don’t—

“Fuck it,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?” Ezran’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, the kit clutched to his chest like a shield.

“Nothing.” I leaned back, casual as hell, like I wasn’t just fighting the urge to do something stupid.

He shuffled over, kneeling awkwardly in front of me like I was some wounded puppy he wasn’t sure how to approach. He opened the kit, and a faint scent hit me—crushed bluebells, warm and clean, mixed with the antiseptic sting of alcohol wipes. It was his smell, I realized, and it did something weird to my pulse. Calmed it, almost. What the actual fuck.

He worked in silence, dabbing at my knuckles with a swab that burned like a motherfucker. I didn’t flinch, just watched him—his brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, anxious line. His hands shook as he worked, and he kept his eyes glued to my knuckles, like looking at me might make him combust. That mole kept drawing my eye, a tiny imperfection on his otherwise flawless skin. My hand moved before I could stop it, two fingers brushing softly against the spot, right over the mole.

Ezran jerked back like I’d burned him. His breath hitched, loud in the quiet room, and he froze, his entire body going stiff. His eyes flicked to mine, wide and panicked, and for a split second, the air between us turned thick—hot, heavy, charged with something I hadn’t expected. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his face flaming red, his hands hovering uselessly over the first-aid kit.

I pulled my hand back, grinning like it was no big deal. “Oopsie,” I said, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Didn’t know you were so touchy, doc.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even breathe, it seemed like. Just stared at the floor, his fingers gripping the alcohol swab so tight it crumpled. Then, slowly, he went back to bandaging my knuckles, his movements jerky but so much confident. Yet his hands were shaking worse now, and his breathing was uneven, like he was fighting to keep it together.

I leaned forward slightly, testing the waters. “You good, Ezran? Looking a little spooked.”

“I-I’m fine,” he stammered too fast, too defensive, his eyes still fixed on my hand. He fumbled with the bandage, dropping it once before managing to wrap it around my knuckles.

“Sure you are.” I smirked, settling back. It was fun, watching him unravel like this.

He finished in record time, practically leaping to his feet and putting a solid three feet between us. “Um… you’re done,” he mumbled, shoving the kit back into the drawer with shaky hands. “Just… don’t… don’t get into another fight. Youre not a kid.”

“No promises,” I said, standing and stretching, my joints popping loudly. I gave him a slow once-over, letting my gaze linger just long enough to make him fidget. “Thanks, doc. You’re alright.”

He nodded, short and jerky, his eyes darting to the door like he was praying I’d leave. “Good night,” he mumbled.

I sauntered out, tossing a lazy wave over my shoulder. But as I stepped into the hallway, my grin faded. My chest felt tight, and my fingers still tingled where I’d touched his skin. Ezran Sharma wasn’t my type—not even close. Too quiet, too nervous, too painfully self-contained. I liked my men loud, messy, uncomplicated. So why the hell was I standing in my doorway, wondering what he’d look under me? What his voice would sound like, rough and desperate, moaning my name, begging under me?

“Goddamn,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face. I really am stressed.

----

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Chapter 5: Ch 5: The smell of Forbidden

Summary:

Ezran gets dragged to a club against his will, only to run face-first into trouble—AKA Keal, his ridiculously hot, morally-questionable neighbor. One spilled drink, one shirtless moment, and a shirt that smells like sin later… Ezran’s night takes a turn he definitely wasn’t ready for.

Notes:

Note: Hello, fellow readers. English is not my first language. So please be considerate while reading. Happy reading. And please leave comments. Its my first story. Your opinion means a lot.

(Chapter 5)

Ezran;

I should've known they were planning something the moment Mathew turned around in class and grinned at me like a little bitch.

We were halfway through our evening practical, dissecting cadaver lungs and pretending we weren't all on the verge of burnout, when the conversation derailed like it always did.

"Who's finally stepping out tonight," Tanya, my batch mate whispered, elbowing me like we were twelve.
I didn't bother looking up from the shriveled bronchi in my tray. "Whoever it is, tell them to stay indoors. The planet's already overpopulated with dumb decisions."

"No, you are," Matthew smirked. "And we're making it happen, med-nerd."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"We're going out," Tanya said. "There's a new cocktail at The Sin-Corner. And guess who owns the place now?"

Rehan leaned in like he was about to drop state secrets. "A guy who is hot as fuck. I've been with him once and swear to all God, he's a walking sex god." He bite his lips as if he's reliving the moments right then and there. "Monster dick, too."

"Sounds like an STD waiting to happen."

They ignored me, of course. I was outnumbered. The boring one.

-----

 

I should've fought harder. I knew this was a bad idea the moment I stepped into the club.

The lights were too low, the music too loud, and my friends were too excited for someone who just wanted to go home, microwave some leftover paratha, and read about lung infections.
But no. "One drink, Ez," those idiots said. "You can get a mocktail."
Mocktail, my ass. I'd rather drink bleach.

"I don't even drink," I muttered for the fifth time, as if saying it out loud would teleport me home.

"You can get a virgin mojito," Tanya chirped, dragging me toward the bar. "Just because you're the morality police doesn't mean we have to be."

I scoffed. "I just have a sense of dignity."

"Yeah, and a stick up your ass," Rehan added. "Come on. We're celebrating Tanya's breakup."

"I didn't even like him," she said with a laugh. "I'm more sad about losing access to his Netflix."

I sighed and followed, shoulders tense, jaw tight, brain begging to be anywhere else.

And then I saw him.

In the back corner, half-hidden by shadows and red club lights.

Leaning against a wall like he owned the air.

Tall. Smirking. One arm slung casually around a girl who was wearing a skimpy excuse of cloth. His arms wrapped in that girl's thigh. Hand sneaking inside the fabric. The girls head thrown back, his mouth on her throat.

Keal.

Of course it had to be him.

His shirt was black, half-unbuttoned,
Matthew followed my gaze. "Oh my god. The guy. That's hot as hell."

Rehan chirped, "He's Keal. Club owner. And my, well, ex-hookup. He's reminding me of my days when I was too satisfied and too sore to move from bed."

Tanya whistled. "He looks like a good time in bed."

I clenched my jaw. "He looks characterless."

They turned to me, blinking.
"What?"

I shrugged. "It's just... whoring around isn't impressive. Hooking up with random girls in a club. That's not hot, that's just... characterless." I didn't even realize I'd said it until it was out there, bitter and judgmental. Typical me. Keal looked like freedom, and me? I was the locked door.

Before I could apology for my judgemental bitchy words, he noticed us.

Of course he did.

That smirk slid across his face like oil on fire. And then he moved-ditching the girl without a second glance and heading straight for us like we'd summoned him.

"Neighbor." Keal drawled, voice smooth and wicked. "Didn't think the studious one had a nightlife. And you brought friends."

"Hi," Tanya breathed like she forgot how lungs worked.

"Damn," he said, turning to the group, eyes skimming them slowly, intentionally. "Hot bunch. Drinks are half off tonight. Neighbor's privileges."

"Neighbor?" Rehan blinked.

Keal winked, maybe not reminding Rehan is his ex-hookup or maybe not caring enough. "He didn't tell you? Lives next door. Quiet little thing. Likes to glare at me through the balcony like I've killed his favourite puppy."

"I do not-"
They all turned to me. I shut up.

-----

Keal was lounging near the bar now, between me and Tanya, sipping something orange and dangerous-looking. Tanya caught his eye first-obviously-and within seconds, he was leaning against the counter beside her.

"Yours?" he asked, nodding at her drink with his deep sultry voice.
Tanya laughed, tucking hair behind her ear as if suddenly she was shy. "Unless you're offering something better."

He tilted his head, leaned closer to her, "Everything I offer's better."

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my brain.

Keal laughed at something Tanya said-low, deep, flirtatious, effortless. His hand grazed her thigh, just light enough to be deniable.
It wasn't romantic. He wasn't wooing her. He was playing.

She knew it. She was participating in it. And even enjoying it.

My stomach twisted, heat pooling somewhere under my ribs. Disgust, I told myself. It was just disgust.

What kind of guy hits on someone while their ex-fling stands two feet away?

A whore, that's who.

Then someone shoved past me, drink sloshing, laughter rising-
A spill.
A splash.

Straight across Keal's chest straining his shirt.

"Oh, shit," Tanya winced.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Keal looked down, unfazed. "Ah, it's fine. This happens. I should start wearing garbage bag, honestly."

But my panic kicked in. "You can't just leave it like that. That's... that looks like pure silk. Give it...it to me. I'll return it to you after washing."

The group stared.
"You... you're gonna do his laundry?"
"He is my neighbour and I ruined his shirt," I snapped.

Keal chuckled low. "Ezran, darlin', you want me shirtless that bad? You could've just asked. And you get to witness my godly body everyday."

Rehan chirped, "Bless your eyes, Ez." And Keal, he winked at him.

I glared at them. "No-wait," I said too quickly. "That's... that looks expensive."

He waved it off. "I've got backups."

"Still," I said stepping forward, almost shoving his hand away when he reached for a napkin. "Just give it. I'll clean it. Return it tomorrow."

And then-he pulled it off.

Just like that.

With zero hesitation. In public. One motion. Gone. Chest bare, single tattoo flexing under the lights, that stupid smug smile on his lips.

He tossed the ruined shirt into my hands like it was nothing. "Try not to get off to it."

I nearly choked. "I-what the-"

But he was already gone.

And I? I stood frozen, clutching a damp, warm, sinfully expensive shirt that smelled faintly like cedarwood, smoke, alcohol and bad decisions a.k.a Keal.

We left around 09:13 PM. By we, I mean only me.
I didn't see him return to the building until 2:17AM.
I heard his door click shut through my bedroom wall.

And the shirt?

Still warm when I pulled it from my bag.

I didn't plan to touch it. I really didn't. But my fingers slipped over the soaked fabric. My nose brushed against it. Accident. Subconscious. Whatever the hell.

It smelled like him.

I didn't realise I closed my eyes.
I didn't realise I leaned into it.

Just for a second.

Just-

Riiinnnng.

My phone.
Home.

I dropped the shirt like it burned me.
Wiped my hands on my bedsheet like I'd been caught with blood instead of fabric.

"Hello?"
My voice was stiff. Controlled.

Like nothing happened.
Like I wasn't just breathing in the scent of a man. Something which should be disgusting. But felt oddly calming.

---

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Chapter 6: Ch 6: I don't feel for him.

Summary:

Ezran struggles with internalized shame over his feelings for Keal. Keal invites him out to a gaming zone, dragging him out of his self-loathing. They spend the day together, laughing and bonding. On the way back, Ezran falls asleep in Keal’s car, waking to find Keal watching him quietly — both of them feeling something neither is ready to admit.

Notes:

Hello, fellow readers. Hope you're enjoying the story. Please keep tuned. Leave Kudos and comments if you're liking it. And English is not my first language yet I tried to make it as flawless as I could. Please be considerate while reading.
Happy reading.
Stay hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 6)

Ezran;

"Pervert."
"Disgusting."
"Like animals. Publicly. No shame at all."
"Filthy. If he were my son, I'd have died of shame by now."

These words haunting me from last night. Maa's words. She was talking about Jovan-my cousin.
Caught hugging another boy.

Not kissing.
Not touching.
Not moaning someone's name in a dark bathroom while imagining someone- a man doing things that were both disgusting and degrading.

Just... hugging.

My chest felt too tight, like all the oxygen in my room had packed up and fled for safer lungs.

And yet, here I was.

Clutching a shirt that made me think of things that were filthy, shameful.

A man's shirt.
Keal's shirt.
It smelled like him and made me feel things I'd never known-warmth, hunger... oddly, peace.

I scrubbed my face. Hard. Painfully hard. Then harder. I reached for the shirt and shoved it into a paper bag, my fists tight around the fabric, as if hurting it could erase the distasteful images from my mind.

I stood outside his door longer than I should have.

It was just a shirt.

A stupid shirt with his scent soaked into the seams.

I knocked. No answer.
Why does this asshole never open the door at a decent knock?
I knocked again, louder than polite.

Mumbled words.
A heavy groan.
Footsteps.
A pause.

Then the door creaked open.

Keal.

Hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed. It's 11:38 AM, for fuck's sake.
Shirtless again, because apparently this man has zero sense of decency.

His eyes flicked over me. "Hey." His voice was rough, sleep-soaked. And something inside my stomach... just happened.

I shoved the bag forward. "Here. Your shirt. Washed and dried."

He took it. "Mhmm." Voice still sleep soaked.
My eyes fixed on his tattoo-"Worship at my altar, baby." Worship? Yeah, Keal was short of a god. Wealth, looks... everything. A god. My go- What the actual fuck? No. What was I even thinking?
Then he yawned, his eyes dragging too slowly over my face. "You good?"
That was it. No teasing. No snark. No smug jokes about me sniffing it before bed.

I mumbled something incoherent before practically running back to my room, as if my ass were on fire.

I was preparing lunch when a knock sounded at my door. Who could it be? I wasn't expecting any visitor. Still wearing my kitchen apron, I approached the door and peeked through the peephole. Someone was covering it.

"Who's there?" I asked irritated thinking it might be some kid from building.

"Queen Elizabeth's twelfth boyfriend speaking."

Keal.

That asshole doesn't know how to answer like a civilized human. Cause he basically represents the antonym of civilized.

I opened the door and immediately regretted it, knowing I looked like a mess while he stood there as if he'd just stepped out of a top-tier magazine cover. Keal stood there like he was summoning the devil for a one-night stand. White tee clinging to his chest, leather jacket screaming I-can-buy-your-entire-bloodline, hair a sexy disaster because the man hates anything organized. Tight black jeans, combat boots, and that smug look like he knew the thoughs inside my head. And I was a mess. Wearing a short and a t-shirt and well, kitchen apron. Hands covered in dough. Maybe hair white with flour.

But he didn't seem to mind.

"Got any plans today?" he asked, as if we'd been friends since diapers.

I answered, dumbfounded, "Uh, no."

And then he said, "Get dressed."

"What?"

"You're coming with me."

I blinked. "What? Where? No, I'm not."

He shrugged. "Got two tickets to a game zone downtown. Thought enjoying it alone might break the betray-your-nerd-neighbor-rule-110. Free tickets for the new gaming zone downtown. Big-ass place. VR, racing, fake violence. The works."

"I'm not a kid!"

"And I don't care," he deadpanned. "You're coming anyway. So either show up looking like you showered this week, or" his voice drop. Something commanding. "I'll throw you over my shoulder, princess-style."

I was... what? Surprised? Shocked? I didn't know anymore. "No. Why me? Take... take one of your hookups. You have hundreds." I don't know why I said that. But it came out harsher than I intended. Him having a hundred or a thousand hookups is none of my business. Or... it should be none of my business.

"I don't hang out with my hookups."

"I'm not goi-"

He cut me off with an authoritative voice. "You so are. I'm waiting in the parking lot. Be there in five minutes, or I hijack your pretty ass, neighbor."

Fuck him. Fuck everything. Who the fuck does he think he is? I'm not going anywhere. Not with him.

I'm not going.
I'm not going.
I'm-

Um... so, apparently, I'm going. I'm standing in front of his... Chevrolet Corvette Z06 (C8). Oh my God.

"Hop in, med-guy," he said, sliding into the driver's seat.

"This car's yours?" I said in half disbelief and half awe.

"That's what the keys say. Now get in."

I climbed in, immediately disoriented.
The seat vibrated under me. God, this shit is good enough to be a sex toy.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, like he was seducing Lucifer himself. I had to remind myself not to stare at those veiny, muscular arms which can choke me. What the fuck I'm even thinking.

Keal's music taste was shit. He hummed to 2000s pop like he wasn't six feet of muscle and menace. I sat stiff, arms crossed, smiling, watching the city melt past the windows. Loud music. Windows half-down. Wind in his hair, like the laws of physics applied differently to him.

We hit the arcade first.

He made me try VR sword-fighting. I nearly fell into a trash can.

Then laser tag. He betrayed me, teaming up with a 12-year-old to shoot me in the back.

The game zone was loud. Flashy. Too much. But Keal threw himself into it like a child-competing in air hockey, racing me in VR, yelling at strangers over basketball hoops. Then a racing simulator that made me curse in three languages.

Then we ate. We sang. Well, he sang. Karaoke. In his god-awful, loud voice.

And for a while, it worked.

I forgot.
I laughed.
I laughed like something was healing.

It was dark when we left. The city had sunk into soft neon. Keal's car was warm. I curled up against the seat, exhausted. Mind spinning.

He didn't say anything. Just drove.

He didn't turn the music on this time.

I leaned against the window. Exhausted. Warm... happy.

And somewhere in the hum of the engine and tires against the road, my eyes slipped shut.

I didn't mean to fall asleep.
But the feeling of safety which I don't remember feeling ever.

When I opened my eyes, we were in our parking lot.

And Keal was looking at me. Quiet. Focused. Like he was memorizing me. As if I were something he couldn't understand but couldn't stop studying.

Then he looked away.

Muttered something low under his breath.

"...Fuck."

I blinked, throat dry. "How long was I asleep?"

"A bit." His voice was low, softer than usual. Then he cleared his throat, "You snore like a cat with asthma."

"I do not!"

Then we both laughed. Loud. Free... and real.

I should've thanked him.
I wanted to thank him.

But I couldn't say it out loud.

So I just sat there.
Silent.

But maybe, just maybe, something inside me whispered it anyway-

Thank you, Keal.

.........

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Chapter 7: Ch 7: Flood and Regrets

Summary:

Ezran’s apartment floods from a burst pipe, leaving it unlivable for a month. He scrambles to find a place to stay, but all his friends are tied up with strict dorm rules. Just as panic sets in, Mrs. Andrew offers a lifeline—Keal, his emotionally confusing, half-naked neighbor, agrees to take him in. With no other option and exams looming, Ezran reluctantly packs up and heads for Keal’s place, cursing fate the whole way.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinner— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 7)

Ezran;

The smell hit me first.

It was a sour, musty stench, like wet laundry left in a basement too long. I was slumped over my study table, face mashed against a pharmacology textbook, studying a diagram of beta-blockers. Don’t remember when I passed out—probably sometime between memorizing drug interactions. My neck screamed as I sat up, groggy, eyes half-glued shut. I needed water.

I shuffled toward the kitchen, yawning, brain still fogged with half-remembered side effects of ACE inhibitors. That’s when I felt it: a wet sock.

At first, I thought I’d stepped in something dumb. Spilled tea from last night’s cramming session, maybe, or a rogue ice cube that made a break for it from the freezer. But then I took another step. And another. The squelch was unmistakable. My entire damn kitchen floor was shining like a poorly paid water park. Water glistened under the fluorescent light, pooling around the baseboards.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, my voice hoarse from sleep.

I waded through the puddle, socks now fully soaked, and yanked open the cabinet under the sink. There it was: a busted pipe, spewing water in my kitchen as if it was on a mission. The universe does hate me. I’d only been in this apartment for three months—three months of ready-made dinners, late-night study sessions, and dodging Mrs. Andrew’s nosy check-ins. And now this? The leak was dramatic, angry, and entirely committed to ruining my life. It had already succeeded in flooding the kitchen and was making a solid effort to turn my living room into an aquarium.

I grabbed my phone and dialed the landlady before my brain could fully process the disaster.

Mrs. Andrew answered on the fourth ring, her voice dripping with the kind of concern that only comes from someone who’s already picturing the repair bill. “Ezran? What’s wrong, dear?”

“Mrs. Andrew, the pipe under the sink is leaking. Badly.”

“Oh, heavens! I’ll call the plumber right now. Stay put, okay?”

Stay put? Where else was I going to go? I hung up and stared at the growing lake in my kitchen. My textbooks were on the table—thankfully elevated—but my shoes by the door were doing the backstroke. I grabbed a bucket from the closet, which was about as useful as a paper towel in a hurricane, and tried to contain the mess. Spoiler: I failed.

By the time Mrs. Andrew and the plumber arrived, my apartment looked like a fish tank. The sad fish was me.

The plumber, a grizzled guy named Carl with a heavy mustache, showed up an hour late. He poked around under the sink like he was trying to hold a truce with the pipes, muttering to himself about pressure valves and corrosion. I hovered nearby, arms crossed, trying not to think about the fact that my socks were still wet.

“Pipe leakage,” he finally said, straightening up with a grunt and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Water line’s shot. Gotta tear out this whole section.”

I blinked, processing. “How long will it take?”

He scratched his chin, adjusting his toolbox. “Two weeks minimum. Might stretch to a month. Depends on how deep the damage runs.”

“A month?” I almost yelled.

“Mmhm.”

I turned to Mrs. Andrew, who was standing by the counter, clutching her purse. She was sweet, in that nosy-aunty-who-watches-you-through-her-window kind of way, but right now she looked like she’d woken up to find her own kitchen underwater.

“You can’t live here for a month, son,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with pity. “What are you planning to do now? You don’t have anyone in this country, right? I’d offer you our guest room, but Michael—my husband—he’s... uncomfortable with strangers. Can you manage to stay somewhere else for a while? Don’t worry—you won’t need to pay rent this month.”

I didn’t like where this was going. No rent was nice, but the implication that I was homeless and friendless in a foreign country stung. “I’ve got friends,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll check with them. They might be able to help.”

Hopefully, I added silently. My friends were great, but “great” doesn’t always mean “has a spare couch for a month.”

Mrs. Andrew gave me a polite nod, her face full of sympathy that screamed you’re screwed, beta. “Let me know if it doesn’t work out.”

I nodded, my stomach twisting. Then I sat on the edge of my bed, knees up, phone in hand, and started dialing.

---

Call One: Matthew

“Hey, Ez! What’s up?” Matthew’s voice was bright, like always. I don't know why but I slightly, just a little, dislike him since that night I got to know he is– was Keal's hookup. Don't ask me why. I don't know myself.

But I need help. Emergency. No time for pleasantries. “Matt—quick question. Can I crash with you for a few days?”

He paused, and I could practically hear him recalculating his weekend plans. “You mean like... overnight?”

“No, Matthew. I meant I’ll float around your dorm building like a ghost. Yes, overnight. Like for a month.”

He laughed, then winced, and I could feel the guilt through the phone. “Shit, man. I wish you could. But the dorm’s got strict no-guest policies. They check IDs every night. Remember that guy from Chem who got kicked out for hiding his girlfriend under his bed?”

I did. Matt told us the story. Poor guy got caught and that was a drama. Not comforting.

“It’s okay, pal,” I said, forcing a smile he couldn’t see. “No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. My apartment was a swamp, and my first lifeline had just snapped.

---

Call Two: Rehan

“You homeless?” Rehan asked the second he picked up, because apparently, this idiot catches tragedy faster than light speed.

“Yes. Can you help?”

“You know I’m in the same dorm as Matt, right?”

I rubbed my temple, feeling a headache bloom. “Fuck. Right. I keep forgetting.”

“Wish I could help. I can ask around though—”

“And get you kicked out of the dorms for me. No, thanks."

“Have you tried T?”

“Calling her now.”

“Let me know if you end up on the streets. I’ll send snacks.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Love you too, nerdie boy.”

I hung up, resisting the urge to throw my phone into the growing puddle in my living room. Rehan and Matthew were my closest friends here, and they were both trapped in the same fascist dorm system.

---

Call Three: Tanya

Tanya answered on the second ring, her voice bright like always. “Hey, Ez. Sup?”

“Do you have a corner in your palace for a waterlogged peasant?”

She laughed, and I winced. Due to unknown reason, I don't like her much since the club night, too. “Huh? What happened? Water damage?”

“Yes. Pipe burst. Dramatic as much as it could be.”

“Ugh. I wish I could help, babe, but the landlady I stay with has this whole no boys under my roof unless they’re blood-related and married to a woman policy. I got scolded once for letting a delivery guy stand too close to the door.”

I rubbed my temple harder, the headache now a full-blown construction site. “This is what I get for being friends with people who live under fascism.”

“I can sneak you food, though,” she offered, her voice laced with worry.

“You’re all useless,” I said, half-joking, half-dying inside.

“Love you too, Ez.”

I hung up and stared at my half-drenched floor, phone limp in my hand. Anxiety crept up like mold, slow and insidious, wrapping around my chest. I had nowhere to go. No family in this country, no backup plan, and—to make it all worse—a mock test in Internal Medicine in two days. High-stakes. Mandatory. Graded. I couldn’t afford to skip a meal right now, let alone go hunting for temporary housing. I couldn’t risk my GPA and plunge myself into the abyss.

I tried to think logically. Hotels were out—too expensive. Airbnbs? Maybe, but I didn’t have the time or mental energy to vet listings. Couch-surfing apps? Sketchy. I could already imagine ending up in some creep’s basement, surrounded by taxidermy and regret.

That’s when the knock came.

I dragged myself to the door, expecting another lecture from Carl the Plumber about pipe corrosion. Instead, it was Mrs. Andrew, holding a Tupperware container like she was about to offer cookies instead of doom.

“Thought you might be hungry,” she said, her smile warm but tinged with pity.

“Thanks, Mrs. Andrew,” I sighed, taking the container. It smelled like lasagna, which was the only good thing to happen to me all day.

“Did you find anywhere to stay?”

I shook my head, feeling like a kid who’d forgotten his homework.

“Aw, poor thing. Um... I talked with someone.” She hesitated, like she was about to drop a bomb. “He has a big apartment. Lives alone. Very good boy. A little loud. Um... messy.”

I closed my eyes, praying to every god in every religion that she wasn’t about to say—

“Keal. You might know him.”

Of course it was Keal.

“He said if you needed to, he could manage. For my sake.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to fake my death, change my name, and flee to somewhere where brain doesn't exist. Keal. He changes sex partners like bedsheets, thinks clothes are optional. The first and since now only time I visited his apartment was... messy. Beer bottle here. Condoms there. Shirt doesn't know where it belong to. Moreover... I felt something very confusing whenever I was with him. Feelings which should be disgusting but feels oddly safe. I still couldn't get it out of my head the way he was looking at me that night in his car. Or maybe I just misread it, after all I was asleep.
But my kitchen was floating. My friends were all unavailable. And that mock test was barreling toward me.

“Mrs. Andrew, thank you,” I said, my voice tight. “But... I don’t want to bother anyone. I’ll try. If I fail to find a place, I’ll let you know.”

She smiled and patted my shoulder like I was a stray puppy. “You’ll figure it out, Ezran.”

She left, and I closed the door. Pressed my forehead against it. Screamed internally. Maybe externally too—I don’t know.

Then I again remembered the mock test. And the pharmacology exam next week. My brain already felt like mashed potatoes, and now I had to figure out how to study while homeless.

I sank onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Water stains were starting to form, like the apartment was mocking me. Now I have two options:

● Move in with a man who changes sex partners like bedsheets, thinks clothes are optional, and probably doesn’t know clothes don't belong on the couch. And makes me feel things which neither I understand nor allowed to feel.

● Fail the test, watch my GPA nosedive into the Mariana Trench, and kiss my medical school dreams goodbye.

I groaned. I cursed. Loudly.

Then I started packing. My backpack was already half-full of textbooks, so I shoved in some clothes, my laptop, and a toothbrush. I eyed the lasagna from Mrs. Andrew, tempted to take it for emotional support, but decided against it. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and took one last look at my drowned apartment. The water had spread to the hallway now, a slow-motion disaster I couldn’t stop.

Keal’s place it was. God help me.

---

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PS: While I keep posting chapters of Sin to Priest, I’m planning to drop a couple of one-shots every week—two for now, might do more if the response is good. The first one will be based on whatever genre you all prefer most. So comment your pick and don’t forget to leave Kudos.

Chapter 8: Ch 8: Unwelcome Occupant

Summary:

Keal wrestles with unexpected jealousy and possessiveness after letting Ezran stay at his place. He denies his growing feelings, disrupts his usual casual sex routine, and orchestrates a fake date just to see Ezran smile. Despite his best efforts, Keal can’t ignore how much Ezran’s presence unsettles and affects him.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 8)

Keal;

I fucking hate overthinking. I hate thinking. Period.
Hate it like I hate mornings, cheap cologne, and people who don't know how to ask for a dick when they're clearly dying for one.

But here I am-3:27 AM-lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it's got answers. It doesn't. It's just warm off-white.

And the problem?

Ezran fucking Sharma.

Let me make something clear:
I don't do people. Not emotionally. Not in a "hey bro, let's hang out and bond over childhood trauma" kind of way. I fuck, I sleep, I leave. No cuddling. No aftercare. No questions. Definitely no letting someone move into my goddamn apartment.

So someone please fucking explain to me why the hell I said to Mrs. Andrew,

"Yeah, Ezran can crash over till his place gets fixed."

Like I was some charity case with a savior complex and not a grown-ass man who once kicked out a hookup mid-makeout because they wanted to cuddle like a little sad bitch.

It's bothering me.

He's bothering me. So fucking much.

And the worst part? I didn't even think twice. Just the image of him staying with someone else-like those shitty friends of his-made me sick. Sick like someone'd carved the oxygen out of my lungs and shoved some toxic black smoke. I don't trust his friends. That girl-whatever her name was-let me fuck her within barely five minutes of our conversation. It shouldn't matter whom he stays with. Who does the charity work for him.
Because of course, I don't do charity. Never.
The only charity I engage in is fucking someone so hard they forget their entire tragic backstory.

But him staying with someone else?
It bothered me in a fucking way I didn't understand myself.
So, I said it.
Like it was nothing.

Like it wasn't going to fuck with my entire routine.

And it already is.

I haven't brought anyone home in three nights. Three. That's some monk-level shit for me. My hookups don't stay the night-hell, they barely get through a full playlist before I'm walking them out.

But now?

Now I'm pausing before texting anyone. Because it feels wrong.
Feels wrong to have someone moaning in my bed when he's across the wall, breathing. Hearing every pant, every moan, every filthy word.

Which makes no fucking sense because I've got backup plans.
My club's got rooms. Private, secure, five-star styled. I've built entire chains of "fuck-and-forget" spaces across this damn city.

I don't even need to use my apartment.

So why the hell does it still feel... gross?

Why does the idea of some stranger in my bed feel like I'm doing something disrespectful?

To him?

He's not even mine.
He's not even my fucking type.
Way too different. Too opposite.

He's not interested. Hell, I'm not even interested.

Hell, he can barely look me in the eye without flinching-like he thinks I'll pull a knife or a kiss.

Confused little shit.

And still, I feel like I'd be cheating if I let someone breathe too close to my sheets while he's here.

I'm losing my fucking mind.

And don't even get me started on that goddamn game zone stunt. I'm still pissed on myself.

Yeah, I lied. There were no free tickets. No lucky draw. No promotional fucking email.

I made two calls, dropped some cash, and had everything arranged like it was nothing.

Because money talks.

And when I saw him that morning-standing in that ridiculous apron, hands covered in dough, looking like some undercooked domestic fantasy-something inside me just snapped.
Something inside me whispered like some secret not even I'm meant to hear:
"How'd it feel to see him like this-this domestic-every day?"
And fuck, I don't even spend that much time in my apartment.

I wanted to fix that face. Vanish that fucking dullness of his eyes and bring back that...odd glint- which always makes me pause and stare like a fucking immature.

Or maybe I wanted to break something with him. I don't know.
All I know is I needed to see him smile. Laugh.
Even if it was for five seconds.
Even if it cost me more than just a few bills.

But why?

Why do I give a shit?

I've seen prettier people. Easier people.
People who don't look at me like I'm an accident they're ashamed of surviving.
And yet... none of them have ever made me want to earn something as simple as a laugh.

I fucking never cared when my mother cried almost every day in front of me.

And the worst part?

When he fell asleep in my car... all soft, tired, warm against the window...
I didn't want to wake him. Didn't want to break that moment.

Didn't want to let go. And I almost touched that cursed mole on his collarbone.

And fuck me sideways for that.

I'm not built for this.
Not for long-term. Not for care.
Not for people like Ezran.
Not for... Ezran.

So why the hell does the idea of him sleeping in my space, even in a different room, feel more right than anything I've done in... forever?

Why do I care if he hears things through the walls?
Fucking hell.
After that first time I got to know he heard me and that hookup of mine, I've been keeping it low. Like super low. I used to like my fucks loud.
Screaming for me. Begging for me.
But now, it feels wrong. It feels fucking wrong-and that makes no sense.

Why am I even thinking about being quiet around him?

This isn't me.

I don't pause.

I don't hesitate.

I don't... feel this shit.

But here I am.
Lying in bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
Wondering if he's okay.
Wondering if he packed up his things.
Wondering if he's still thinking about whatever fucked-up thing made him flinch at just a goddamn touch.

I roll over.
Stuff a pillow over my head.
Groan into it like it'll kill the thoughts.

It won't.

Nothing will.

Because I let him in.
And I fucking hate him for it.
And also...
Now I don't know how to shove him back out.

---

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Chapter 9: Ch 9: Broken Pretense

Summary:

Keal pretends not to care about Ezran moving in but spirals over his late arrival, cleaning the apartment and anxiously waiting. Ezran shows up with only books, prompting sarcastic banter and unexpected tenderness. Keal helps him unpack, lies about skipping a work commitment, and finds himself weirdly comforted by Ezran’s quiet presence. Despite insisting it’s temporary, both feel the shift—something soft settling in between the chaos.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 9)

Keal;

I wasn't supposed to wait.

It wasn't like I gave a shit. He was just my new tenant. Temporary. A guest. A charity case. Whatever.

But I stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, for fifteen minutes. Just staring. The same way I stared at the cigarette in my hand. Pointless. I didn’t even light it.

I wasn’t supposed to wait. Neither was I supposed to wear my cologne or clean his fucking room myself.

But I did.

Because Ezran said he’d be here by twelve. It was almost twelve-oh-seven.

He said he’d call before coming. He hadn’t.

Fuck it. I don't care. I'm obviously not waiting for him.

I tossed the TV remote to the side and stared at the ceiling.

“Fuck it,” I muttered to no one. “I don’t care.”

Then flopped down, legs wide, arm thrown over the backrest like I hadn’t just cleaned out four empty Monster cans from the living room an hour ago.

I don't know why, but every few seconds, I looked at my phone. Yet the screen stayed dead.

It’s not like I cared. Not like I was dying to have him under my roof. I didn’t have the time for that. Not like I thought about him falling asleep in my car two nights ago more than once.
Not like I’d replayed the way his shoulders relaxed when he laughed. That stupid laugh that cracked something open in my chest. In that shitty part of my body which was supposed to pump blood. Only. But instead of that, it’s being a bitch.

I had better things to do than wait for some nerd med student who made me feel shit like some cheesy rom-com teenage idiot.

My jaw tightened.

I grabbed my phone again. Still blank.

I wasn’t supposed to care.

But when the doorbell rang, I was at the door in under five seconds.

He came with one backpack. And a mini duffle bag, which I'd rather not count.

One. Fucking. Backpack.

I stood by the door, arms crossed, watching him shuffle in like a guilty cat. No words, just this half-mumbled “Hey,” and that damn backpack slung over one shoulder like a goddamn symbol of humble suffering.

“Is that all?” I asked, mostly to distract myself from the way his shirt clung a little too perfectly to his collarbone. And that mole? God, I swear that shit is cursed.

He blinked up at me. “Yeah. Didn’t feel like carrying unnecessary things. Only brought important stuff.”

Except apparently, “unnecessary things” meant clothes. And "important things" meant books.

Because what was stuffed inside that giant backpack?

Books.
Like... a fuckton of books. The backpack was practically groaning. I heard a spine crack when he dropped it on my hallway floor.

“This place is…” he started, then stopped.

I raised an eyebrow. “What? Perfect? Cool as fuck? Smells like expensive cologne and my sexy self?”

He just looked around, lips twitching like he was fighting the urge to throw bleach at every visible surface.

“Messy.”

Right. That.

Okay, look. I run messy businesses, though my places are luxurious and organized as fuck. But I don’t exactly have time or patience to alphabetize my DVD collection or find matching socks. Sue me. The couch had three jackets, two empty takeaway containers, three beer bottles, a half-empty bourbon glass, a few condom packets, and a pair of boxers I really hoped were clean. The coffee table was half-covered in old receipts and a suspicious sticky patch I never investigated. Maybe someone's cum. I don't know.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let out this soft exhale and crouched to unzip the backpack.

Books spilled out.

Stacks of them. I can bet my entire bank account all the books were medical books. And also with cracked spines and tabs poking out like angry bookmarks. One slid under the couch. Another landed right on top of my remote.

I stared.

He just started sorting like this was normal. Like moving into chaos was routine and he was just glad for the space. His fingers brushed over spines with a care that made my stomach twist.

“You’ve got a shelf?” he asked, not even looking at me.

“No,” I said. “I’ve got a bar. It’s stocked. Priorities.”

He frowned like that was a personal insult to his soul. And for some reason, I didn’t want that look directed at me.

So I said, “Wait.”

And for once in my life—I didn’t mean wait here while I go fuck off and pretend this never happened.

I meant wait while I help you sort this mess into less of a mess.

Who the fuck even am I?
What happened to Keal Hyrjon?
Is he even alive?

Ten minutes later, I’d pushed the jackets off the couch, shoved shit under the table, and cleared a section of the TV stand for his books. He watched me the whole time, like he couldn’t believe I was helping. Hell, I couldn’t believe I was helping.

“This one yours?” I asked, holding up a book named Respiratory Medicine: Pulmonology, with more tabs than pages.

“Don’t bend the cover,” he warned, eyes narrowing.

I smirked. “Bend you instead?”

He swallowed audibly. “Keal, don't joke like that,” he said with a serious expression, but the tips of his ears turned red. His breath rugged. He looked... in pain?

I dropped the topic.

We started stacking. It wasn’t efficient, but it was... weirdly calming. He handed them to me one at a time, and I tried not to crush them under my Neanderthal hands. Every now and then, he’d pause to flip to a dog-eared page. I didn’t ask. I just watched.

I could’ve left. I had a liquor shipment arriving at the main club in thirty. My phone buzzed with a reminder, and I swiped it away without even looking.

“Thought you had something to do,” he said, catching the motion.

“Got rescheduled,” I lied.

He squinted. “Really?”

"Yup," the lie rolled off my tongue easily. My rule was: first business, then other shit. I even kick out my hookups in business time.
He is not even my hookup. Not that I am interested. Because I obviously am not.

He looked stunned. Like I’d just said I loved kids or respected privacy. He didn’t say anything for a long second. Just grabbed another book and handed it to me, quieter this time.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“For what?”

He shrugged but didn't say anything. Neither did I dodge. Because for the first time in forever, I was loving silence. For the first time, in silence, my demons were not telling me how much of a worthless shit I am—just like my father used to. They were quiet now. Comfortably quiet.

The couch was half-clean. The books were lined up in a row that leaned a little too hard to the right. He’d taken off his shoes and tucked his feet under him. My apartment smelled less like sin and more like soy sauce now.

And I didn’t feel like leaving my own place.

Not when he was here, being small and quiet and accidentally brave.

I reached for another fry and tossed it at him. It bounced off his cheek.

“What the—"  he snapped.

“You looked too serious.”

“You’re a child.”

I asked seriously, “But do children have a godly dick like mine?”

He choked on his cola. I smirked.

"Can't you say the right thing for once in your life?" He laughed and I swear I heard something inside my stomach just started behaving weird. The good weird.

But I didn’t like the way he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth when he laughed—like he was trying to hide it. Hide his smile, like it was something shameful.

I blinked, then chuckled. Low and throaty. Like I hadn’t just said the dumbest thing ever. Like I was proud of it.
Because I fucking was.
That made him laugh. So worth it.

I shrugged, leaning back on the counter.
“Define right.”

He exhaled through his nose, lips twitching despite himself.
“You’re unbelievable.”

“You just moved into the lair of the devil. The sexiest devil, of course. But that's not the point. The point is—you're under my roof, med-guy.”
I smirked, and I swear to God, I saw a twitch in his lips.

He picked up the last of his bags and walked past me, heading toward the hallway.
“Which one’s my room?”

“First door to the right. Don’t open the second unless you’re ready to see what a grown man’s rock bottom looks like.”

“So… your bedroom?” he asked, shaking his head like he’s 70 and already knew the answer.

“Exactly.”
I grinned like I’d just handed him a compliment wrapped in gold foil.

He didn’t laugh. But his lips twitched again.
I hated that.
I wanted to hate that.
Because... that smile does something inside that idiot organ of mine whose only job was supposed to be pumping blood.

I knew he’d enter the room and wouldn’t believe it was part of my apartment.

It didn’t match me at all—and I knew it.
The bed was made. The desk was cleared. There were even fresh sheets and a bottle of water on the nightstand.
I even sprayed room spray. Yeah. That far gone.

I followed him inside his room. He set his bag down quietly and stood in the middle of the space.
Something in my chest tugged.
I didn’t look too closely at it.

But I liked the view of him in my space.

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
I wasn’t feeling cocky. Not smug. I just… felt like being there.

“It’s temporary,” he said, voice quieter now. “Only until the renovations are done.”

“Obviously.”
But I didn’t say it like a tease. No mockery. Just calm agreement.
Because I do know—whatever shit I’m feeling toward him? It’ll drown us both.

A silence stretched between us—not awkward, not tense.
Just quiet.

The kind that wraps around you after a long day and tells you it’s okay to breathe.

He turned toward the bed.
“Thanks. For letting me stay.”

I shrugged one shoulder, then muttered,
“Don’t get too comfortable. Don’t forget—I know you snore like a cat with asthma.”

“I don’t,” Ezran said in mock offense.

“We’ll see.”

I turned and disappeared down the hallway, muttering something about pizza and how I’m not sharing if he asks too late.
I just needed to get out.

And just like that, the apartment didn’t feel like just a place to sleep anymore.

Not home.

But not hostile either.

Maybe somewhere in between.

-----

-----

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 10: Ch 10: Heartbeat and Heresy

Summary:

Ezran moves into Keal’s apartment and instantly spirals. The space feels too safe, too prepared—too intimate. As he battles guilt, denial, and growing attraction, he realizes living with Keal might be the biggest mistake of his life… because it’s starting to feel like home.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 10)

Ezran;

This was a mistake.

I knew it earlier, but when he opened the door shirtless—of course he did—smelling like my damnation, a.k.a. cedarwood, smoke, and a traitorous hint of lavender, my brain confirmed that it is a fucking mistake.

I expected a messy room that would take my entire day to make livable in Keal's place.
Well, he didn’t disappoint that expectation though. The living room was... hell.

It was clear he hated cleaning.
So why did he clean this room for me?
Like he wanted me comfortable.
Like he wanted...
No. No no no! I’m not going there.

Ezran Sharma, you are not going there. You are not thinking that. And you’re definitely not staring like a fucking dog salivating over a piece of meat at that tattoo.

----

I was already spiraling and the damn door had barely closed behind him.

The moment Keal disappeared down the hallway with his smug muttering about pizza, I sat down on the bed—and by sat, I mean collapsed. My knees didn’t really agree with the weight of my sudden reality check.

What was I even thinking?

Moving in with him?

Him—with the cocky mouth and a body count larger than a few countries' population, and the jokes about godly anatomy that my brain had no business replaying in slow motion.
Him—who smelled like something wrapped in expensive leather and musky cedarwood.
Him—who called me med-guy like it was a nickname only he's allowed to use.

And fuck me sideways for that. I never protested him calling me that. But when someone else did, I told them not to—which sounded rude even to my ears.

I wanted to scream into a pillow. At this damn universe.
Instead, I just stared blankly at the perfectly made bed and wondered how fast I could dig a grave and bury myself alive. Or maybe I already am doing that.

The sheets are fresh. The room is weirdly… calm. Safe, even.

And that was the problem.

I wasn’t supposed to feel safe here.

I wasn’t supposed to feel anything here. Anything related to Keal.

Because Keal? Keal Hyrjon wasn’t just trouble. He was the definition of it. Trouble in a six-foot package with that tattoo—which I swear will be my damnation one of these days.

He existed to unsettle people.
The people is me. I'm the people.
He had that thing—that lazy confidence, that razor-sharp sarcasm, the kind of presence that made your skin try to memorize him against your will.

And this wasn’t me.
I wasn’t supposed to look at another man and wonder what it would feel like to fall asleep with his arms around me. I wasn’t supposed to notice his voice drop half an octave when he got serious. I wasn’t supposed to like it when he threw fries at me like it was absolutely normal.

I was supposed to like girls.
I did like girls.
I’ve liked girls my entire life.

But then he looked at me like that—like I wasn’t just another guest in his home.
Like I was… something else.
And I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to process the way his voice went soft when he said “obviously.” Or the way he lied about the reschedule like it was normal to drop business just to help someone unpack.

God, my brain was already tangled, and now my heart wanted to join the fucking circus.

And now I was living under his roof.

Breathing his air.

Sleeping in a room he prepared. Himself.

I curled my fingers into the blanket. It smelled like lavender.
Of course it did.
Because the universe was a sadistic bitch and liked watching me suffer.

Why was he even being… nice?

I shook my head.

I don’t do this. I don’t do this.

And it’s not fair.

Because all I was supposed to do was survive until my apartment was fixed.
Keep my head down.
Study.
Breathe.

But now?

Now every breath feels like a confession.

And I haven’t even told my parents I moved in here.

I couldn’t.

How could I possibly explain this?

“Hi Maa, Hi Papa. I’m staying with this guy who owns bars, swears like a sailor, has a dick ego the size of Mount Everest, fucks everything moving with two legs and maybe—just maybe—makes my heart beat weird.”

They’d lock me in a temple and throw away the key.

My family would literally combust.

Because they raised me to believe a very specific thing:

Men love women.
Women love men.
Everything else is temptation, confusion, disgusting, filthy sin.

And yet…

When Keal looked at me from the hallway like I meant something?
When he took me out just because I was sad?
When he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk softened, eyes unreadable?
I wanted to melt.

That’s not normal.
That’s not allowed.

I felt disgusting.
Disgusting for wanting more time in his space. For liking the way his voice dipped low when he was being serious. For wanting to see him laugh again.
For wanting… things I don’t even have words for. And I really don't want to feel.

And worse?

He doesn’t even try.
Doesn’t have to.
He just exists—lounging shirtless, smirking like temptation incarnate.
He says dumb things and my brain short-circuits.

He throws a fry and I smile.
He leans too close and I forget how to breathe.

He’s not even doing anything and I’m already falling apart.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes.

This was a mistake.

A dangerous, terrifying, heart-twisting mistake.

I don’t belong here. Not in his space. Not in his world.
I’m just a stupid med student with a closet full of anxiety and a brain full of guilt.

And he's... Keal.

He’s chaos and confidence and that stupid smug look he gets when he knows he’s making me flustered.

This isn’t a crush. This can't be. I'm a man. How can I feel—this, whatever it is—towards another man?

This is a problem.

Because every time he walks past, I feel my lungs stutter. Every time he leans in, I swear I forget how to speak.

And every time he doesn’t do something—like touch me, or flirt, or even look at me the way I don't want to want him to—I feel like a child begging for crumbs of attention.

I’m pathetic.

God, I’m so pathetic.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping it’d collapse and put me out of my misery.

It didn’t.

I was stuck here.

With Keal.

For a month.

I clenched the blanket in both fists, heart racing, lungs shaky, brain screaming at me to get a grip.

If I didn’t…
If I let this continue…
If I let myself feel—really feel—for this...

Then there’d be no going back.

Because if I feel anything, anything for Keal… I wouldn’t just lose my mind.

I’d lose everything I was raised to be.

 

........

 

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 11: Ch 11: Disaster and Calm

Summary:

Keal avoids his apartment after Ezran moves in, but snaps when he realizes the idiot doesn’t eat properly—living on coffee and chips. Determined to fix it, Keal suffers a disastrous cooking attempt, leading to takeout and an unexpectedly peaceful dinner. For the first time, the tension between them eases. Later, Keal watches Ezran fall asleep on the couch, soft and unguarded, and catches himself feeling something dangerous: comfort. Home. Not just the apartment—Ezran feels like home.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 11)

Keal;

It’s been four days since he moved in.

And in those four days, I’ve spent as little time in my own damn apartment as possible. Even though all I wanted to do was stay there.

Because my apartment now carries the scent of confusion.

Bluebells in warm summer air. It clings to the walls, to the sheets, to my fucking lungs.
I breathe it in as if I'm a goddamn junkie getting his first hit after rehab. It’s not fair. That scent was supposed to be harmless.

Key word being: Supposed to be.

My genius plan was to stay out until he left. To just avoid it. Avoid him.

That plan failed on Day Three.

Because I realized something. Ezran Sharma is an idiot.
A textbook-obsessed, emotionally constipated idiot.
The man reads med books like they're scriptures, but apparently, eating three meals a day is optional..

At first, I assumed he cooked his weird Indian food while I was out and then passed out.
But then I remembered—I don’t keep groceries. Because this apartment used to be for two things: sleep and sex. Not necessarily in that order. Definitely never in that flavor.

I don’t remember the last time I ate something there that wasn’t liquid, fermented, and bottled in glass.

“Why the hell can’t he order takeout? Is he a damn toddler? Do I need to spoon-feed him now? Fucking med nerds,” I muttered, standing in the middle of a supermarket, drowning in a tsunami of spices with names that sound like russian mafia missions. Asafoetida? Fenugreek? Hing? Bitch, is this Hogwarts?

I should’ve brought someone. Or at least googled “How to human.”

It took me four hours.

Just four hours to shop. Not cook. Not prep. Not even unload.
But you know what? For a first-time domestic god moment?
I crushed it. I am amazing. A damn saint.

And yet here I am, standing in front of my own apartment door, frozen like a thief on his first heist. I’ve been here twenty minutes. Just… breathing. In. Out. Panicking.

“Goddamn it, Keal. Pull your shit together. You’re not a teen virgin in a Wattpad romance.”

Still. Instead of using my key—my key—I ring the bell.

Why? No idea.
Maybe because walking into that space, my space which was now our space, suddenly feels like stepping into something I don’t have control over and it felt... good.

Five seconds pass.

Then a muffled voice.
“Coming! One second!”

Liar. It took him over a minute.
When he finally opened the door, he looked stunned.

And yeah. Maybe I did look different. Grocery bags in hand, no cigarette, no smug mask.
But I wasn’t about to let him see my heart forgetting to beat because he showed up in messy hair, cute glasses, a loose blue t-shirt and denim shorts that definitely should be illegal. I doubt blue ever looked this good?

And my brain was aleady undressing him like a pervert. I've seen men in thongs, sex outfits, fucking naked but nothing compared to this.

I cleared my throat.
“What? Never seen someone this handsome before, med-guy?”

Ezran blinked. His eyes dipped to the bags in my hands like I was holding a severed a double headed dragon.
Not groceries. A threat.

“You’re… early today,” he muttered.

Can’t blame him. If I saw Keal Hyrjon willingly home at 7 PM on a weekday, I’d question reality too.

I smirked. “God forbid a man wants to exist in his own apartment.”

His gaze was still glued to the bags.
“You’re planning to make me stand out here all night?”

That snapped him. “No, no. I’m sorry. Please, come in.”

Inside smelled like him again. Not just his cologne. Him.

The faint mint of his shampoo. The sharp, sterile scent of textbook paper. The bluebells. Always the bluebells.

He stepped aside, awkwardly folding his arms. I walked in like I didn’t just spend four hours in the seventh circle of hell buying lentils and turmeric and cursing my ancestors. He closed the door behind me with this weird tension—like I was a guest now.
In my place.

“You hungry?” I asked, casually dropping the bags on the counter as if I wasn’t having an existential crisis.

He blinked. “What?”

“I said—do you eat food? Like normal, functioning humans? Or is that optional now in med school?”

His ears turned red. “I do eat.”

“Oh yeah? What? Air?”

“I had coffee and chips.”

“That’s not food, Sharma. That’s recycled urine and poor decisions.”

He stared. I stared back.

Then I started pulling out the groceries.

One by one. Spices, lentils, frozen naan, meat, rice, some vegetables that I didn’t know existed until three hours ago, and about five different types of tea.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice almost suspicious.

“Trying not to let you starve to death under my roof. Because guess what? If you die, I’ll have to clean that shit up. And nothing stains like regret and curry.”

That made him laugh. And fuck me, it was soft. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth while he smiled, like he was hiding it. Like joy was something he needed to apologize for.

I hated that.

I hated that something in him still believed he wasn’t allowed to smile in front of me. Or anyone.

So I didn’t say anything. I just kept unpacking.

“I can cook,” he said suddenly, reaching for a bag.

"No, my kitchen has special privileges. Not everyone is allowed."

I turned back to the cutting board, picked up the carrot, and…

How the fuck do people chop these without it rolling off like it’s on an Olympic escape mission?

I held it in place. Tried slicing. The knife bounced. The carrot flew off.
It hit the floor with the dramatic flair of a dying opera singer.

Ezran made a sound. I pretended not to hear it though it pulled something inside my heart.

The second carrot met a worse fate.
The onion? That bitch tried to blind me.

By the end of the second hour, I had managed to turn half a tomato into pulp, dropped cumin all over the floor, and burned something that wasn’t even on the stove. I didn’t even know that was possible.

Ezran watched in painful silence. Probably finalising his funeral song.

Still, I persisted. Because pride.

An hour later, I presented a plate of food that looked like someone had vomited resentment and paprika.

I took a bite.
And immediately grimaced like I’d just tasted my worst life choice and charcoal.

Ezran arched a brow. “That bad?”

“I’ve eaten actual ash that tasted better.”

He didn’t even try to hide his smirk.
Little shit.

Defeated, I pulled out my phone and muttered, “Hope you like Thai. I’m ordering.”

Dinner arrived like a blessing from the heavens.

We sat on the floor, takeout boxes between us, the coffee table covered in napkins, chopsticks, and my shattered egos.

Ezran ate slowly. Too slowly.

I watched him. Then scowled.

“You eat like a damn bird.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This is your second meal today, right? Right?” I asked, knowing damn well his answer was going to piss me off.

“Um...no?”

“No! And yet what you're eating is not enough. You’re not a plant, Ezran. You’re a human. You need food. Actual food. Not air, coffee, and medical trauma.”

“I eat just fine.”

“You do not. I can see your cheekbones from space.”

He stared at me, stunned.

“I didn’t ask you to cook, Keal.”

“I know you didn’t.” I pushed the box toward him. “That’s why it pissed me off more. You didn’t even think you should ask.”

He looked down, quiet now.

Then he picked up another dumpling and muttered, “This is really good.”

I grinned. “Better than mine?”

He gave me a dry look. “Your food tried to murder me with turmeric.”

“Ungrateful brat."

Then we finished dinner mostly in silence.

Not the awkward kind—just... peaceful. Like the air had finally stopped buzzing between us. Like for the first time Ezran doesn't want to disappear anymore.

Ezran leaned back against the couch, plate empty, eyes half-lidded from food and probably exhaustion. A textbook lay on the floor beside him, untouched for once.

I watched him without meaning to.
His jaw had softened, eyes glassy from the post-meal haze. He looked... relaxed. Or close enough for someone with permanent tension wired into his spine.

I stood, grabbing our plates. “I’ll clean.”

“You cooked,” he said flatly.

I smirked. “I attempted murder and then ordered Thai. I think that still qualifies as hosting.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Just leaned his head back on the couch and let out a quiet sigh. It was so soft I almost missed it.

I washed the dishes quickly. I wasn’t used to cleaning after anyone—hell, I wasn’t used to being around anyone this long outside of sex.

But for some reason, this didn’t feel like a chore.

When I finished, I walked over to the window, pulled out a cigarette from the pack in my back pocket, and lit it.

The familiar burn hit my lungs.
A slow exhale of smoke curled toward the ceiling.

Behind me, I heard a quiet voice.

“You know that’ll kill you, right?”

I turned slightly. Ezran hadn’t moved, still lounged against the couch, but his eyes were open now—watching me.

I arched a brow. “Look at you. Walking, talking health hazard with legs and an opinion.”

“I’m a medical student,” he mumbled, voice low, half-scolding. “It’s literally my job to tell you this shit.”

“I’ll write it in my will. ‘Ezran Sharma warned me.’ You’ll get a shoutout in the funeral brochure, I promise.”

His nose scrunched. Cute. “It’s not funny.”

I didn’t reply. Just took another slow drag and walked toward the hallway.

“I’m not gonna do it in here,” I said over my shoulder. “Figured you’d like your lungs to function for at least another five years.”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes stayed on me until I disappeared into the other room.

I cracked open the window and leaned against the sill, letting the night air mix with the smoke. Outside, the city buzzed like always. Loud, messy, alive.

Inside, it was quiet. Except for one heartbeat I couldn’t seem to drown out.

I stayed there a while. Smoking. Staring. And... thinking.

About him. About his dumb baggy shirts and sharp tongue. About the way he hides his laugh. About how he looked at me when I was trying to cook.

When I came back out, the living room lights were dimmed.

Ezran was still on the couch—but now he was curled up slightly, one hand gripping the edge of that massive book like it was a lifeline. He wasn’t reading it, though.

His eyes were closed.

Breathing even. Calm.

Asleep.

I stopped mid-step.

His mouth was parted just a little. Hair tousled. One leg curled under him. His glasses still on his face.
I had the sudden, violent urge to brush them off. To tuck a blanket over him. To do something normal.

Instead, I walked past him silently and picked up the book.

I placed it gently on the table, careful not to wake him.

His hand twitched slightly when I moved it. Like he was reaching for something even in sleep.
Or maybe bracing for something.

I swallowed. Sat down beside him, just far enough not to touch.

Pulled out my phone. Pretended to scroll.

But my eyes stayed on him.

On the slight frown between his brows.
On the way his chest rose, slow and steady now.
On the peace he wore like it was foreign.

God, I hated how much I wanted to protect that peace.

And damn me—

It seemed like home.
My apartment seemed like home.

He, Ezran Sharma, dangerously looked like my home.

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 12: Ch 12: The heart scribbled in Pink

Summary:

Ezran thought moving in with Keal would be hell—loud music, hookups, smoke, chaos. But instead, it’s takeout before he remembers he's hungry, groceries stocked with his favorite snacks, and text messages demanding proof he ate. Keal is shirtless, drunk, and insufferable—but he’s also... trying. And Ezran? He’s spiraling. Because caring wasn’t part of the deal. Especially not when it feels this good. Especially not when a pink heart scribbled in highlighter can make his chest hurt more than the kiss he’s still pretending he doesn’t want.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 12)

Ezran;

Everything’s confusing.

He is confusing.

Keal Hyrjon—the human version of sex and mess.
Of chaos in cologne and confusion.
Of everything I swore I would never want.
Of things I was not allowed to want.

And yet… here I am.
Wanting. Drowning. Thinking.

Why the hell is he doing this?
Why does he care?

He never gives a shit about his own eating habits. I’ve seen his fridge—one shelf of alcohol and a lime that may or may not be alive.
And yet he spent hours in the kitchen, trying to cook for me. Not because he’s good at it. Not because I asked.

Because… he noticed.

And ever since that disaster of a meal, his entire apartment is now stocked.
Fruits, snacks, cup noodles. Stuff I didn’t even realize I liked.
Stuff I used to survive on when I first came here.
Stuff no one’s ever thought to buy for me.

He returns home early now. Keal Hyrjon, who I assumed lived off streetlight and sex, now walks in at 7 PM like it’s routine. Like he wants to be here.

And when he can’t make it back early?

Takeout. Delivered before I even think about dinner. Half the time he’s not even here, but it shows up anyway.
“Eat,” the text reads. Or worse—just a link to the food delivery and a passive-aggressive emoji.

He doesn’t let me skip meals.
Calls during lunch. Calls during dinner.
And when I say I ate?

“No pic, no proof.”

I have to send him photos of empty containers because he says I lie too easily.
I hate how much it's true.

"Send me pic."
"Ezran, that's yesterday's pic. Don't test me!"

And I hate it. I hate how it makes me feel—

Cared for. Seen. Important.

I hate how much I crave it.

I thought, when I moved into his place, it would be hell.
I thought I’d have to see strangers walk out of his bedroom every other night. I thought he’d parade hookups like furniture.

But… nothing. Not one person. Not a single body or scent that wasn’t his or mine.

And that’s somehow worse.

Because now it feels like he’s… doing this on purpose.

Like he’s doing all of this... for me.

And I?
I’m just a fucking coward.

I don’t want to like how he cares.
I don’t want to like how his voice drops when he asks if I’ve eaten.
Or how he acts all annoyed while still checking on me like I'm a toddler.

I don’t want to like it.
But I do.

And the worst part?

I care too.
God help me—I do care.

I care that he smokes too much.
He’s never done it in front of me since that night I called him out. He always steps away, into the balcony or another room. Comes back with a mouth that smells like nicotine and shame.
I know it’s not an addiction.
He doesn’t smoke like someone who needs it.

He smokes like someone who chooses to burn.

And every time I mention it—
“It’s bad for you.”
“Keal, you're destroying your lungs.”
“Keal—”

He brushes it off like it's a matter to joke. Like it's absolutely normal to burn out your lungs just because he says and I quote. "I have two lungs."

I hate it.
I hate the way he just shrugs at his own self-destruction like it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn't in western culture. But for me, smoking is not something normal.

I even don’t know why it bothers me so much.

He’s just…
He’s just my landlord. My neighbor. My problem.

So why does I want to slap him and throw the cigarette away and replace with something else. Entirely something I shouldn’t think of. Why i hate it so much when he lights up that damn cigarette?

I hate that I care.

Because I’m not supposed to.

I know It’s not an addiction. He doesn’t even need it.
He just wants to do it. Because it’s something messy and careless, and he likes those things.

He does what he wants.

And what he wants, clearly, isn’t anything harmless.

Which means I can’t fall.
I shouldn’t fall.

Then why does it feel like I’m watching someone I—

No.
No.

Stop.

I was curled on my table studying– or trying to study anatomy with a book when I heard the soft click of the balcony door.

It was late—past midnight. The kind of quiet where thoughts are louder than footsteps.

I didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.
The scent of alcohol, smoke and his fucking cologne drifted in like a ghost I already knew.

Faint. Familiar. Foul.

I stayed where I was. Listening. Hating.

The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps. I could hear him trying to be quiet. As if the man who stomps through life in nightclub bass could suddenly become considerate.

“Studying at 2 of morning, med-guy?” He didn’t even bother to knock. He doesn’t know the definition of boundaries. His voice carried across the silence, lazy and cocky and—fuck him—warm.

I didn’t look up.

“Aw,” he drawled, and I heard the rustle of his jacket being flung somewhere it absolutely didn’t belong. “You sound so mean when you're focused. Study hard, after all you don't have charm like mine. ”

I turned a page a little too aggressively.

He laughed.
I felt it, low and rich and annoyingly close now.

I snapped my gaze up—just for a second. Just to glare.

Big mistake.

He was, in fact, shirtless, no surprise. And holding a glass of alcohol,  of course. And that damnation of mine A.K.A that tattoo.

“Why are you naked?” I muttered.

Keal leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip of his drink. "I'm not naked... yet. And you’re still awake. Which means we can pretend this is a midnight date."

“Can you leave me alone?”

“Nope. Not feeling like.” His smirk widened.

He walked over and sat on the edge of the table, dangerously close to my book, to my sanity. He took another sip as if it's a seducing competition.

I stared at him. He stared back.

“What?” he asked licking the alcohol off him lips. “You look like you're about to diagnose me. Need some machines, Med-guy?”

“Unfortunately, your condition is terminal,” I said flatly. “It’s called being a malfunctioning brain-bearer.”

He grinned. And there it was—that fucking grin. The one that always made something inside my heart clench, like it wasn’t fair that someone who smoked recklessly and flirted with alcohol could still look at me like that.

Like I mattered.

Like he liked being here.

I hated how my chest twisted.

I hated how it made me want to smile.

“Get off my table,” I said, shoving his thigh gently—not gently enough to mean it.

He stretched out instead, legs sprawling like a damn runway model who’d never heard of boundaries.

"Nah." Keal took another sip, swallowing obnoxiously slow. “You know, most roommates would be grateful for late-night company.”

“I’m not most roommates. And you’re not company. You’re a cautionary notice with abs.”

He grinned. “Aw, you noticed the abs.”

“I noticed the lack of brain cells.”

Keal clutched his heart like I’d stabbed him. “Wow. That’s the third time tonight you’ve attacked my poor sweetheart brain. Should I cry in my pillow?”

“You should be gagged. Preferably with your own ego.”

"Kinky. Didn't know you were into that, Sharma.”

I gave him my most unimpressed stare. “I'm into silence. And peace. And studying without the ghost of a frat party looming over my shoulder.”

He laughed—loudly—and stole my highlighter off the table like it was his goddamn birthright.

“Pink?” he said, uncapping it and scribbling a tiny, lopsided heart in the corner of my textbook page. “Really, Ezran? I pegged you for more of a black ink and academic despair type.”

I slapped the book shut. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, voice low now, teasing, “you’re still here. Still letting me sit at your table. Still stealing glances at my godly—”

“Finish that sentence and I will murder you with this highlighter.”

Keal leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “See? You are kinky.”

I hated how my cheeks felt warm. I hated how he looked like he knew.

I shoved him off the edge of the table—well, tried. The bastard barely budged. “You have five seconds to leave before I make good on every intrusive thought I’ve had today.”

He just laughed but got off my table.

Took his damn sweet time doing it, like he had all the time of the universe.

He brushed past me, shoulder grazing mine, not on purpose.

But I froze. I didn’t move.

Didn’t trust myself to.

Because if I did—if I flinched, if I leaned—I'd either slap him or... or do something I'm not allowed to.

And I wasn’t sure which was worse.

He paused at the doorway, glass still in hand, and glanced back like he was about to say something. But he didn’t.

Just gave me a look. One of those unreadable ones. The kind that made it hard to breathe because it felt like I'm getting a glimpses of him.

Not Keal Hyrjon.
Him.

I flipped him off on his way out.

He just laughed louder.

And I realized I didn’t really want him gone.

Not really.

Not when the air still carried his laughter, his intoxicating scent.

Not when the corner of my page still had that stupid heart scribbled in pink.

Not when the warmth of him still lingered on the wood where he sat—like he left a piece of himself behind, just to mess with me.
Just to remind me that even when he leaves… he stays.

And the worst part?
I let him.

----

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Chapter 13: Ch 13: Naked truths and Repressed hard-ons

Summary:

Ezran’s day goes to hell—academic disasters, public humiliation, and a brain fried beyond repair. He just wants peace. What he gets instead? Keal, fresh out of the shower, completely naked, swinging sin between his thighs like a weapon.

Cue: panic, shame, an unholy erection, and internalized homophobia going DEFCON 1.

While Keal lounges like temptation incarnate, Ezran breaks—shoving guilt down his throat and dinner into his mouth. But when he catches Keal smoking, it all snaps. One crushed cigarette and one raw outburst later, both men are left reeling in a silence louder than desire.

Something cracked today. And neither of them are ready for the fallout.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 13)

Ezran;

Today was the kind of day that made me question why I ever thought I could handle med school. It was a relentless shitstorm, one screw-up after another, each one carving out a piece of my confidence until I was just a raw, exposed nerve. I’d been up since 5 AM, mainlining coffee that was strong enough to wake up the dead. I was trying to shove glycolysis and Krebs cycle diagrams into my brain for a biochem lecture. By noon, I was a wreck. I’d fucked up a titration in lab, my hands was shaking like I was some nervous first-year instead of the guy who has topped twice in Anatomy practical. Then came the showstopper of my shitshow, patient simulation—classic appendicitis, and I called it gastroenteritis like a goddamn moron. The professor’s disappointed sigh was bad enough, but the way my classmates’ eyes drilled into me? That was worse. I wanted to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never come out.

I dragged myself back to Keal’s penthouse around 1 PM, earlier than usual, my backpack feeling like it was stuffed with concrete. I didn’t give a shit about any of it. I was used to. I closed the door shut behind me, dropped my bag with a thud that echoed in the too-quiet space, and collapsed onto the leather couch. It was cool and comfortable against my skin, but it didn’t do jack to quiet the noise in my head. I just needed a second to breathe, to stop replaying every mistake I’d made today. Keal was probably still passed out—guy could sleep through a nuclear blast—or maybe he was out doing whatever the hell he does in his clubs. I didn’t know, didn’t care right now. I just needed the world to stop spinning for a minute.

I was staring at the ceiling, trying to will my brain to shut up—right lower quadrant pain, fever, Mr. Sharma, how did you miss it?—when I heard a faint splash, like water hitting tile, followed by the creak of a door. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it could be. The smell of cedarwood and spice... the smell of Keal was enough to calm my brain. I hated how my body and mind relaxed in the first inhale of his faint scent. I turned my head and expected his in his usual cocky grin, sweatpants hanging dangerously low as if he's doing a charity to mankind by wearing clothes, no shirt. Flashing his chest tattoo which I swear is the reason I'm going to.be doomed in near future. But what I didn’t expect was Keal, strolling out of the bathroom, buck-ass naked, a towel slung over his shoulder like he was some kind of Greek statue come to life. His dark hair was wet, sticking to his neck in messy clumps, water droplets trailing down his chest, his abs, lower. My eyes betrayed me, dragging down his body before I could stop them—his ass, firm and rounded, and his dick, hanging heavy even soft, a fucking monster that made my stomach lurch in a way I didn’t want to think about. I hate to think about. I snapped my gaze away, but it was too late. My face was on fire, heat crawling up my cheeks, down my neck, spreading like I’d been doused in gasoline and lit up.

“Oh, hi,” Keal said, his voice so casual it was like he was greeting me at the grocery store, not standing there with his dick hanging between his legs for the world to see. He didn’t even pause, just sauntered toward the kitchen, his bare ass flexing with every step. My eyes kept pulling back to it, to him, like they had a mind of their own, and I hated it. I hated myself for looking, for noticing the way his thighs moved, the way his dick swung slightly as he walked. My stomach twisted, a sick mix of fascination and disgust. "Men love women. Women love men. Anything else is filthy, wrong, disgusting." I chanted it in mind as if it's some holy note which will stop my dick from twitching. Why the hell was my body reacting like this? Why was my dick stirring, hardening in my jeans, pressing against the zipper like it had no goddamn shame?

I tried to say something, to throw out some snarky comeback to cut through the moment, but my throat suddenly felt dry, my brain felt like a scrambled mess. Keal, of course, noticed. He always fucking noticed. He leaned against the kitchen counter, one hip cocked, and flashed that smug grin that made me want to punch him in the face. “You’re blushing, med-guy,” he said, his voice dripping with that cocky amusement he wielded like a weapon. “Like what you see?”

That snapped me out of it, at least enough to fake it. “Fuck you,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I meant. “I’m brown means I don’t blush.” It was a lie, and we both knew it. My skin might hide the flush, but I could feel it, burning through me like a fever. My dick was rock hard now, throbbing, and I shifted on the couch, trying to hide it, hating myself for it. Hating him for being so goddamn nonchalant while I was falling apart inside. Keal just chuckled, that low, throaty sound that made my blood boil and my stomach do weird, traitorous flips.

“For God’s sake, put some clothes on!” I said, scrambling to my feet. My hands were shaking, not just from the day, I already forgot about that—this confusing, disgusting pull I felt toward him. I grabbed a hoodie from the pile of his clothes on the couch, a chaotic mess of laundry he hadn’t bothered to deal with, and threw it at him. It hit his back with a soft thwack, and he caught it as it slid down, glancing at it like it was some kind of joke.

“Chill, Sharma,” he said, taking a swig of orange juice straight from the carton he’d pulled from the fridge. Still naked. Still not giving a single fuck. “It’s just skin. You’re in med school, you’ve seen worse. Dead bodies, right? All gross and stitched up?”

“That’s not the point!” I shouted, pacing now because I didn’t know what else to do with the energy coursing through me. My dick was still hard, and I was mortified, disgusted at myself for it. Men don’t do this. Men don’t get hard looking at another guy’s ass, his dick, his everything. But Keal? He was just… there, all easy confidence, like being naked was as normal as breathing. “You can’t just walk around with your dick out like that!”

“Like what?” he asked, all fake innocence, raising an eyebrow as he set the carton down. “Showing my godly sculpted body? Blessing the mankind with my abs and dick combination?”

“Like a fucking exhibitionist!” I shot back. Keal just laughed again, that sound that made me want to strangle him and crawl into his lap at the same time. He didn’t put the hoodie on. Of course he didn’t. He just strolled back to the living room, still naked, and flopped onto the other end of the couch, stretching out like he was posing for a damn magazine.

I groaned, sinking back into my side of the couch, covering my face with my hands. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, my voice muffled. My erection hadn’t gone away, and I hated it, hated the way my body was betraying everything I’d been taught. But there was something else too, something worse—a weird, confusing sense of safety when Keal was around. Like his presence, as infuriating as it was, grounded me somehow. I hated that I noticed it, hated that it felt right when it was supposed to be wrong.

“Dramatic,” he shot back, propping one arm behind his head. His tone softened, just enough to throw me off. “Rough day, huh? You look like you got run over by a truck.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. But the silence stretched, and Keal wasn’t the type to let things go. “Come on, med-guy,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost kind. “What’s up? Spill.”

I sighed, dropping my hands to my lap, trying to ignore the ache in my jeans. “Just… everything,” I said, staring at the coffee table. “Fucked up a lab, bombed a simulation, got called out in front of everyone. The usual med school shitshow.” I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Not with my body screaming things I didn’t want to hear.

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he said, no trace of his usual smugness. “You eat yet?”

I blinked, thrown by the sudden question. And I remember I didn’t  got a chance to check his texts today, and I doubt he'd be texting before 1PM for lunch. “What?”

“Lunch, Ezran. Food. You know, that thing that keeps you alive?” He was already up, heading back to the kitchen, still shirtless but at least he’d pulled on some sweatpants—probably just to shut me up. “Thai or pizza?”

“Keal, I’m not—” My stomach growled, loud and obnoxious, cutting me off. Traitor.

“Thai it is,” he said, already on his phone, scrolling through a delivery app like he was ordering for a frat party. “You need something spicy to wake your ass up.”

I didn’t have the energy to fight him. Twenty minutes later, the apartment smelled like lemongrass and chili, and Keal was shoving a plate of pad thai and spring rolls in front of me. “Eat,” he said, his tone firm, like he was my dad or something and I was a toddler. He was eating too, chopsticks moving with that annoying grace, but I caught him watching me, his eyes narrowing as I picked at my food.

“Again you're eating so little, Ezran,” he said, pointing his chopsticks at me. “You’re gonna disappear before you even get to cut people open.”

“I’m eating fine,” I mumbled, forcing down a bite. It was good, but every swallow felt like a chore, my mind still tangled up in the simulation, in Keal’s naked body, in the shameful ache in my pants. I was disgusted with myself, but that sense of safety was still there, lingering, making everything worse.

When we finished, I got up to wash the dishes, needing something to do to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from spiraling. The kitchen was a mess—Keal’s mugs, my textbooks, random wrappers. I scrubbed the plates harder than necessary, trying to drown out the noise in my head. When I finished doing the dishes, it was already afternoon.
Then when I was going towards my room I heard the click of a lighter from the balcony. Keal was out there, leaning against the railing, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. The city skyline sparkled behind him, sharpening his jaw even more but all I could see was that fucking cigarette. I’d told him a thousand times—lung cancer, heart disease, Gastric ulcer, PAD, Cervical cancer, COPD and god knows how many shits he was inviting into his body. Every time, he’d just grin and say, “I have two lungs,” like that was some kind of magic shield. It pissed me off every time. That idiot doesn't value shit for his life.

I didn’t think. I just moved. I stormed out to the balcony, and snatched the cigarette from his fingers before he could react. His eyes widened—just for the blink of an eye, enough to catch him off guard—as I crushed it under my shoe. “What the hell, Sharma?” he said, his voice a mix of shock and amusement, like I’d just pulled off some wild stunt.

“Stop. Smoking,” I said, my voice low, trembling. I was shaking, not just from anger but from everything—the day, the shame, the confusing pull I felt toward him. “You know it’s killing you.”

Keal stared at me, his smirk gone. For once, he didn’t have a quick comeback. He just leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You’re really messed up today,” he said finally, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. Then he murmured to himself as if a secret I'm not meant to hear, "And messing me up even more."

I pretended not to hear him. I pretended I didn’t noticed how he was staring at the dim sun with amusement which was nothing to do with the sun. Yet I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My chest was tight, my erection finally fading but leaving behind a sick sense of guilt. I turned and walked back inside, leaving him there with the city lights painting shadows across his bare shoulders. I stride to my room and lock the door. My head was a warzone—Keal, my own body betraying me. I hated that I felt safe around him, hated that alone his smell was enough to calm my panicked mind, hated that it felt right when everything I’d been taught said it was wrong. Something had cracked open inside me, and I realized...damnation never felt this disturbingly beautiful.

----

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
(Subscribe for more)
If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Chapter 14: Ch 14: The wrong idea.

Summary:

Keal doesn’t come home, and Ezran spirals—jealousy, rage, and hunger tearing him apart. When a strange boy shows up at the apartment acting like he owns the place, Ezran assumes the worst.

One misunderstanding. A day of aching silence.
And a truth that slams into him harder than he’s ready for.

He’s not just confused. He’s not just angry.
He’s jealous.

And Keal knows it.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 14)

Ezran;

Keal didn't come home last night. It's not unusual-his nightclubs run on late hours, and he's often out until 2 or 3 a.m. But it's 9:24 a.m. now, and there's no sign of him. No text, no keys jangling in the lock. My mind churns with possibilities. Maybe it's work-a delivery mix-up, a fight at the club, anything, anything. But what kind of nightclub business drags on past dawn?

My thoughts peeked to darker places. What if he's with someone? A hookup.

What if someone's tongue working overtime at his cock?

Yes, he hasn't brought anyone to the apartment since I moved in, something I've appreciated more than I'd ever admit. But what if he was just being...considerate? What if he's tangled up with someone right now, in some stranger's bed? The image burns, a sharp, twisting pain in my chest. It's hard to breathe, like someone's carving the oxygen from my lungs and replacing it with boiling acid.

I shouldn't care. I have no claim on Keal, no right to feel this... betrayal. Yet my heart feels like it's being stabbed, over and over, each imagined scenario worse than the last. I could call him, but what would I say? "Hey, Keal, I know I'm straight and all, so just checking- are you balls deep down someone's throat or hole? Um...could you-like not?" God, I'm pathetic. I'm pacing the living room like a caged animal, my thoughts a chaotic mix of anger, confusion, self-loathing and other feelings I'd rather not name, when the doorbell rings.

I'm at the door in seconds, a flicker of relief spread in my chest-until I open it. Not Keal. Some kid, maybe seventeen, eighteen tops, stands there in a baggy band tee, earbuds dangling from his neck. The second his eyes fall on me he looks at me like I'm dirt under his shoe, and I instantly dislike him.

"You are... oh." he starts, his tone dripping with disdain, not bothering to finish.

"Can I help you?" I ask, gripping the door, keeping it half-closed as if I'm a barrier.

"I'm here for Keal," he says, like he owns the man. Like Keal's his. A cold feeling hits me. What if Keal invited him? What if this kid is... a hookup? My stomach lurches, bile rising. Keal's been respectful about not bringing anyone here, but what if he's done with that? What if this kid is his new fling?

"Keal's not home," I snap, my voice sharper than intended. "Won't be back till late. Like, midnight late."

The kid smirks, unbothered. "I'll see it," he says, brushing past me like I'm nothing. He strides into the apartment, tosses his bag near the couch, and flops down with infuriating ease. He grabs the remote, flipping through Keal's Netflix like it's absolutely fine. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding.

"Is it normal for you to barge into strangers' place and act like a little brat, kid?" I ask, my voice low and tight.

He barely glances at me, his expression pure contempt. "I don't see any strangers here. Except you, of course. Stranger and cheap."

"Watch your damn mouth," I growl, my temper rising like mever before. I'm usually calm, but this kid is testing every ounce of patience I've got for my entire lifespan.

"Mind your own business," he shoots back. "I'm guessing you're done with whatever you came here for. Why're you still here? Keal doesn't like guys like you lingering after the night."

The words hit like a slap. Guys like me? Does he think I'm some random hookup? Some cheap whore who spread his legs for Keal? My vision blurs with rage. I want to grab a butter knife and-okay, no, I can't stab a kid. I storm into my room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

"What the hell does he think I am?" I mutter, pacing the small space. "Some disposable whore who spread his legs for Keal? How dare he look at me like he's the one who belongs here?"

I stay holed up in my room, but hunger eventually forces me out. Fine, I also wanted to make sure this kid isn't trashing Keal's place. When I step into the living room, my blood boils. The kid's wearing one of Keal's t-shirts-one I washed, folded, and put away. How dare he touch Keal's stuff? I storm into the kitchen, filling my water bottle with more force than necessary, when the doorbell rings. I glance at the clock: 1:08 p.m. It's the daily takeout delivery. The kid opens the door, grabs the bag, and has the nerve to ask, "You ordered?"

"No," I snap, teeth gritted.

He shrugs, already digging into the food, muttering something about Keal probably ordering it. That's technically true-Keal orders lunch for me every day-but this was my food. I retreat to my room before I do something stupid, like yell at a teenager.

My phone buzzes with Keal's usual text: "Yo, sup, med-guy? Done eating? Send me the pic." Normally, his messages make me smile, but today they just fuel my anger. I leave him on read. Two minutes later, another text: "Ezran, food!"

I type back, fingers smashing the screen:
"I'm not hungry!" The second it's marked read, my phone rings. Keal's name lights up the screen. I stare at it, my chest tight, then turn off my phone and toss it onto the bed.

I hate how comfortable that kid is here. He's blasting music on Keal's sound system-something I've never even touched. He's cooking in Keal's kitchen, FaceTiming someone about school drama while lounging on Keal's couch, still wearing Keal's shirt. It's like he's staking a claim, and I'm the intruder.

I don't leave my room again until I hear Keal's voice around 4 p.m. I step out just as he enters the living room, phone pressed to his ear, hair a mess. He's mid-conversation: "Yeah, I got it. Damien's handling the delivery to the managers. Drinks will be ready for VIPs by Sunday-" He cuts off as the kid launches himself at Keal, wrapping him in a hug. And Keal-Keal hugs him back, ending his call with a grin. "Yo, kiddo. Missed me?"

The easy affection in his voice twists the knife in my chest. My eyes burning. No no no. I'm not crying. I'm not going to cry. Keal doesn't belong to me. Hell, I don't want him or any man either. But seeing someone's arm around him felt like a nook around my throat suffocating me. I turn away, retreating to my room before I have to watch any more.

Keal stands on my door, his voice cheerful. "Ezran, come on, we're going out to eat. You, me, and Jamie. It'll be fun."

Jamie. So that's the kid's name. I don't want to go anywhere with him. But Keal didn't pay an ounce of attention about my grumbling. Keal's insistence leaves me no choice. I grabbed my jacket. Jamie's already by the door, bouncing with excitement, clearly thrilled to hang out with Keal. He shoots me a look that says he's just as unhappy about my presence as I am about his.

The restaurant is nothing like I expected-luxurious, with dim lighting, polished wood tables, and waiters in crisp uniforms gliding between tables. The air smells of rich cologne and expensive wine, the kind of place Keal probably frequents with his VIP clients. He's in high spirits, joking with Jamie, who soaks up every word like Keal's the coolest guy alive. I pick at my food, a perfectly plated dish I can't bring myself to taste. Every laugh they share feels like a hot stab in my chest, every shared glance reminds me that I'm the outsider. I keep imagining Jamie as Keal's hookup, some young thing he's keeping around, and it makes my stomach churn. I know I shouldn't care. I'm straight. I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't stop the pain.

Keal notices my silence, his eyes flicking to me now and then, but he doesn't say anything. I'm grateful for that-at least he's not calling me out in front of his hookup.

After dinner, Keal claps Jamie on the shoulder. "Alright, kiddo, I'll drop you off at your place. Ezran, I booked you a cab. Go home. Cool?"

His words hurt me more than the entire day could. He's sending me home alone while he takes Jamie... where? To spend the night together?
My mind conjures images I don't want-Keal and Jamie, tangled up, Keal between his legs, fucking, moaning. The pain in my chest sharpens, like a hot iron through me. I nod stiffly, unable to speak, and climb into the cab when it arrives.

I'm back in the apartment, alone, the silence too much. My room feels like a cage, but I don't want to sit in the living room where Jamie's presence still lingers. I shut my door, collapse onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling. The pain hasn't dulled-it's worse, a burning ache that won't let me breathe. I didn't eat lunch, didn't touch my food at the restaurant, and my stomach twists with hunger and something uglier. Jealousy. Betrayal. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I care.

Less than an hour later, I hear the front door open. Keal's back. My heart lurches, but I don't move. His footsteps echo in the living room, then stop outside my door. He tries to open the door. But after finding it locked, he softly knock. "Med-guy, Open up."

I don't answer. I can't. My throat's too tight, my thoughts too raw. Another knock, louder this time. "Ezran, Open the door."

Silence. I pull my knees to my chest, willing him to go away. Then I hear the jangle of keys, and my stomach drops. He wouldn't. The lock clicks, and the door swings open. Keal steps inside, his smell filling my room, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

"What the hell?" I snap, sitting up. "You can't just barge into someone's room!"

"You didn't open the door," he says, crossing his arms. "And you've been acting weird all day. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I mutter, turning away, my voice cold. "Just leave me alone. I'm sleepy."

"Bullshit." Keal's voice is sharp now, his patience fraying. "You didn't eat lunch, didn't pick up my phone, didn't touch your food at the restaurant, and now you're giving me the bullshit nothing? Talk to me, Ezran."

"Nothing happened," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I can't look at him. The pain in my chest is too raw, too confusing.

Keal's had enough. He crosses the room in two strides. Before I can react, he's got me pinned against the bed, his body close, one leg pressing between mine. My body trembles. I pray to all the existing gods for not getting hard. The proximity sends a jolt through me, a mix of heat and panic. His eyes bore into mine, intense, searching. "Stop lying to me," he says, his voice low and rough. "What's wrong?"

I try to hold it together, but my eyes burn, my vision blurring. I'm on the verge of breaking, and I hate it. The words slip out before I can stop them, a broken whisper. "Who's that kid?"

Keal blinks, confusion flickering across his face. "Jamie? What about him?"

"Who is he to you?" My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound. "Why's he so... comfortable here? In your clothes, on your couch, like he owns the place?"

Keal's expression softens, realization dawning. "Ezran, Jamie's my nephew. My sister's kid. He's been coming here since he was a toddler, crashing on my couch whenever he's in town. That's why he's so comfortable. He's family."

The words hit like a tidal wave, washing away the acid in my lungs. Nephew. Not a hookup. Family. My knees feel weak, and I slump in the mattress. Embarrassment flooded me. I've spent the whole day spiraling, hurt over nothing. And then another thought hits me, sharp and humiliating: Keal would never touch a minor. The idea's absurd, disgusting, and I feel sick for even entertaining it.

"I... I didn't know," I mumble, my face burning. I can't meet his eyes.

Keal steps back, his leg no longer pressing against mine, "You thought he was... what? Some fuck buddy? Christ." He sounds almost amused, but there's a gentleness in his tone that makes my chest ache. "Ezran, you were... jealous."

"No," I snap, too quickly, too defensive, my voice shaking. "I wasn't. I just... I didn't know."

He chuckles, low and warm. "You're a terrible liar." He releases my arm, but his gaze stays on me, steady and knowing. "Come on. You haven't eaten all day. Let's fix that."

"I'm not hungry," I mutter, but Keal's already pulling me toward the kitchen, ignoring my protests. He sits me down at the counter and starts pulling out leftovers from the fridge-some takeout from yesterday, still good. He heats it up, then slides a plate in front of me, standing over me like I'm a stubborn toddler.

"Eat," he says, pointing at the food. "I'm not leaving until you finish."

I glare at him, but my stomach betrays me with a loud growl. Apparently, I pick up the fork, taking a small bite. Keal watches, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "Good boy," he says just casually, but my mind visualises it in a raspy voice in different circumstances and my face flushes again, a mix of annoyance and something I don't want to name.

As I eat, the tension in my chest starts to ease, replaced by a quiet warmth. Keal leans against the counter, chatting about nothing-some mix-up at the club, a new DJ he's hiring. He doesn't bring up Jamie again, doesn't push me to talk about my embarrassing meltdown. But his presence, steady and familiar, chips away at the embarrassment gnawing at me.

I'm still confused, still wrestling with feelings I don't understand. I'm straight. I've always been straight.

I'm not allowed to be something else.

But the way my heart races when Keal's close, the way his silent care makes my stomach flip-it's not nothing.

.......

 

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day around 12PM to 3PM.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day around 12PM to 3PM.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 15: Ch 15: Cigarette alternatives

Summary:

Keal doesn’t do feelings—until Ezran’s jealous whisper wrecks his head.

A night of takeout, teasing, and cigarette scoldings spirals when Keal jokes (lies) that Ezran should kiss him every time he wants to smoke.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But now, Keal wants it to.

🖤 Domestic tension, slow-burn heat, and a kiss that almost happens—but wrecks everything anyway.

Notes:

Hello readers, sorry for stopping in mid-path. Sin to Priest would remain continued. One chapter a day.
Hope you enjoy. And please please please leave Kudo and comments. It helps me to.wrote better for you.

Happy reading.
Stay hydrated.
Smile.

~Your author Corvina Neven

(Chapter 15)

Keal;

Jealousy.

That’s the first word that slammed into my brain when I heard that cracked, whispery question from Ezran: “Who’s that kid?” I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but the fact that he didn’t reply to my daily text had me on edge. That little shit might look calm and polite, but he’s stubborn as much as it could be. Four days later, I’m still chewing on it, trying to figure out why he sounded so damn hurt. And what’s fucking with my head even more?
Why would he be jealous?
Why’d he glare at Jamie like he wanted to punch the kid?

Ever since my eyes landed on that med fucking nerd, Ezran Sharma, everything’s been a goddamn mess.
Especially feelings.
Fucking feelings. I’m drowning in emotions I don’t even have names for.

I’m so screwed, and Ezran, you little fucker, I’m blaming you.

------

“Christ, Sharma, why do you take century to open the door?” I said, throwing some mock annoyance into my tone as Ezran finally swung the apartment door open.

“I don’t stand around holding the door for you, y’know,” he shot back, his voice dripping with that dry sarcasm I’ve come to expect. “Why don’t you use your keys to enter your own apartment like a normal person?”

I had to force myself not to stare. He was wearing those loose house shorts and a sleeveless tee that showed off way too much of his lean frame. And that damn collarbone mole? I’ve already decided it’s straight-up witchcraft. No one should look that good just standing there, barefoot, in my damn apartment.

“Med-guy, you losing your eyesight?” I raised both hands, showing off the bags of snacks and takeout dinner I was carrying. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that heavy, but I needed an excuse to make Ezran open the door. Sue me, I like it when he does. That tiny flicker of a smile he tries to hide after opening the door? Yeah, it’s worth looking like an idiot. “Hands full. And no matter how hot God made me, he wasn’t in the mood to give me a third hand.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You could ring the bell but not open the lock? Try again.” He snatched the bags from my hands, his fingers brushing mine for half a second, and I swear my brain short-circuited.

Little shit.

“I… yeah, I didn’t ring the bell,” I said, scrambling for a comeback. “I headbutted it, and being the awesome Keal Hyrjon, it rang.”

“Yeah, yeah, I totally believe you, Awesome-Keal-Hyrjon,” he deadpanned, already heading toward the kitchen.

I followed him, kicking the door shut and tossing my shoes somewhere in the general vicinity of the entryway. Ezran’s got this thing about shoes in the house—if I don’t leave them at the door, he’ll scold me like I’m a five-year-old. And fuck me, because I like it when he gets all bossy. I’m a grown-ass man, and here I am, eating up his lectures like candy.

He dumped the snacks on the kitchen counter next to the takeout containers. “You know I can cook, right?” he said, pulling out bags of chips and candy like he was doing some science shit. “Why do you keep buying lunch and dinner every day?”

“Cause you’re lazy as fuck when it comes to taking care of your pretty little ass,” I said, leaning against the counter. “I know what you’d eat if I left you to it. Like a damn sparrow. I’m pretty sure a sparrow eats more than you.”

“Just because you eat like a hunk doesn’t mean I don’t eat,” he fired back, rolling his eyes.

“Oh yeah? You do eat actually. Recycled urine, a.k.a. that nasty-ass coffee, and straight air.”

“I do—” He stopped, glaring at the pile of snacks. “Goddamn. Why’d you buy this much? The last batch you got isn’t even finished yet, and you bought more? What am I supposed to do with all this? You don’t eat these ever. You’ve got your stupid energy drinks or your oh-so-lovely cigarettes.”

And there it was. Ezran Sharma, scolding the shit out of me like I’m some delinquent kid. Me, Keal Hyrjon, who never let my own daddy dearest talk to me like that. Yet here I am, standing in our kitchen, taking it like a good little boy.
Worse? I’m secretly loving it.

Congratulations, Keal, you’re officially pathetic.

------

I left Ezran to deal with the snacks and headed for the shower. The day had been long, sweaty, and I smelled like the gym and regret. The hot water hit me like a reset button, washing away the grime but not the chaos in my head. Ezran’s voice, that hurt whisper from four days ago, kept looping in my brain. "Who’s that kid?" Why the hell did he care? And why did it bug me so much that he cared?

By the time I got out, towel around my waist, the smell of takeout filled the apartment. Ezran had set the table—two plates, two sets of spoons, and the containers of pad cheese and spring rolls neatly arranged. He was already sitting, scrolling through his phone, his glasses sliding down his nose. Fucking adorable.

I hated it.
Liar lair, pants on fire.

“Sharma, you gonna eat or just stare at your phone like it’s going to come out and feed you?” I said, dropping into the chair across from him.

He pushed his glasses up and gave me a look. But at least he didn't said anything about my towel fashion and I was not out naked like last time. That's something big for me. “I was waiting for you, Mr. I-Take-Forever-in-the-Shower.”

“Had to wash off the awesomeness, Med-guy. It’s a full-time job.”

He snorted, grabbing a spring roll. “Sure it is.”

We dug in, the usual banter flowing like it always did. I’d toss out some dumb comment, he’d fire back with something sharp, and we’d go back and forth like we’d been doing this forever. But every time he slowed down, picking at his food like a bird, I’d catch myself glaring at him. He’d glance up, meet my eyes, and immediately shove a bigger bite in his mouth, like he knew I was about to call him out.

I grabbed my fork, eyes drifting across the table to him. His portion was still barely touched. Of course.

“Eat more,” I said casually, too casually.

Ezran blinked at me. “I am eating.”

“You’re poking at your food like it's your lab experiment kit, Ezran. Don’t think I didn’t see you not finishing your lunch again.”

He rolled his eyes, but I didn’t miss the small twitch in his lips—smile.

I narrowed my eyes.

“I’m eating, I’m eating,” he said quickly, stuffing a bite into his mouth.

Overcompensating little shit.

I grinned. “Good boy.”

He choked.

Literally.

Coughed like I’d smacked him in the back of the throat with the fork. Face flushed instantly, and I laughed—couldn’t help it.

------

After dinner, Ezran took over tidying the table, muttering something about “how can someone with clubs this fancy not even own a dishwasher,” while I headed to the sink with the dishes. A cigarette already dangling from my lips, not lit yet. Just the familiar weight helped me zone out.

I scrubbed a plate slowly, eyes unfocused. Thinking about the little domestic moments with him.
How much of calmness he makes me feel in the mess of my chaos.

I don’t know how long I stood there before I heard footsteps. Then a sharp inhale.

“I told you,” his voice cuts through the hum of faucet and the city's muffled traffic sound, “you’re not supposed to smoke indoors. Or at all.”

Shit.

I flinch slightly.
Because his voice does something. That clipped, righteous, doctor tone.

That little moral superiority that making me imagine of pinning him to the counter and see how long he stays upright when I talk back with my mouth, not my words.

I pull the cigarette from my mouth in a hurry, throw it somewhere against the edge of the sink.

“It’s not even lit,” I try to say casually, not turning around. “You really gonna write me a prescription for how to inhale minus-ing the nicotine?”

“I might,” he snaps. “You’ve already burned through nine packs this week.”

“Eight and a half," I muttered trying anyhow anyhow to save myself.

“You’re not immortal, Keal. Freaking Hyrjon.”

I finally turn to face him.

Ezran’s leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, eyes sharp. His hair’s a little messy, probably from running his hand through it in frustration—something he does at least fifteen times a day, usually because of me.

“You gonna put me on nicotine patches next?” I tease, wiping my hands on the towel wrapped around my torso. “Stick one on me while I sleep?”

He glares. I grin.
Or try to.

Jesus, save me this time and I promise I'll make sure not to smoke anywhere near his vicinity.

Then—I don’t know what the hell possesses me. Maybe it’s the way his mouth tightens when he’s angry. Maybe it’s the faint flush creeping up his neck. Maybe it’s the goddamn silence that sits too heavy between us sometimes.

Or maybe I’m just suicidal in a different way.

“Tell you what,” I say, taking steps towards him, “Every time I get the urge to light one of these, you kiss me instead.”

Ezran blinks.

I blink.

What the fuck did I just say.

The air stalls. Time trips over itself. I see my brain crash like a cheap laptop.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything but then closed again and again. But nothing came out.

There isn’t one.

Did I just suggest—me—kiss—him?

I don’t kiss. Never have. Not during sex, not for mood making. Not for anything.

Kissing feels like a promise, and I don’t make those.

Ever.

Ezran’s mouth parts slightly, and I see it—right there—that brief flicker of confusion and maybe... something else.

Something warm. Something scared.

"You—what?" He whispered. And I internally groaned. God.

I swallow. Shrug trying to play it cool.

“You heard me.”

It comes out gruff. Defensive. Like if I act chill enough, maybe I can lie to myself that it was just another joke.

He’s still staring, but not in the usual judgmental way.

This time, it’s… different.

“That's your solution?” he says, voice quiet now. I almost missed it between the sound of our quick unsteady heartbeats.

I said stepping a little closer. “Might as well make it useful."
I heard his breath hitch. Just a little. But enough to make me know I'm not the only one.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t back away. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and I want to bite it just to see if he’d whimper for me.

I want it like it's the last thing I can pray for.

My eyes travel in his those lips.

Does he know his bottom lip is slightly bigger than the upper one?
I want to suck it. Tug it between my teethe till he moans my name like I'm the only God worth worshipping.

I caught his eyes travelling between my eyes and... lips.

“Don’t worry,” I add, voice low, “I’m just messing with you.”

Lie.

Big fat fuckin’ lie.

Because that was not a joke. Not really.

Because it can't be a joke when I felt my mouth twitch with the thought of actually leaning in.

When the idea of his lips pressed against mine burned hotter than any cigarette ever could.

Ezran scoffs, voice dry, finally breaking the tension by grabbing a rag and going back to wiping the countertop like it'd somehow make him forgot that I caught him staring at my lips.

I head back to the sink.

But in the silence, with only soap bubbles and the echo of my drumming heartbeats, my mind replays it again.

That image—his lips on mine. His hands gripping the edge of my shoulder. That gasp he’d make if I just—fuck.

I don’t kiss.

I don’t.

But I think I just started wanting to.

------

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-----

Notes:

So… turns out I do have readers here. Y’all were real quiet for 14 chapters and I assumed I was writing for my future therapist.
BUT your comments brought me back. I know there was not much comment. But I'm gonna write even if one reader sticks with the story.

So here— Chapter 15.

Thank you again.
Love you, all.
Take care.
Happy reading.
Smile.♡

~ Your author Neven

Chapter 16: Ch 16: Soft morning, sharp edges

Summary:

They didn’t kiss.
But Keal’s voice still haunts Ezran, low and loaded: “You kiss me instead.”

Now Ezran’s cooking dinner in Keal’s apron, Keal’s watching like he wants to devour more than just food, and neither of them is saying a damn thing about last night.

Then Keal?
He stays up all night just to drive him to class—and lets Ezran behind the wheel of his car.

This isn’t just tension anymore.
It’s foreplay.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 16)

Ezran;

The morning after yesterday's moment in the kitchen, I woke up with a headache that felt like someone had taken a hammer to my skull. Not because I drank—God knows my family would disown me if I even sniffed alcohol—but because my brain wouldn’t shut up. Just kept looping that voice. His voice. Low, rough, deep. “Every time I get the urge to light one of these, you kiss me instead.”

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face. What the hell was that? Was he joking? He had to be joking. Keal Hyrjon doesn’t do kisses. I know that because I saw him turning his head away when a hookup tried to kiss him. When Tanya tried to kiss him in the club that night and got refused.

I’m just observant. Not like I care who he fucks. Or kisses. Or doesn't kiss. Whatever.

A nasty little traitorous voice inside me laughed, “So why were you sobbing like a damn toddler, convinced Jamie was just his fuck toy?”
I internally flip that voice off.

The guy’s allergic to anything that smells remotely like commitment. But the way he looked at me—like he was daring me to call his bluff, like he wanted me to—God, it’s been messing with my head all night. I barely slept, just tossed and turned, imagining what would’ve happened if I let myself lean a little and press my lips against— I groaned.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I glanced at the clock. 7:49 AM. Keal wouldn’t be up for hours. The guy sleeps like he has years of experience of a coma. Perfect. I could slip out to college, avoid him, and pretend last night never happened.

Because that’s what adults do, right? Ignore the problem until it magically disappears.

Pathetic.

I scrambled out of bed, dragged myself to wash up, threw on a hoodie and jeans, and grabbed my backpack. My head throbbed for a coffee, but I ignored it. No time for it. I needed to be out of this apartment before Keal’s stupidly handsome face showed up and made me overthink everything again. I scribbled a note—“Gone to class. Don’t smoke!”—and stuck it on the fridge. Not that he’d see it before noon.

The subway ride to college was a nightmare, as usual. Too many people, too much noise, too much everything. I pressed myself against the wall of the train, headphones blasting my Bollywood playlist to drown out the chaos.

------

My phone buzzed halfway through my forensic toxicology class. I didn’t even need to check to know who it was

Half-Naked Devil: (01:03 PM): Yo, Med-guy. Lunch. What’d you eat? Where's the evidence?

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at my lips. He does this every day like it's a clockwork. It’s annoying. It’s sweet. It’s… Keal.

I’d grabbed a rice, grilled chicken and vegetables from the campus cafeteria earlier in lunch break, and I snapped a quick pic of the empty wrapper too which I send him now.

Me (01:05 PM): Emptied full plate. Happy now?

Half-Naked Devil (01:06 PM): Barely. Next time, add chips. Or a burger for break times. Something with calories, Sharma.

I snorted and received a weird look from my side-mate, shoving my phone back in my pocket. He’s such a hypocrite. The guy lives on energy drinks, takeout and goddamn inhales nicotine, yet he’s out here lecturing me about nutrition.

But...there's a but.

I don’t hate it. I know I should. I know it should annoy me.
Yet I find it kind of... caring, knowing someone’s paying attention.

Even if it’s Keal, with his infuriating grin and his infuriating… everything.

I shoot him another text after the class end.

Me (01:42 PM): Don't buy takeout tonight.

I hit send before I could overthink it. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because I wanted to prove I’m not as baby as he thinks.
Maybe because I wanted to do something normal, something that didn’t involve that kitchen moment hanging over us like a storm cloud.

Or maybe I wanted to... take care of him too.

Whatever the reason, I was committed now.

He started typing.
The little speech bubbles blinked and i was mentally preparing for excuses to explain him why.
Then—gone.
Deleted.
Silence.
A pause.
And finally, a simple,:

Half-Naked Devil: OK

And I released a breathe I didn’t even realize I was holding back.

-----

By the time I got back to the apartment that afternoon, Keal was gone. Probably at one of his clubs, doing whatever it is he does when he’s not driving me insane.

The place felt too quiet without him, which was stupid. I’m used to quiet. I like quiet. But Keal’s presence is like the shadow he left behind. Unseen, untouched and yet... strangely familiar.

I dropped my backpack on my study table and made my way to the kitchen. If I was cooking, I had to get started.

Keal’s fridge was a damn mess—half-empty energy drink cans and not much else. But thankfully, he’d gone on that first rare grocery haul that first day he thought I was not eating and stocked up like he was prepping for the apocalypse. I could only pray the stuff hadn’t gone bad. I’d brought a few fresh vegetables on my way too, just in case. After rummaging through his kitchen like I was on a survival mission, I finally found chicken, rice, a few vegetables, and enough spices to set up a small restaurant. The guy might not cook, but his spice shelf? Fully loaded—probably from that same chaotic shopping trip where he grabbed everything in reach without looking.

I tied on an apron I’d found in a drawer—black, with some cheesy  "HOTTER THAN MY OVEN, AND THAT'S ON 450°" printed that was so Keal—and got to work. Chopping vegetables, marinating chicken, rinsing rice. It was mindless, soothing. For the first time all day, my brain shut up about last night. I turned on my favourite Bollywood music, low enough only to hum in the house, and let myself get lost in the rhythm of cooking.

By the time the doorbell rang, I already knew it was Keal. I half-ran to the door, apron clinging to me and a wooden spoon still in hand which I didn’t bother to leave in the counter. The second the door creaked open, I turned and bolted back to the kitchen—my gravy was on the way to become charcoal.

He followed me in like some overgrown puppy.

“Ezran," he started to say something but cut himself off mid-sentence, probably in shock...or surprise. "You're cooking," he mumbled more to himself than me. Then he visibly shake his head.

"You trying to burn the place down or what?” His voice was light, but there was an edge to it. Like he was trying too hard to sound normal.

I glanced over my shoulder, and— Mistake. Keal was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His hair was a mess, his shirt slightly untucked, sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and even from here, I could see the veins tracing his bright skin.

And his eyes… they were doing that thing again. That intense, unreadable thing that made my stomach flip. He was staring at me—at the apron, at the spatula in my hand, at the whole stupid domestic scene—and his lips twitched into a smile that was equal parts amused and… something else.

Something softer.
It was gone before I could name it, but it left my chest tight.

“Unlike you, I know how to use a stove,” I shot back, turning back to the pan to hide the heat creeping up my neck. “Wash up. It’s almost ready.”

He didn’t move right away. I could feel his eyes on me, and it took everything not to turn around again.

“Don't overthink, I just didn’t want to eat another greasy burger,” I muttered plating the foods even though every takeout was bought from some five star restaurant. But even my voice sounded too defensive to my ear.

“But I didn't say anything.”

I ignored him, setting a plate of stir-fry and rice in front of him. He looked at it like it was something to be amused of. Then his eyes travelled to me, "Careful, Ezran, I might get used to this.”

There was something in his voice. Something unknown, not teasing. Nothing smudged.

Something oddly intimate which made my throat went dry.

“You want food or a frying pan to the head?” I said trying to breakfree the...whatever's going on, sitting across from him and digging into my own plate.

Dinner was… weird. The banter was there, same as always. He made some dumb comment about my skills of being a house husband, I fired back about his inability to boil water, and we  laughed.

But there was this undercurrent, this thing hanging between us. Last night. The cigarette. The kiss comment. Neither of us mentioned it, but it was there, like a third person at the table, making every glance feel heavier.

Halfway through dinner, Keal leaned back in his chair, picking at his food with his fork. “So,” he said, too casually, “What time you head to college?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, around nine. Why?”

“How you getting there?”

“Subway, like always.” I shrugged, taking a bite of chicken. “Why the sudden interest?”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept poking at his rice. Then he said, “I’ll drop you off.”

I laughed. Couldn’t help it. The idea of Keal Hyrjon, the guy who once threw his phone across the bathroom because it dared to ring at eleven, being awake and functional at nine in the morning? Hilarious. “Yeah, right. You don’t even know what nine AM looks like.”

“I’m serious,” he said, and the way he looked at me—steady, no trace of his usual smirk—made my laugh die in my throat. “Subway’s a shitshow. You hate crowds. I’ll drive you.”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. “Keal, you sleep until noon. Minimum. You’re not waking up at eight to play babysitter.”

He shrugged, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “I'll be waking you up tomorrow.”

I snorted. “Sure, whatever. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He just grinned, and for a second, I thought he was going to say something else—something about last night, maybe. But he didn’t. He just went back to eating, and I let the moment pass.

The next morning, I was up at 7:30, expecting to make a coffee. But when I walked into the living room, there he was, sprawled on the couch, eyes half-open, a mug of untouched coffee in his hand. He was sleeping. Sat. I stopped dead, staring.

“How are you awake?” I asked, incredulous.

“Told you,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “Easy.”

"You... you didn’t sleep at all?" I didn’t even try to mask the shock in my voice.

“Staying up till nine is easier than waking up at nine,” he said, scratching his abs as he shoved the coffee at me and hauled himself off the couch. “Let’s go, Med-guy. Don’t wanna be late for your nerd classes.”

I watched him shuffle toward the bathroom, still not entirely convinced he wasn’t going to collapse. But sure enough, ten minutes later, he was back, toothbrush in his mouth.
I bit back a laugh as he leaned against the bathroom counter, eyes closed, toothbrush dangling from his lips like he’d forgotten he had to brush with that.

“Keal,” I said, crossing my arms. “You’re asleep.”

“Am not,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“You’re literally drooling.”

He snapped his eyes open, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Liar.”

I grinned, shaking my head as I grabbed my backpack. “Come on, let’s get this over with before you faceplant.”

Ten minutes later, I found him asleep again—this time slumped against his closet, one hand still gripping a shirt like he was choosing it in his dreams.

“Keal, go back to bed. I’ll take the subway.”

“No way,” he said, jerking awake. “I said I’m driving, so I’m driving.”

I just helped pick the least wrinkled shirt and handed it to him like I was his babysitter.

Somehow, we made it to the car—a sleek Chevrolet Corvette Z06 (C8) that definitely cost more than my tuition.

I stood on the driver’s side, hand out.

He squinted at me. “You’re driving?”

“I don’t want to die before I cut someone’s inside open. Legally.”

He blinked. Then—miracle of miracles—tossed me the keys.
Keal never lets anyone drive his car. He’s weirdly possessive about his car.

But he didn’t argue. Just got into the passenger seat, adjusted the seat back, and leaned his head against the window.

“Don’t wreck my baby,” he muttered time.

I slide into the driver’s seat. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, he was already out, head lolling against the window, soft snores filling the car.

I glanced at him, and my chest did that stupid tightening thing again.

He looked… peaceful.
No smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes.

Just Keal, asleep, trusting me to get us where we needed to go. I don’t know why that hit me so hard, but it did.

He let me drive his car. He stayed up all night just to take me to college.

Keal Hyrjon, the devil-may-care guy, was doing this for me.

“Dummy,” I muttered under my breath, but I was smiling as I said it.

By the time we pulled up to campus, Keal was still out cold, one hand resting on his thigh, the other tucked against his chest.
I didn’t have the heart to wake him. So I didn’t. I just parked, grabbed my backpack, and leaned over to nudge his shoulder.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. We're here.”

He stirred, blinking blearily at me. “Already?”

“Yeah. You slept the whole way.”

He grinned, slow and sleepy. “You’re welcome, Med-guy,” he said, waving a hand

I laughed, shaking my head as I got out of the car. “Go home and sleep, Keal. And don’t crash mid-way.”

He saluted me, still half-asleep, and I watched him slide into the driver’s seat, yawning again.

As I walked toward the lecture hall, I couldn’t shake the weird warmth in my chest.

Last night was still there, lingering like a bruise, but this morning? This morning felt like something else. Something good. And the good was muffling all the noises I've learn to know as right.

And... that scared the hell out of me.

-----

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day around 12PM to 3PM.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day around 12PM to 3PM.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Chapter 17: Ch 17: Ashes & Aftermath

Summary:

Four days. That’s how long Keal vanished—no explanation, just silence and smoke.
Now he’s back, teetering on the edge of a balcony with ghosts clawing at his throat and guilt biting down harder than his cigarette.
Ezran finds him raw, broken, and hiding behind sarcasm, but one question—“Are you okay?”—shatters the walls.
A kiss follows.
So does a breakdown.
One step forward, ten emotional grenades back.
Because love, like guilt, never comes without blood.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 17)

Keal;

 

The city’s a goddamn blur tonight. Neon lights crashing into each other, spreading across the skyline like someone dragged a wet paintbrush over it just to mess with it.

I’m on the balcony, leaning against the railing, the cigarette burning between my fingers down to the concrete.

The smoke's curling up, thick and heavy, but it’s not doing shit to quiet the noise in my head. Today it's too loud to ignore. Too taunting to pretend it's not there.

My brain’s a fucking riot—screaming memories I’ve spent years burying, clawing their way up making me suffer like the way I fucking deserve.

Four days. I haven’t been back to the apartment in four fucking days. Sent Ezran one text, not even bringing myself to explain—"Got something to do. Won't return."—and ghosted. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.

My life has a way of sinking its teeth into me when I least expect it, and this time, it bit hard.
A phone call. A voice I hadn’t heard in years. Not my old man, not my sister—someone else. Someone who shouldn’t still have my number. Someone who knows things about me I swore I’d take to my grave. A name, a favor, a threat disguising as a greeting, reminding me what a filthy kit I am. Doesn’t matter how much I pretend to be the devil-may-care, in the end of the day I'm a fucking murderer.

I take another drag, the burn in my throat is sharp yet not sharp enough to claw the filthieness out from me.
My life isn’t a story I tell. It’s an ugly shadow, full of blood and bad money.
A younger me, stupid and reckless, considering people family who didn’t give a fuck about my existence.

The night that ended with me staring at my hands, wondering if they’d ever feel clean again. I killed him for her. But she called me a murderer even before anyone could breathe.
My father’s money buried it, sure, because his legacy can't be stained. But that money didn’t erase the weight.
It just buys silence. And now, someone’s rattling the cage, threatening to drag it all into the light.

I flick ash over the railing, watching it disappear into the void below. The city humming—car horns, distant sirens, the muffled pulse of life that never even pauses.

I used to love this view. Used to feel like a king up here, untouchable. Taking pride on being most wanted in school, college, every-fucking-where.

Keal, this...
Keal, that...
Keal.
Keal.
Keal.

I used to love the attention. Maybe because I never received it from people who truly once mattered.

Now it just feels like I’m staring into a mirror, and I don’t like what’s looking back. Because even the reflection taunting me for being a fool. A damn criminal.

Ezran’s probably pissed. I know he is. I didn’t answer his texts, didn’t call. Just vanished like the asshole I am. Didn’t even asked about his meals.

He’s been texting every day, though—little jabs about my shitty eating habits, about the subway, about how I’d better not be smoking. Always with that edge of care he tries to hide behind sarcasm. And fuck, it’s been the only thing keeping me tethered these past few days. That, and the thought of his face when he opens the door, all annoyed and perfect, with that damn mole I dreamt of sinking my teethe on.

I hear his room's door creak open behind me, silently too silently, and my shoulders tense. Footsteps, soft but deliberate, pad across the living room. Ezran’s awake.

I don’t turn around. I don’t trust myself to. Not tonight, when I’m raw and frayed and disgusted with myself. I take another drag, the cigarette glowing red in the dark, and let the smoke spill out slow, curling around me like a dirty halo.

The footsteps stop. I hear the faint squeak of my bedroom door opening, then a pause. A mutter, low and pissed, but laced with something softer—something that sounded like worry. “Goddamn it, Keal, where the hell are you? Not even a text? God, he better be fine."

I don’t move, but a small, barely-there smile tugs at my lips. Even when he’s mad, he cares.
Fucking Ezran Sharma, with his nerdy glasses and his scolding and his stupid, perfect heart. He’s gonna be the death of me, I swear.

Then the footsteps start again, faster, heading back towards his room. Then he paused. He’s seen me. I brace myself, staring out at the city, the cigarette still burning between my fingers. I don’t put it out. Not this time. I hear him storm through the sliding glass door, and I know he’s about to rip into me—about the smoking, about disappearing, about being a disgusting fuck-up.

“Keal, what the hell?” His voice is sharp, all anger but a hidden hint of relief. “Where the fuck have you been? You vanished for days, didn’t answer my texts, and now you’re out here smoking? You goddamn even didn’t care to—”

He stops. Mid-sentence, just like that. I don’t turn around, but I can feel his eyes on me, feel the shift in the air. He’s close now, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his shampoo—bluebells and mint. I take another slow drag, the smoke curling up inside my heart and I wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. For him to yell again, maybe. For him to walk away. For the world to make sense again.

But he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t walk away. The silence stretches, heavy only by the hum of the city below. I feel him step closer. Then, soft—so soft. I don't like it. I don't want pity from anyone. Specially not from Ezran. But yet he speaks.

“Keal… you okay?”

The question hits like a punch. Nobody asks me that. Because I'm always fine. Always smiling, laughing. Always being the perfect people-pleaser.
Yet the way he says it, quiet and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he pushes too hard—it undoes something in me I hate for existing.

Something I’ve spent years keeping locked down.

I don’t answer. Can’t. My throat’s too tight, my head too fucked. I take another drag, the cigarette flow reflecting in his glasses. In the faint light, I see him—his messy hair, his glasses slightly crooked, his arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself together. He’s not yelling anymore.

He’s just… there.

“Keal,” he says again, softer still, and I feel his hand brush my arm. It’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to make my skin burn. “Talk to me.”

I laugh, low and bitter, the sound scraping my throat. “What’s there to talk about, Med-guy? I’m fine. Always am.”
Lie. Big fucking lie. I’m not fine. I’m a mess, and he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him against my side. "It's okay not to be fine sometimes.”

I finally turn, just enough to meet his eyes. Big mistake. His face is half-lit by the city glow, half-shadowed, and his eyes—those damn dark-brown eyes with endless stars—are wide and searching, like he’s trying to see straight through me.

I hate it. He shouldn’t matter. Yet I desperately want him not to know my past. Not him. I don’t want him hating me of all people.

I want to run from him but also drown in him all at once.

“You gonna diagnose me now, Med-guy?” I say, trying to keep it light, trying to slip back into the cocky asshole the world's used to. But my voice betrays me, rough and raw, like I’ve been screaming for days. No, I've been silent for days.

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, his lips parting slightly, like he’s about to say something but can’t find the words. And then—fuck, I don’t know how it happens—his hand moves, tentative, to my face. His fingers brush my jaw, light as if he's afraid, and before I can process it, he leans in.

His lips meet mine.

My mind shuts up. Finally.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, like he’s testing what I don’t know, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to do this. His lips are warm, slightly rough and they taste faintly of the mint gum he’s always chewing. My brain short-circuits, the cigarette forgotten in my hand, the city fading to background.

There’s just him. Ezran. Kissing me.

I’m frozen for a split second, shock locking me in place. This doesn’t happen. I don’t kiss. I don’t. Kissing is too much, too raw, too close to something I’ve never let myself have. But then my body catches up, and I realize I want it as desperately as I wanted death once.

I shoved him against the railing.
He gasps loudly.
I kiss him back.

Hard. Hungry. Angry. Like I’m trying to pour every fucked-up thing in my head into him. Because I am. Because he's the only one who tames the demon inside me. My demons shuts up when he's near.

My free hand finds his hips, pulling him closer, and he gasps against my mouth—a small, desperate sound that lights a hunger inside me to swallow him whole. I bite down his bottom lip. Hard. His mouth parted as if inviting me. I deepen the kiss, my tongue brushing his, and it’s messy and wild and everything I didn’t know I needed. His hands grip my shoulders, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again, and I can feel the tremor in them.

The cigarette falls from my fingers, smoldering on the balcony floor, but I don’t care. All I care about is him—his taste, his heat, the way his body presses against mine like it was made to fit there. I want to devour him, to own every piece of him and make it mine. I want to hear that gasp again, want to feel him break in my hands.

But then he jerks back.

It’s sudden, violent, like he’s been burned. His chest is heaving, his eyes wide and panicked, and he stumbles back a step, nearly tripping over the balcony’s edge. He’s hyperventilating, breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps, and his hands are shaking as he presses them to his face, like he’s trying to hide from what just happened.

“Ezran—” I start, my voice rough. I swear I'm going to break something if he denies it now.

“No,” he snaps, his voice high and breathy. “No, no, no.” He’s backing away, his eyes darting everywhere but at me, like he can’t stand to look at me.

Like I’m something dangerous. Something wrong.

I reach for him, but he flinches and my demons started yelling at me what an ugly shit I am, why am I breathing. Why why why? Lots of fucking why.

He’s shaking his head, muttering something in a language I don't understand. His glasses are fogging up, and I realize he’s on the verge of tears.

“I—I can’t,” he chokes out, and then he’s gone, bolting back into the apartment like he’s running from a monster.
Thats what i am. A ugly filthy fucking monster.

The sliding door rattles as he slams it shut, and I’m left standing there, the city lights blurring in my vision, my lips still tingling from his.

I don’t move. Can’t. My chest feels like it’s caving in, and my body has frozen, unmoved—not from the cold, but from the thought of what just happened. He kissed me. He kissed me. And I kissed him back, like a starving man, like he was the only thing keeping me alive. And now he’s gone, running from me, like it’s something to be ashamed of.

Like I'm something to be ashamed of.

I stare at the cigarette still smoldering on the concrete, unblinking. I should put it out. I don’t. I just watch it burn, the cherry glowing like a tiny, afraid star.

He took something from me tonight. Something I didn’t even know I had to give.

Ezran Sharma, with his soft lips and his shaking hands, reached into the mess of me and pulled something out. Something raw and real and terrifying.

And now he’s gone, and I’m sitting here, wondering if I’ll ever get it back. Or if I even want to.

I tilt my head back, staring up at the sky, but there’s no stars. Just the endless glow of the city, mocking me with it's indifference, reminding me the whispers about blood and things I can’t undo.

But for the first time in years, it’s not the loudest thing in my head.

The loudest thing is him. His kiss. His panic. The way he looked at me like I was everything and nothing all at once.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually, I grind the cigarette out with my heel and stand.

The apartment’s quiet when I step inside, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Ezran’s door is closed, and I don’t knock. I don’t trust myself to.

I head to my room, but I don’t sleep. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the kiss, the way his hands felt on my shoulders, the way he ran.

And somewhere, in the back of my mind, that nasty voice whispers again, reminding me that I don’t get to have this. That guys like me don’t get soft things, don’t get kisses that mean something.

But fuck that voice. Fuck the past. For once, I want something more than the fog of my mistakes.

For the first time in years, I don't want to be alone.

But I am.

-----

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
(Subscribe for more)
If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create and get sneak peak of Keal-Ezran's before publishing, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 18: Ch 18: The Quiet Voice

Summary:

Ezran's been avoiding Keal for five days, suffocating under the weight of a kiss he wanted too much and a shame he can't silence. While guilt eats at him, Keal grows distant—no teasing texts, no soft glances, just cold absence. Torn between everything he was taught and everything he craves, Ezran finds himself on the edge of a breakdown. But when Keal finally comes home early, Ezran doesn't run. Not this time.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 18)

Ezran;

The alarm blares at 05:00 AM, an insistent scream that yanks me out of the half-sleep I've been clinging to from last few days. My hand fumbles across the nightstand, knocking over the empty water bottle before I silence the damn thing. The room is dark, the kind of heavy, pre-dawn dark. My heart's feeling like something pressing down on it. I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, my heart already racing like I've been running for miles. It's not the alarm. It's not the early hour.

It's him.
It's Keal.

I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor, and I wince. The apartment is silent. Not the kind I used to love. It's suffocating. It's...uncomfortable.
I know he's in his room, probably sprawled across his bed, passed out after whatever late-night chaos he's been drowning himself in. He has returned just 2 hours earlier.
He's been coming home later and later, the faint click of the front door waking me even when I pretend to be asleep. I don't know where he goes. Clubs, bars, his business deals-I don't ask. I don't want to know. Not when every thought of him makes my stomach twist into knots.

I freshen up and try to study. But God, only if I could focus on anything but the disturbingly beautiful memory of Keal's lips.

I pull on my jeans and a hoodie, moving as quietly as I can. My sneakers are by the door, and I lace them up with shaking hands, my fingers fumbling as if they've forgotten how to work. I need to get out of here before I have to face him. Before I have to see those sharp brown eyes that used to make me smile but now just make me feel like I'm shattering.

The memory of that kiss hits me like a freight train, same as it does every morning, every night, every goddamn second I'm trying to breathe.

His lips on mine, rough and desperate, like he was trying to pull something out of me and also pouring something inside me he's too sacred to say loud.

The way his hand gripped my hip, the way his tongue tangled with mine, the way I wanted it-God, I wanted it so bad it scared me.

And then suddenly my whole body screamed "wrong, filthy, disgusting" until I couldn't breathe, until I had to run.

I grab my backpack and slip out the door, locking it softly behind me. The hallway is dim as if it's just as tired as I am.

I take the elevator and when I hit the street, the cold air slaps me in the face. The city's has waken up too. I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking toward the subway, my head down, my heart pounding like it's trying to break free.

I've been avoiding him for five days. Five days of sneaking out before he even stirs, five days of staying late at the medical college library, five days of pretending to be asleep when he gets home. Five days of him being... different. Cold. Distant. No more texts about my "Sparrow diet" or teasing me about my pink highlighter. No more offers to drop me off at college in his stupidly flashy car.

Yet Each time it's feeling like a dagger stabbing in my heart, because I know it's my fault. I pushed him away. I ran. I made him think I'm ashamed of him.

I'm not.
I'm ashamed of myself.

The subway is crowded like always, the air thick with the smell of coffee and cheap cologne. But today it doesn't bother me. Which bothers me the most is Keal knowing that crowd makes me uncomfortable. Him staying awake all night to drop me off.

I squeeze into a corner, my backpack pressed against my chest, and try to focus on the rattle of the train, the hum of voices, anything but the war in my head. But it's there, always there, two voices screaming at each other so loud that I'm having a nasty headache.

One voice-small, quiet, but growing louder every day-whispers that it's okay to want him. That the way my heart races when I think about his crooked smirk, his rough laugh, the way his fingers felt against my jaw-it's real. It's good. It's mine. It tells me to forget everything I was taught, to forget the rules, to just feel for once. To go back to that balcony and kiss him again, harder, longer.

Again feel whole.
Alive.
Even just for a minute.

The other voice is louder, meaner, and it sounds like my father. Like my uncles. Like the sermons I grew up hearing, the ones that said there's only one way to love, one way to be. Man and woman. Anything else is unnatural, filthy, disturbing. That voice tells me I'm dirty, that I'm wrong, that if my family ever found out, they'd look at me like I was a stranger. They'd kick me out, disown me, erase me. I can see my mother's face, her eyes wide with disgust, her voice shaking as she tells me I'm no son of hers. I can hear my father's silence, worse than any shout, cutting me out of his life like I never existed.

I press my forehead against the subway window, the glass cold against my skin. I don't know how to make the voices stop. I don't know how to make any of this make sense.

------

By the time I get to the college, the campus is buzzing with early morning energy. Students shuffle between buildings, coffee cups in hand, their voices blending into a dull roar. I head straight for the library, my safe haven, where I can bury myself in textbooks and lecture notes and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. I know Tanya, Matt and Rohan are already there, camped out at our usual table in the corner. Tanya's got her laptop open, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, muttering about biochem. Matt's doodling in the margins of his notebook, his earbuds blasting something loud enough that I can hear the bass from across the table. Rohan's flipping through flashcards, his brow furrowed.

"Hey, Zombie," Tanya says, glancing up as I drop my bag on the floor. "You look like you haven't slept since last semester."

I force a smile, "Finals are knocking, T."

She snorts, not buying it. "Yeah, right. You've got bags under your eyes big enough to pack for Matt's one day vacation."

Matt pulls out an earbud, pointing that towards Tanya. "Bitch, I don't take much. I just take what's necessaries."

"Yeah yeah. Not much. Just enough to cover an Army. You fuck off," she again turned his attention to me, "Ez, you okay? You seriously looking like you'd collapse."

"I'm fine," I say, too quick, and I know they hear it.
The lie.

I open my laptop, pretending to focus on the screen, but my hands are shaking, and I can feel their eyes on me.

Rohan sets his flashcards down, leaning back in his chair. "Ez, come on. You've been weird for days. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I mutter, my voice barely audible. I don't look up. I can't. If I do, they'll see it-the guilt, the confusion, the way I'm falling apart inside. They'll ask questions I don't have answers for.

Tanya leans forward, her voice softer now. "Ezran, you're our friend. You don't have to tell us everything, but... you don't have to carry it alone, either."

Her words hit harder than they should, like a crack inside me which I've been holding together with duct tape. I want to tell them. I want to spill it all-the kiss, the shame, the way Keal's distance is killing me, the way I'm terrified of what I feel.

But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind years of being told that this-this-is wrong. That I'm wrong.

"I'm just stressed," I say finally, my voice flat. "Exams. You know."

Matt raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Rohan sighs, shaking his head, but Tanya... Tanya keeps looking at me, her eyes sharp and knowing, like she can see straight through the bullshit.

------

The day drags on. Lectures, study groups, lab work. I go through the motions, nodding at the right times, scribbling notes I barely process. By the time afternoon rolls around, I'm exhausted, I didn't had my lunch, my head pounding, my chest tight. I stared at my phone, hoping-stupidly-for a text from Keal. Something snarky, something warm, something him. At least the regular text, "Lunch, Med-guy. And the pic."

But there's nothing. Just a blank screen staring back at me.

When I finally leave, it's past 5 PM. The city's alive now, the streets buzzing with lights and noise. I take the long way home, dragging my feet, dreading the moment I have to walk into that apartment. I know he won't be there-he's never there when I get back, always out at work, probably avoiding me as much as I'm avoiding him. But the thought of seeing him, of facing him, makes my stomach churn.
But also not seeing him killing me.

The apartment is dark when I step inside, just like I expected. His shoes aren't by the door. His jacket's not on the couch. The air holding a faint smell of Keal- Cedarwood, leather, smoke and... comfort.

I drop my bag and head to the kitchen, my stomach growling, but the thought of food makes me nauseous. I grab a glass of water instead, sipping it slowly, my eyes drifting to the balcony.

I can still see him there, leaning against the railing, the cigarette glowing between his fingers. The way he looked at me, raw and unguarded, like he was letting me see something he never shows anyone.

And I ruined it.
I ran. I made him think I didn't want it, when the truth is, I want it so bad it's tearing me apart.

I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands, and try to breathe.
The voices are back, louder now, fighting for control. The one that wants him, that wants to run to him and kiss him again, is screaming, desperate, clawing at me. But the other one-the one that sounding like my culture, like everything I've ever known-is louder, telling me it's wrong, it's filthy, it's a betrayal of everything I am.

I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually, I hear the front door.

Keal's early today.
Why he's early? What am I gonna do? What am gonna say? What am I-

My heart stops. I should move, should run to my room and pretend to be asleep, but my body won't listen. I'm frozen, my hands gripping the edge of the couch, my breath shallow.

Keal steps inside, his silhouette dark against the hallway light. He doesn't see me at first, his movements slow, deliberate, no cockyness or smug smirk like usual. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over a chair, and runs a hand through his hair. It's messy, messier than usual, falling into his eyes. He looks tired, exhausted somehow, like something heavy is dragging him down.

Then he sees me.

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, neither of us moves. The air feels charged, like a storm about to break. I want to say something, anything, but my throat's too tight, my words stuck behind the shame and the fear and the want.

"Ezran," he says, his voice low, rough, like he hasn't spoken in hours. There's no warmth in it, no teasing edge, just... nothing. It's worse than if he'd yelled. I jsd always loved the way he calls my name-Ezran, Med-guy, Sharma- but now, now I'm hating my name like nothing before.

"Hey," I manage, my voice hoarse. I stand, my legs shaky, and grab my glass, moving toward the kitchen like I'm doing something normal, like my heart isn't pounding so hard I can hear it. "Just, uh, getting some water."

He doesn't say anything, just watches me, his expression unreadable. I can feel his eyes on me as I rinse the glass, my hands trembling so bad I nearly drop it. I need to get out of here, need to escape before I do something stupid, like tell him everything, like beg him to kiss me again.

"I'm gonna... head to bed," I say, not looking at him. I can't. If I do, I'll break.

"Cool," he says, and that single word feels like a slap. I nod, my throat burning, and head to my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

I don't sleep. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the memory of his kiss burning through me like a fire.

-----

The next day is worse. I'm distracted in class, my notes a mess of half-finished sentences. Tanya notices, of course-she always does. It's sometimes annoying. During lunch break, she drags me to a quiet corner of the cafeteria, Matt and Rohan bickering behind like they're arguing on world's problems.

"Okay, spill," she says, crossing her arms. "You're not just stressed, Ez. You're a wreck. What's going on?"

I stare at my untouched sandwich, my stomach twisting. "It's nothing, T. I'm fine, Haha."

"You're not fine," Matt says, leaning forward. "You're, like, a ghost, nerdie. You barely talk though you were a mute ass before too. But What's up?"

I shake my head, my jaw tight. I can't tell them. I can't. They wouldn't understand-not the way I was raised, not the way my family would react. But Tanya's eyes are soft, searching, and for a second, I want to tell her everything.

Rohan leans back, his voice quiet but firm. "Ez, whatever it is, you don't have to figure it out alone. Sometimes... sometimes you gotta listen to your heart, you know? Logic's great, but it doesn't always have the answers. And fucker, isn't your major gonna be cardiology?"

His words hit me in the heart. My stupid, traitorous heart that wants Keal so bad it psychically hurts. That wants to forget everything I was taught, everything I'm supposed to be, and just be with him.

"Life's too short to be miserable," Tanya adds. "If something's making you happy-or could make you happy-don't let fear stop you. You deserve to smile, too. And also a good pussy, Ez."

"Or a monster dick," Matt finishes while chewing his burger.

I don't say anything, but their words stick with me, burrowing deep.
That night, when I get home, the apartment is empty again. I sit on the couch, my phone in my hand, staring at Keal's name in my contacts. "Half-Naked Devil". It made me smile a little. This was the first time I saved someone's mame in something that's not their real name.

I want to text him. I want to call him. I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I'm scared, that I don't know how to do this but I want to. I want to cry. I want to hold him. I want him to hold me.

The quiet voice-the one that wants him-is louder tonight, drowning out the shame, the fear, the rules. It's not gone, not completely, but for the first time, it feels like I might be able to fight it.

I don't text him. But I don't pretend to be asleep when I hear the door later that night. I sit up, my heart in my throat, and wait for him to walk in.

Maybe it's time to stop running and embracing the hell which felt more real than the heaven.

_______

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
(Subscribe for more)
If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create and get sneak peak of Keal-Ezran's before publishing, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Chapter 19: Ch 19: Look at me again

Summary:

Ezran, drowning in guilt and longing, finally breaks the silence between him and Keal after days of avoidance. A sleepless night, a tension-filled car ride, and a jealousy-fueled spiral push him to confess in the only way he knows—by kissing Keal. The result is explosive, rough, and laced with everything unsaid. But their emotional wreckage still lingers beneath the surface.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 19)

Ezran;

The clock on the wall glows 3:47 AM, and I'm still staring at the ceiling, my heart thudding in my chest like it's tired to stay with me and wants to break free.

I've been watching the clock since midnight, my body buzzing with an anxious electricity that won't let me sleep. My fingers have typed the same damn sentence on my notes app eleven times only to delete it again. My leg bounces uncontrollably. I keep thinking of stupid ways to start a conversation. "Hey." "Are you okay?" "Do you... still hate me?"

Pathetic.

I'm pathetic.

Every little sound making me flinch, thinking it's the sound of the front door.
Thinking it's Keal. I've been waiting for hours, my body is tensed, my mind's a tangled mess of words I want to say. A lots of things but, but I don't know how to voice them. The quiet voice-the one that wants him, that's been growing louder every day-is screaming now, urging me to do something, anything, to stop this suffocating distance between us. But the other voice, the one that sounds like my father, like my past, like everything I've been taught to fear, keeps whispering that I'm about to ruin everything.

I've been living with this voice since I first saw him in the balcony. But now it's louder. Too loud. And what scares me the most is the part that wants Keal is louder. Clearer. Alive.

I roll onto my side, clutching the edge of my book I randomly picked, my fingers digging into the hard cover.

I've been trying to work up the courage to talk to him since four days.
Since I decided not to pretend to be asleep tonight.
Since I decided to stop running. But every time I imagine facing him, my throat closes up, my mind glitches, and I'm left with nothing but the memory of that kiss on the balcony-his lips, his hands, the way it felt like the world made sense for one fucking moment before everything shattered.

The front door clicks open at 4:02 AM. I hear it, soft but unmistakable, and my heart lurches. And I had to stop myself from running towards the door but also hide somewhere where this ache doesn't exist.

He's home. Earlier than last night, but still late enough that I know he's been out doing. I straighten up, my breath shallow, my hands visibly shaking as I swing my legs over the side of the couch.

I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know how to do this. But I can't keep avoiding him, can't keep pretending I don't feel this, this ache, every time I think about him.

I keep rehearsing conversations in my head. "Hey Keal, can we talk?" Too formal. "So... how's your night?" Too casual. "Do you wanna maybe, possibly, kind of... forgive me for being a little bitch?"

Are you fucking five, Ezran?

The apartment is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlights seeping through the windows. Keal's in the living room, his silhouette sharp against the dimness. He's shrugging off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch, his movements slow, tired. His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes, and there's a faint scent of cedarwood and smoke clinging to the air. My stomach twists, a mix of want and fear so intense it makes my head spin.

I open my mouth to say something-anything-but my lips shut tight, my voice caught in my throat. He hasn't seen me yet, and part of me wants to bolt back to my room, to hide like I've been doing for days. But I force myself to stay, my bare feet rooted to the cold floor.

"Keal," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. It sounds pathetic, shaky, nothing like the confidence I've been rehearsing for.

He freezes, his back still to me, and for a second, I think he's going to ignore me. Then he turns, his brown eyes catching mine in the dim light. They're sharp, guarded, nothing like the warmth I used to see when he'd tease me about everything and nothing. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, and it feels like I'm seeing a completely different person.

"Ezran," he says, his voice low, flat. No nickname, no smirk, no trace of the Keal who used to make me laugh. Just my name, cold and distant. It hurts more than I expect.

I swallow, my hands clenching at my sides. "I, uh..." My mind glitches, the words I've been rehearsing for hours dissolving into nothing. I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to run, that I'm scared but I want him-God, I want him so bad it's killing me.

But nothing comes in my mind.

Nothing. My brain blanks. Reboots. Balls not found.

Say something.
Now.
Speak, dumbass.

All I could manage was, "Can you...uh... maybe, if you're free... can you drop me to college tomorrow, maybe?"

His brow furrows, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes-surprise, maybe, or annoyance. "I'm not gonna be home," he says, turning away, his voice neutral. "And mornings aren't really my thing, you know that."

My chest tightens, I felt like someone drench out all the hopes from inside me in a cruel jerk. I should let it go, should retreat to my room and pretend this never happened. But the quiet voice, the one that's been fighting to be heard, pushes me forward. "Please," I whisper, so soft I'm not sure he hears it.

He pauses, his hand on the back of the couch, and glances over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine again, and there's something there-something raw, something that makes my heart stutter. "...I'll see," he says finally, his voice gruff.

I try to steady my voice now, though my hands are still trembling. "Thanks."

He nods, just once, and then he's gone, disappearing into his room without another word. I stand there, alone in the dark, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. It's not much, but it's something.
A crack in the wall between us.
I just hope I don't screw it up tomorrow.

------

The next morning, I'm up before the alarm, my body buzzing with nervous energy. I barely sleep, my mind replaying every possible way this drive could go wrong. I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, my hands fumbling with the buttons, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look like a wreck-dark circles under my eyes, my hair a mess- and I fix it. Because I want Keal to see me.
I want him to look at me like he used to.

He's in the living room when I step out, leaning against the counter with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, his hair still damp from a shower, and the sight of him makes my stomach flip. He looks good-too good-and it's unfair how he can look so effortlessly himself while I'm falling apart inside.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice neutral, his eyes barely meeting mine.

"Yeah," I mutter, grabbing my backpack and following him out the door.

The drive is nothing like the last time I was in his car, when he was half-asleep, mumbling nonsense, and I was behind the wheel, laughing despite myself. Today, the air is thick with tension, the silence heavy and suffocating. Keal keeps his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the steering wheel, his jaw set. I want to say something, to break the quiet, but every time I open my mouth, my mind blanks, and I'm left staring out the window, my heart racing. My eyes stinging. I refuse to admit Keal's avoidance making me want to cry.

The city blurs past, the early morning light casting long shadows across the streets. I steal glances at him, at the way his hair falls into his eyes, at the faint stubble on his jaw, at the way his fingers tap restlessly against the wheel. I want to reach out, to touch him, to tell him I'm sorry, but the words won't come. They're stuck, trapped behind my fucking guilt and fear.

We pull up to the college, and I'm about to mumble a thanks and bolt when a voice cuts through the silence.

"Keal Hyrjon, right?" A guy I recognize from the senior batch walks over-no shame, no hesitation. Blonde streaks, gym body, swagger for days.

"You look a lot more hotter in real."

Keal glances at him, that lazy smirk sliding onto his lips like a switch flipped. "I get that a lot."

The guy laughs, leaning in way too close. "I first saw you in your Ombrá Hev."

My blood turns to lava.

And Keal, he fucking smirks and says in a sultry voice, "Or first saw Ombrá for me?"

"Not my fault your charm pulls people. I'm not gay, trust me I'm not. But I'd gladly go down on you."

Keal chuckles. "Tempting offer."

Tempting? You motherfucker.

I slam the door harder than necessary, circling the front and grabbing my bag like I'm about to smash something. Preferably that flirty idiot's head.

"Thanks for the ride," I bite out.

Keal raises an amused brow.

The guy still hasn't fucked off.

"You haven't slept at night. You should go and get some sleep," I said deliberately pushing that idiot away.

"Let's meet later. Maybe sometime again in Ombrá, love." Keal completely ignores me and says to that idiot. He just grins at Keal's offer.

"Anytime. I'm just a text away from a good time."

"Good to know, sweetheart. I'll keep you in mind."

I swear I see red. Literal, violent, homicide-colored red.

------

The rest of the day is a blur. I can't focus in class, my notes a mess of scribbles and half-thoughts. Tanya notices, of course, but I brush her off, muttering something about a headache. I keep checking my phone, hoping for a text from Keal, something snarky or teasing, something normal. But there's nothing. Not even his usual meal text. It's like he's erased me, and it hurts more than I can stand.

By the time I get home, I'm a wreck, my chest tight, my head pounding. The apartment is empty, just like I expected, but the silence feels heavier today, like it's pressing down on me. I pace the living room, my phone in my hand, my thumb hovering over Keal's name. "Half-Naked Devil." The nickname makes my chest ache, a reminder of when things were easier, when I wasn't drowning in this mess of feelings.

I can't take it anymore. I open our chat and type, my fingers trembling, "Can you come home earlier tonight? Um...if you're free, of course."

I hit send before I can overthink it, my heart in my throat. After an eternity later, my phone buzzes. A single thumbs-up emoji. No words, no reply, just... that.
It's better than nothing, but it still it leaves a faint scar inside me.

I try to distract myself, burying my nose in a textbook, but the words swim on the page. I give up and head to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for dinner.
I chop vegetables, stir sauce, boil pasta, my movements automatic, but my mind is on Keal. On the drive this morning. On that Mr. Go-Down's stupid grin. On the way Keal flirted back, like it was nothing, like I wasn't sitting right there, burning with jealousy I have no right to feel.

The door opens at 7:32 PM, and my heart stops. He's early-earlier than I expected. I hear his footsteps, the familiar sound of his jacket hitting the couch, and then he's doesn't bother to come to check, nothing like the last time I cooked for us. He just heads towards his room.

--------

We eat in silence, sitting across from each other at the small kitchen table. It's nothing like the nights we used to have, when he'd tease me about my cooking or steal bites from my plate, laughing when I swatted his hand away. Tonight, it's just the clink of forks, the hum of the fridge, the weight of something I blame myself for.

When we finish, Keal mutters a quiet "Thanks, food was good." and starts to stand, his movements cold.

I know where he's going-his room or the balcony, probably to smoke, to escape this awkwardness.

I can't let him.
I fucking can't accept him ignoring me like I don't exist.

"Keal," I say, too quick, too panicked. My voice cracks, and I wince, but I don't back down.

He pauses, half-turned, his eyes meeting mine. "What?" he asks, his tone sharp, like he's bracing for something.

I stand, my chair scraping against the floor, my hands shaking so bad I shove them into my pockets. I step closer, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "You said... every time you get the urge to smoke, I should kiss you instead." I mumble, my voice barely audible, my eyes fixed on the floor.

He goes still for a second. And when I glance up, his eyes are locked on me, dark and intense. "Don't," he says, a single word, low and warning.

But I can't stop. I take another step, closing the distance between us, my whole body trembling. I close my eyes, because if I look at him, I'll lose my nerve, and I lean in, standing in my tiptoe, pressing my lips to his.

For a moment, he doesn't move, doesn't kiss back, and panic surges through me, my breath hitching, my chest tight. I'm about to pull away, to run like I did before. About to pretend I didn't kiss a man, no not any man. I kissed Keal Hyrjon and he threw me away.

But then a low groan vibrates from his chest, and suddenly, everything shifts.

His hand grabs a fistful of my hoodie at the back and yanks me into him like he's done fucking waiting. His mouth crashes into mine, hard-his lips parting mine, tongue immediately sliding in, deep and demanding. He tastes like smoke and something bitter-maybe whiskey, maybe anger.

His tongue moves against mine, rough and greedy, not in rhythm but in control. He's not kissing me. He's taking. His teeth nip at my lower lip, sharp and uncareful, dragging a hiss from me. He sucks it into his mouth, bites down hard-enough to make me whimper, enough to make me want more.

My hands slide into his hair, nails digging into his scalp as I pull him closer. It's damp, soft between my fingers. I tug. Hard. He growls into my mouth and slams me into his chest like he needs more-needs all of me.

His other hand drops to my hip. No hesitation. Just rough fingers digging into the curve of it, holding me in place like I'd dare pull away. He squeezes, fingers curling, his thumb grazing the hem of my shirt-skin to skin.

His kiss turns harsher.. Tongue curling, lips dragging against mine, breath hot and heavy.

He licks into my mouth like he's angry I ever stopped kissing him in the first place. His teeth catch mine again, biting, leaving me gasping, making shameful noises which I don't bother to register.

I moan.

He swallows it.

And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathless, his forehead resting against mine, his hands still on my hips. "You better not stop before I'm done with you, Ezran" he says, his voice rough, but his eyes glinting with the warmth I'm so much known to.
And once I like my name again.

--------

_______

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
(Subscribe for more)
If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create and get sneak peak of Keal-Ezran's before publishing, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

Chapter 20: Ch 20: Best damnation

Summary:

Keal’s unraveling—sleep-deprived, haunted by Ezran’s kiss, and desperate for more. Ezran’s scared, pretending nothing happened, but Keal sees through it. Then Ezran kisses him again, shaking but wanting, and Keal snaps—obsession overriding restraint.

From early morning bed invasions to mid-drive teasing, Keal balances dominance with patience. He watches, waits, aches. But when Ezran finally lets him in—cooking, laughing, just existing—Keal knows:

He’s gone. Addicted. And he’s not letting go.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 20)

Keal;

I haven’t slept more than three hours straight in four fucking days.

Not because I couldn’t—but because every damn time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Ezran. That terrified look after the kiss, the way he ran like I’d burned him alive instead of kissing him.
And maybe I had.
Maybe that’s exactly what it was for him—a disgusting act caught in motion, one he couldn’t outrun.

But that kiss?

Felt like fucking salvation.

Ezran avoiding me like I was the disease he'd rather not catch, like our kiss never happened, like I didn't pour every bit of control I had into not pinning him against the closest surface and showing him just how little I gave fuck about rules, labels, or logic.

He looked at me like he regretted it.
Like I was something he shouldn't want.
Like he can't want.

So, I gave him space. I let him avoid me. Let him pretend. But it didn’t mean I stopped watching. Noticed the way his eyes stayed on the floor too long. The way he flinched at loud sounds. The way his fingers tapped and fidgeted like he was holding himself together with invisible bind.

And I let it. Cause I was a fucking mess. A mess he tidied up for a moment and shattered it.

But when he kissed me last night?

Fuck.

Everything stopped. Every voice in my head—the ones screaming I was too much, too dark for someone like him—went quiet the moment his lips touched mine.

He kissed me like he wanted me. Like he needed me.

And I let go.

Let the space between us collapse. Let myself feel something real for the first time in a long damn time.

Because truth? I never liked kissing. Not even in the shallow, drunken hookups people think I live off. I never kissed anyone until Ezran.

Didn’t feel the urge to.

Didn’t want to.

But now I get it. I get why people chase this feeling, why they’d burn the world down for it. Because kissing him felt like salvation and the fucking damnation together.

My life’s been chaos before—fights, blood, broken bottles—but this? This quiet, aching want? It’s fucking terrifying.

Then when he said my name in that shaky, barely-there voice, I almost lost it. I wanted to turn around, grab him, pin him against the fucking table, and kiss him until he stopped looking at me like I was a stranger.
But I didn’t.
I kept my distance, kept my voice cold, because I’m a coward when it comes to him.
I told myself I’d keep it that way, keep the wall up, but then he asked me to drive him to college.
Fucking college. Like we’re normal, like we’re just roommates, like my heart doesn’t acts like a little bitch every time he’s in the same room.

And then tonight, at dinner, when he stood up, his voice cracking, his eyes on the floor, and mumbled about kissing him instead of smoking… I was done. The second his lips touched mine, every noise in my head—the doubts, the rage, the anger—it all stopped. It was just him. His lips? They weren’t just soft. They were shaking. Trembling with fear, want, guilt, and that intoxicating desperation. And when he smiled against my lips in relief—I lost all logic. My hands, my lips, my goddamn soul, all possessed by the need to make him feel mine. Just for a second. Just enough to feel sane.

He tasted like confusion and fear and want.

He tasted like himself and that was more intoxicating than every bottle behind my bars.

-----------

It’s 5:26 AM, and I’m awake, which is fucking ridiculous because I didn’t crash yesterday until after 3. The apartment’s quiet, the kind of quiet, but not the uncomfortable type. I roll out of bed, my head foggy, my body heavy, but there’s this itch under my skin, this pull I can’t ignore. I don’t even think about it—I just move, my bare feet silent on the cold floor as I head to Ezran’s room.

The door’s cracked open, and I push it wider, the faint glow of the streetlights spilling across his bed. He’s sprawled out, one arm flung over his head, his dark hair a mess against the pillow. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, and for a second, I just stand there, watching him. He looks softer like this, unguarded, like the weight he carries all day is gone. My chest aches, and I hate how much I want to crawl into that bed, wrap myself around him, and never let go.

Instead, I climb onto the mattress. The bed creaks under my weight, and he stirs, his brows furrowing, but he doesn’t open his eyes. I lean in, my lips brushing his, soft at first, testing. He tastes like sleep and something sweet, maybe the lingering trace of the soda he drank last night. I kiss him again, firmer this time, my hand sliding to his throat, my thumb grazing the faint stubble there.

His eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and he freezes for a second, his breath catching. “...Keal?” he mumbles, his voice rough, confused.

I grin, my lips brushing over his. “Was feeling like smoking,” I say, my voice low. “Since you’re gonna be my nicotine patch, just making use of it.”

He blinks, then laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded, not hidden behind his hands like he usually does.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this, his smile wide, his eyes crinkling, and it hits me like a fucking freight train.
He’s beautiful.
Not just hot, not just cute—beautiful, in a way that makes my chest tight.

I want to kiss that smile.
Want to keep it there forever.

“Smoking at dawn?” he says, still laughing, his voice warm. “That’s a lame excuse, Hyrjon.”

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, leaning in to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the way his lips part for me, the way his breath hitches. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t run. He kisses me back, his hands finding my shoulders, tentative but there, and it’s enough to make me forget the past few days, the distance, the ache. For now, it’s just us, and it’s perfect.

--------

He’s getting ready for college, fumbling with his backpack, his hair still a mess from sleep. I’m leaning against the counter, sipping whiskey —strong, bitter, the only thing keeping me upright after last night. He’s muttering to himself, something about not needing a ride, and I catch the tail end of it: “...fucking Mr. Go-Down.”

I choke on my whiskey, laughing so hard I nearly spill it. “Mr. Go-Down?” I say, raising a brow. “That’s what you’re calling him?”

Ezran’s face goes red, his eyes darting away. “Shut up,” he mumbles, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything.”

I step closer, still grinning, and tilt his chin up so he has to look at me. “Jealous, Med-Guy?” I tease, and before he can answer, I kiss him—rough and hard, like I’ve been starving for a taste. My tongue flicks out, licking the seam of his mouth, and the moment he parts his lips for me—fuck—I suck his bottom lip between mine, biting down just enough to make him gasp. He leans into me, instinctively chasing more, and for a second, everything is heat and breath and the dizzy high of contact. It’s messy, fast, addictive.

Fucking Nirvana.

Then he pulls back, dazed and pink-cheeked, lips slightly swollen, mine.

“I’m not jealous,” he mutters, but his eyes betray him, all wide and nervous. “I just… don’t need a ride.”

“Too bad,” I say, grabbing my keys. “You’re getting one.”

He groans but follows me out the door, still muttering under his breath.

Halfway through the drive, I pulled into a side café, ignoring his protests.

"You skipped breakfast yesterday. Again," I said. "We’re fixing that."

He didn’t argue much. Just glared and muttered.

But when our hands brushed while reaching for the same napkin, he froze.

Not disgusted. Not pulling away.

Just... panicked.

His eyes wide and panicked as if checking if someone saw us. Still trying to make peace with the fact he liked kissing a man. Still struggling.

So I let it slide.

Gave him space. Let the silence sit. Because I wasn't here to pressure him. I'd wait.

As long as he kept trying.

---------

After I dropped him off—no Mr. Go-Down in sight, thank fuck—I went straight home. It’s barely 8 AM when I crash into bed, my body heavy, my mind finally quiet. I don’t dream, don’t toss and turn—just sleep, deep and dreamless, until my phone buzzes me awake around PM.

I don’t even open my eyes fully before I’m grabbing my phone, typing out a text to my Survivor-On-Caffeine, Ezran.

"Lunch, Med-Guy. Finish the full meal, send me the pic." I hit send, then roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My head’s clearer than it’s been in days, but there’s still this pull, this need to know he’s okay, that he's mine.

------------

The day passes in a blur. A shipment of imported whiskey arrives for Ombrá Hev’s new branch opening, and I spend a few hours at the bar, checking bottles, signing paperwork, bantering with Damien. Asshole got that smirk, like he knows something’s up, but I don’t give him anything. “You’re distracted,” he says, tossing me a rag to wipe down the counter.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. He laughs, and I shove the work onto him.

Damien bitched at me for not helping unload. I made him manager for a reason—so I wouldn’t have to do the boring shit.

By 7 PM, I checked the clock and shoved everything onto Damien’s lap.

"I’m out."

"Again? Fucker, You literally did nothing."

"Exactly," I said, grabbing my keys. "I’m the boss, bitch."

He groaned. I ignored him

Cause Ezran's waiting for me.
I don’t admit it to myself, not fully, but I miss him. I miss his laugh, his nervous rambling, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room. I’ve gone the whole day without touching a cigarette, and I don’t even care. He’s better than nicotine, better than whiskey, better than anything I’ve ever chased.

-------

I didn’t ring the door bell today. I had to see how Ezran looks when he's himself.
He’s in the kitchen when I get home, the air thick with the smell of garlic and herbs. He’s cooking again, his movements quick but careful, like he’s pouring all his focus into it. I toss my jacket onto the couch and lean against the counter, watching him. He doesn’t notice me at first, too caught up in stirring something on the stove, and I take a second to just look. His hair’s falling into his eyes, his sleeves rolled up, his hands steady despite the nervous energy I know is buzzing under his skin. He’s fucking perfect, and he doesn’t even know it.

“Seems like my kitchen likes you,” I say, breaking the silence.

He jumps, nearly dropping the spoon, and shoots me a glare that’s more flustered than angry. “Warn a guy, yeah?”

I grin, stepping closer. “Where’s the fun in that, Sharma?”

-----------

We eat at the table, the same one from last night, but it’s different now. Lighter. He’s still quiet, still a little guarded, but there’s a spark in his eyes, a hint of the Ezran I know.
It’s easy, familiar, like slipping back into a rhythm we’d lost for a while.

After dinner, he heads to his room to study, his nose buried in a textbook. I follow, because of course I do, and sprawl across his bed, scrolling through my phone. My eyes aren’t on the screen, though—they’re on him. The way he chews his pen, the way his brows furrow when he’s stuck on something, the way he glances at me every few minutes like he’s checking if I’m still there.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, not looking up.

“Not staring,” I lie, smirking. “Just… appreciating the view.”

He snorts, his ears going red, and I laugh, low and quiet. It’s moments like this—small, simple, real—that make the past few days feel like a bad dream. I don’t know what we are, don’t know where this is going, but for now, it’s enough. He’s enough.

But yet my eyes kept drifting.

To him.

His hair messy, his glasses slipping, his mouth pressed into a frustrated pout as he scribbled something in his notes.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t distract him.

I lean back against his pillows, his smell. Goddamn bluebells. The room’s quiet, the only sound the scratch of his pen and the occasional flip of a page. I don’t need anything else. Not the bar, not the noise, not the chaos. Just this. Just him.

But damn, if watching him wasn’t the best part of my day.

And I had a feeling... it always would be.

 

--------

_______

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Author Note:
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Chapter 21: Ch 21: Laugh with me

Summary:

Breakfast turns into a battlefield when Keal’s best friend crashes in uninvited—flirting, fighting, and exposing feelings Keal can’t hide. Ezran’s panic spirals. Keal’s jealousy explodes.

Notes:

Hello, fellow sinners— sorry, I mean my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 21)

Ezran;

The kitchen is warm with the scent of cumin, turmeric, and the faint sweetness of chai bubbling on the stove. I’m flipping parathas, the dough puffing up into perfect golden rounds, while eggs sizzle in a pan nearby. It’s just past 9:30 AM, no morning classes today, so I’m making breakfast for us—me and Keal. The thought of him, probably still sprawled across his bed, all lean muscle and messy hair, sends a jolt through me. My hands fumble the spatula, nearly dropping it, and I curse under my breath, forcing my focus back to the food. Not him. Not the way his lips crashed into mine last night, hungry and relentless, or the way his voice, all gravel and heat, called me Med-Guy like it was absolutely normal.

I’m not supposed to feel this. Not for a guy. Not for Keal, with his silent care and reckless energy that makes my chest tight and my breath hitch.
I waited. I waited for the disgust, the self hate after the kiss. But all I felt was a odd sense of calm. A smell, Keal’s smell which helped me to breathe better.

But now my fingers tighten around the spatula, my pulse quickening as that familiar panic creeps in—screaming that this is wrong, that I’m straight, that wanting him is filthy, disgusting. But the faint scent of Keal escaping from my hoodie calms me in ways that terrifies me.

I focused on the parathas, the eggs, the rhythm of cooking. It’s my anchor, my way to silence the noise in my head.

I’m plating the food—parathas stacked high, eggs spiced with chili and coriander, chai poured into two mugs—when the front door slams open. No knock, no warning, just a loud thud that makes me jump, nearly dropping the plate. I spin around, and there’s this guy striding in like he owns the place.
Tall, lean, tan with a mess of curly dark hair and a grin that screams trouble. His leather jacket’s scuffed, his jeans ripped, and his eyes lock onto me with a spark that makes my stomach lurch.

"Motherfucker, we have a shipment" he said without noticing me, already heading toward Keal's room. Then as if I suddenly pop up in his vision, he stopped at his steps. And slowly turned towards me.
“Well, damn,” he drawls, his voice all charm and confident. “Didn’t know Keal was hiding a chef in his kitchen. You his latest boy? Gotta say, you’re a step up from his usual.”

My face burns, and I step back. I'm sure the universe hates me.
“I’m not his boy,” I mumble, my voice shakier than I’d like. “I live here. Who are you?”

He laughs, low and easy, leaning against the counter, way too close. “Name’s Damien. Keal’s best friend, business partner, and occasional pain in his ass. And you are…?” His gaze rakes over me, lingering on my glasses, my apron, and I feel exposed, like he’s sizing me up for something. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You'd love me too, baby boy. Keal’s not here to gatekeep, anyway.”

“Ezran,” I mutter, my skin prickling. “And I’m not for—whatever you're thinking.”

“Sure, sure,” Damien says, winking. He snags a paratha off the plate, taking a big bite and groaning dramatically. “Fuck, man, this is good. You cook like this every day? Might have to steal you from Keal. What do you say, baby? Wanna ditch this dump and come make breakfast for me? And my dick's better than Keal, i swear. I'll even make sure you stay hydrated after you get fucked.”

I open my mouth to say something. Nothing came out. Of fucking course Keal's best friend would be a maniac like him. Yet I mumbled, "Keal's sleeping."

"Oh, yeah," he said as if remembering something important, "We can discuss you switching to me later. Now business mode activated," he turned towards Keal's room. "Asshole, come out. The investors won't wait for your lazy ass," he banged loudly at Keal's door. I know, I just know Damien or whatever his name is is going to get beaten. Waking up Keal before 1PM and declaring a war knowing absolute loose, is same.

"Keal, you dumb fuc—"

Before Damien could finish his sentence, the door flung open and Keal's punch almost land on his jaw, but Damien move aside in the perfect time as if they both have done it thousand times.

"Good morning, Sunshine. Missed me?" Damien drawled with a shit-eating grin.

Keal step out of his room. My brain stalls. He’s in nothing but black boxers, his hair a wild mess, his eyes half-lidded with sleep but blazing with murder. His chest is bare, all lean muscle and that fucking tattoo, I'm so obsessed with, and—God help me—his dick is obvious, straining against the thin fabric like he doesn’t give a damn. He doesn’t even try to cover it, standing there like clothes are optional. My face goes molten, and I glare at him, silently screaming, Put some fucking pants on!

"You broke into my house," Keal said in his sleep roughed, velvet voice and I die a little.

"You gave me the keys, sunshine-in-the-ass."

"Remind me to burn it down the next time."

"Sure, love. Now get your ugly ass to the bathroom and stop looking like you haven’t showered in this week."

"Later. I'm sleepi—"

Damien cut him off before he could finish whatever he was trying to say while yawning like a dinosaur, "We have a fucking shipment with the investors, bitch."

"I really don't understand why I pay you every month when you don't do shit."

"You fucking— I do everything. Just going to clubs and choosing your bed warmer is not work, Hyrjon."

I stare at them dumbfounded. Two grown up men bickering about who works more the first thing in the morning.
At mid argument, Damien halted. An wolfish grin spreading across his face. His eyes flick to me, sparkling with mischief. “Buddy," he drawled, suddenly all the argument, bickering dead in his voice. What left is fucking diabetic sugar. "Didn’t know you were keeping this one all to yourself. You didn’t  told me.”

Keal’s jaw clenches, and he steps into the kitchen, all predatory grace despite his half-naked state. “What's here to tell you, asshole!" he snaps. “And stop eating his food.”

“His food?” Damien raises a brow, smirking. “Oh, we’re claiming shit now? Since when do you care who eats what, Hyrjon? Last I checked, you were all about sharing.” He winks at me again, and I want to crawl under the counter. "So when I'm gonna get a taste of your little boy toy? He doesn’t seem to be the type to handle us bot—"

Keal moves like lightning, grabbing Damien’s throat and shoving him against the counter so hard the plates rattle. “Look at him again, and I’ll break your fucking face,” he snarls. "No one will know where you disappeared, D.”

Damien laughs, completely unfazed, and shoves Keal back, just hard enough to make him stumble. “Relax, you territorial bastard. What’s got your panties in a twist? Oh, wait—” He glances at Keal’s boxers, fucking morning wood, smirking. “Guess those are optional today. Nice wood, by the way. Real subtle.”

“Fuck you,” Keal snaps, but there’s a glint in his eye. “You’re lucky I don’t ruin your already ugly face.”

“Try it,” Damien shoots back, dodging as Keal swings a punch at his shoulder. “You’re slow when you’re hungover, old man.”

“Old man?” Keal scoffs, grabbing Damien in a headlock. “I’m only two weeks older than you, dipshit.”

"Two weeks and five days, Grandpa."

They’re wrestling now, a chaotic mess of shoves and punches, knocking over a chair in the process. I stand there, spatula still in hand, watching them like they’re a couple of overgrown kids. It’s loud, messy, and so them that I can’t help but smile, even if I’m still pissed at Keal for strutting out here half-naked.

“Alright, enough!” Damien breaks free, still grinning, yet lands a kick on Keal's ass, and leans against the counter again. “So, Ezran, you sticking around? ‘Cause Keal’s never this pissy about anyone. Must be something special about you.” He winks, but it’s less flirty now, more teasing.

Before I can answer, Damien’s grin turns wicked. “Hey, Keal, what do you say? Old times’ sake? We could share him just once, like that one night in—”

Keal’s hand shoots to the back of Damien’s neck, yanking him close, all playfulness gone. His voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. "I will fucking kill you, D and I mean it.” Keal shoves him away with a punch that made his nose bleed and slightly got his lip cut. But he didn’t seem to mind.

My heart pounds, my mouth dry. Damien’s grin falters, then shifts into something else—realization, maybe awe. “Holy fuck, Hyrjon,” he says, laughing softly. “You’re gone for this guy. Like, full-on, heart-eyes, write-him-poems gone.”

Keal glared at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

Damien raises his hands, backing off. “Alright, alright. My bad, Ezran.” He turns to me, his expression surprisingly sincere. “Sorry for the flirting. Didn’t know you were… you know, his.” He smirks at Keal, who looks like he’s plotting murder. “You’re cool, Ezran. These things?" he said pointing towards the parathas, "Fucking unreal. You got a recipe?”

I blink, caught off guard by the shift. “Uh, yeah,” I say, my voice steadier now. “Indian food. Takes practice, but um...I could show you sometime.”

“Deal,” Damien says, clapping my shoulder. “But I’m bringing my own flour. Keal’s cheap ass probably buys the shitty stuff.”

“Fuck you, I don’t,” Keal snaps, but he’s relaxing a little, leaning against the counter next to me. His bare thigh brushes mine, and I tense, my face heating up again.

Damien’s eyes flick between us, his grin widening. “Oh, this is too good," he said taking another paratha from the plates.

"Asshole, where the cigarettes?"

Keal’s jaw ticks, and he mutters, almost too quiet to hear, “Don’t have any.”

Damien snorts, crossing his arms. “Bullshit. Stop being a bitch and cough it up, Hyrjon. I'll buy you another so that you don't cry in your pillow.”

Keal’s eyes dart to me, and there’s this soft, almost embarrassed look in them that makes my chest twist. “Ezran doesn’t like me smoking,” he says, quieter now, “So I quit.”

Damien stares at him.
Silence.
And then bursts out laughing, doubling over so hard he nearly falls into the counter. “Oh my fucking God! You’re fucking whipped! Ezran, what the hell did you do to my dude? He’s out here quitting smoking for you? Next thing, he’ll be kissing your ass, obviously if it's not done already.”

I can’t help it—I laugh too, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. Keal’s scowl deepens. “Fuck off, Damien,” he growls, shoving him toward the door. “Get out. I'll be in the club before the meeting."

Damien ducks another swing, still laughing. “Alright, I’m going, you teen asshole.” He turns to me, his grin warm. “Ezran, you’re alright. Let’s hang sometime. Without this caveman.” He jerks a thumb at Keal, who flips him off.

“Come here again, and you’re dead,” Keal says, his voice half-teasing, half-deadly serious, as he shoves Damien toward the door.

Damien laughs, grabbing his jacket. “Yeah, yeah. See you at the club, Hyrjon. Don’t fuck this up.” He winks at me, then saunters out, the door slamming behind him.

The apartment goes quiet, too quiet, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of Keal standing there, still in his boxers, still hard, his eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room. My pulse spikes, and I turn to the counter, pretending to clean up, but he’s on me in a second, pinning me against the door. His hands grip my hips, his body pressing close, and I feel his morning wood against my thigh, hot and heavy through the thin fabric. My own cock twitches, betraying me, and panic claws at my throat, sharp and suffocating.

“Keal,” I choke out, my voice trembling. “Don’t—”

“You were smiling at him,” he growls, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Laughing with him. That’s supposed to be just for me, Ezran.” He buries his face in my neck, inhaling deep, his stubble grazing my skin, sending shivers down my spine. His hardness presses harder against my thigh, and I’m hard too, aching, throbbing, and the shame of it makes my head spin. It’s wrong, it’s filthy, it’s—

My breath comes in short, ragged gasps, my vision blurring as the panic attack hits like a tidal wave. My chest tightens, my hands shaking against the doorframe, my mind screaming that I’m not supposed to want this, that I’m straight, that this is disgusting, that I’m disgusting. Keal’s hand slides to my throat, squeezing just hard enough to sting, to drag me out of the spiral. “Look at me,” he commands, his voice a blade cutting through the fog.

I do, my eyes wide, my chest heaving. His face is inches from mine, all sharp and stupidly handsome. His dark eyes pinning me in place and then his lips crash into mine, hard and punishing, stealing my breath.

The kiss is a raw, all consuming force. His lips, firm and heated, press against mine with unrelenting intensity, carrying a faint taste of bitterness, maybe whiskey and the after taste of sleep. They move with purpose, molding to mine, then pulling back just enough to tease before crashing in again. His tongue doesn’t hesitate, parting my lips with a bold sweep, claiming the space in a slow, deliberate dance that coils heat deep in my core. It traces the edges of my mouth, curling against the roof, drawing out a low, involuntary moan that vibrates between us.

His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp bite that stings and sends a jolt through me, my breath hitching as I grip his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging hard to anchor myself. The pull draws a growl from him, low and rough, spurring him on.  One hand cups my jaw, fingers splayed possessively, while the other rests on my throat, his thumb pressing lightly against my pulse, feeling it race. The pressure is just enough to make my heartbeat throb under his touch, a silent claim.

He tilts my head, angling for deeper access, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that’s both commanding and coaxing, urging me to yield. My hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, clutching at the taut muscle there, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him back. His body presses in, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him, the kiss growing rougher, more insistent, as he tugs my lip again, softer this time, teasing. Every move is deliberate, every sound—my gasps, his low groans—amplifying the electric tension binding us in the moment.

It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and heat, and I’m drowning in it, in him. His lips move, punishing me for smiling at Damien, for daring to let anyone else see that part of me. His hand grips my hip, pinning me harder against the door, but he keeps his hips angled away, not grinding against me, though I can feel how hard he is, how much he’s holding back. I’m hard too, painfully so, and the shame of it makes my knees weak, but his kiss—God, his kiss—makes me forget, just for a second, that I’m supposed to hate this.

He pulls back, just enough to let me breathe, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are dark, almost black, and there’s something in them—not just lust, but something raw, something that makes my heart ache. “Breathe,” he says, softer now, his thumb stroking my jaw, his grip on my hip loosening. “Just breathe, Med-Guy.”

I do, shaky and uneven, my panic ebbing as his touch grounds me. He’s still hard, still close, but he doesn’t push further, just watches me like I’m the only thing that matters.
And, I don’t feel disgusting.
I just feel… his.

-------

_______

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Comments and Kudos)
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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Author Note:
Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Notes:

Sin to Priest would be uploaded each chapter per day.
Happy reading.
Don't forget to leave Kudos & Comments.
Good day.♡

-----

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create and get sneak peak of Keal-Ezran's before publishing, feel free to reach out on Instagram — @author_neven

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Chapter 22: Ch 22: The misunderstanding

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello, my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 22)

Keal;

The club's lights had dimmed, the private room emptying out one investor at a time after hours of numbers, updates, and the usual bullshit promises. I stayed behind, paperwork in front of me, the sting of whiskey lingering on my tongue. Damien was sprawled across the leather couch like he owned the damn place, flicking a lighter on and off out of boredom.

"God, that was endless," he groaned. "Next time, you talk to the bald one. I swear he stared at my dick half the meeting."

"He probably did," I muttered, not looking up from the contract I was signing. "And you probably loved it."

Damien grinned. "I mean, if he buys us that third shipment, I might let him kiss the tip. For business." He leaned forward. "Speaking of dicks-did you get laid after your little morning makeout session with apron-boy? Or are you still blue-balling yourself into sainthood?"

I didn't even glance up. "Didn't fuck him."

"Didn't fuck anyone else either?" His smirk widened.

"Fuck off," I mutter, eyes on the spreadsheet in front of me. Numbers blur together, and I'm not even pretending to care. My mind's back in the apartment, replaying this morning-Ezran's lips, his shaky breaths, the way he fucking melted when I pinned him against the door. My dick twitches just thinking about it, and I shift in my seat, trying to focus.

"Damn, is your dick broken? Blink twice if you need me to call a priest or a mechanic."

I shoot him a glare, my fist itching to wipe that smirk off his face. "My dick's fine, asshole. Unlike you, I don't need to fuck everything that moves to feel alive."

He laughs, loud and obnoxious, leaning back so far his chair creaks. "Oh, shit, listen to you. Motherfucker, your body count is larger than my list of regrets. What's next, you gonna start knitting him scarves?"

"Fuck you," I snap, but there's no real heat in it. He's not wrong, and that's what pisses me off. I've been with plenty of guys, girls, whoever-quick fucks, no strings, no feelings. But Ezran? He's different. Looking at anyone else feels... wrong. Like I'm betraying something I can't even name. My chest tightens, and I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off.

Damien's still grinning, but his eyes soften, just a fraction. He leans forward again, voice lower. "For real, though. You're different with him. Haven't seen you like this since... shit, since that night, what, Fourteen years ago? You were a mess back then because of Mrs-" he cut himself off before he could say her name. Her. Everytime I think of that woman I feel like the foolest person alive for thinking she might be my family.

I don't say anything, just stare at the desk, my jaw working. He's right, and I hate it. Ezran's not mine-I don't know why but I hate that he panics everytime I so far touch him-but still the thought of anyone else touching him, even looking at him the way Damien did this morning, makes me want to make them regret breathing. "It feels...wrong," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Looking at anyone else. Like I'm fucking him over. Even though he's not... you know, mine. We're not even... fuck, together."

He watched me for a long beat, eyes not mocking for once, but thoughtful. "Fourteen years, Keal. A decade," he said softly. "That's the first time I've seen that stupid look on your face since you left that place. If that's he is making you feel something again, don't let it go. Don't let him go. I mean it."

Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes on the desk.

"Survivor_on_Caffine"- . lighting up the screen.
Ezran.
Why he's calling? He doesn't call usually.
My heart does a stupid flip, and I grab it, ignoring Damien's knowing smirk. "Hey," I say, keeping my voice steady, like I'm not already picturing him in that pinned against me when I'm stealing his breathe with my mouth.

"Hey," Ezran's voice crackles through, and I can hear the hum of a car engine in the background. "I, uh, I'm not gonna be home tonight. Got a project for class. It's a group thing, and we're pulling an all-nighter at the library."

My stomach drops, and I grip the phone tighter. I sat up straighter. "Wait, you're not-? Can I see you before you go?" The words come out rougher than I mean, and I can practically see him wincing on the other end.
I'm not begging, but it's damn close, and I hate how desperate I sound. Damien's eyebrows shoot up, and I flip him off without looking.

Ezran hesitates, and I can hear the strain in his voice. "I'm already on the bus, Keal. I'll... I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine," I grumble, my free hand clenching into a fist. "Better save some of those fucking kisses for me, Med-Guy." It slips out, low and needy, and I regret it the second I say it in front of that damn asshole. He's going to tease me for a lifetime.

Ezran's quiet for a beat, then laughs softly, the sound like a punch to my chest. "Yeah, okay. Bye. Keal, don't do anything... stupid."

"yeah, Night," I mutter, with a smile, not hanging up. Even his quite breathe feels good. But then he hangs up with a soft sigh.
Damien's already losing it, doubled over in his chair, laughing so hard he's wheezing.

"Oh my God," he gasps, wiping his eyes. "Fucking kisses? You're done, man. You're so fucking whipped, it's pathetic. 'Save some kisses'-who the fuck are you?"

"Shut up," I growl, shoving my laptop shut and grabbing my jacket. "I'm done here. Finish the paperwork yourself."

"Aw, you going home to cry into your pillow 'cause your boyfriend's not there?" he calls after me, still laughing.

"Fuck you," I throw over my shoulder, slamming the office door behind me.

........

It's past midnight when I finally drag myself back to the apartment. The club kept me later than I wanted-paperwork, inventory, Damien's endless bullshit. Without Ezran here, there's no rush to get home, no pull to see him standing in the kitchen, or fussing over his damn medbooks which I couldn't even memories the titles. Or blushing when I get too close. The place feels empty without him, and I hate how much that bothers me.

I fumble with my keys, the hallway light flickering like it's mocking me. The door swings open, and I freeze. Something's off. The air smells different-cheap perfume, heavy and cloying, not Ezran's clean, bluebells. My eyes adjust to the dim living room, and there she is-Lila- or maybe Liyela, I don't bother remembering, one of my old hookups, sprawled across the couch like a goddamn centerfold, wearing nothing but a tiny black thong, lipstick smudged, heels on, tits out, eyes glittering with the kind of hunger that used to make me smirk and unzip my pants without a second thought.

Now?

My stomach turned. like she'd just walked out of one of my old memories and made it worse by being here.

My blood runs cold.
My dick doesn't even twitch. All I feel is a wave of disgust, so sharp it makes my skin crawl.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I snap, dropping my keys on the counter. My voice is ice, and I'm already moving toward her, my boots heavy on the floor.

She smiled like she'd been waiting. "Surprise," she purred, stretching like a cat. "Thought I'd welcome you home. Like old times."

Old times.

Yeah. Times when I didn't care who I was or what I was doing. When anyone warm and willing was enough. But now-now she looked wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Who gave you the goddamn code?"

"I remembered you use your birthdate with 4-2 at the end," she said proudly, like it was a party trick. "And the door was still using it."

My fists clenched. "You broke into my fucking home."

She slid off the couch, bare feet padding across the floor like a predator. "You used to like it when I was bold."

She dropped to her knees, hands going to my belt.

My body didn't move. Didn't react. Not even a twitch.

Not even curiosity.

"Get the fuck off me," I growled, grabbing her by the hair and jerking her back.

She moaned. Moaned. "God, you're so mean when you're hard. Is this a new kink, Keal? I can work with it-"

"I said, get the fuck away from me!"

She tried again-hands on my belt-but this time I grab her hair, hard, jerking her head back so she's looking up at me. "I said get out," I snarl, my grip tight enough to make her wince. "You don't fucking belong here."

She opens her mouth to say something, probably some flirty bullshit, but the front door clicks open behind me.

"Keal, I forgot my USB, I-"

Ezran's voice. Then silence.

Heavy, paralyzing silence.

I turned.

Ezran stood in the doorway, motionless. His expression blank. Eyes wide. Breath stuttering. Like he was breaking right in front of me.

"No," I said, instantly stepping forward, palms up, panic flaring like a goddamn bomb in my chest. "Ezran-Ezran, it's not what it looks like. I didn't know she was here. I swear to fucking God-"

But he was already stepping back.

His face crumpling. Breath catching.

And I knew that no matter what I said now, the image was already burned into his mind

"Ezran," yet I say, "This isn't-"

"You don't have to explain," he cuts me off, his voice barely a whisper, shaking, like he's holding himself together by a thread. He drops his bag, his hands trembling as he adjusts his glasses. "You... you can do whatever you want, Keal. It's not like we're-" He stops, swallowing hard, his eyes glassy. "It's not like there's anything between us."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Lila's still standing there, half-naked, smirking like she's won something, and I lose it. I grab her arm again, harder this time, and drag her toward the door. "Get the fuck out," I roar, shoving her into the hallway. She yelps, but I don't care. I grab her clothes from the couch-some skimpy shit-and throw them at her, slamming the door so hard the frame shakes.

I turn back to Ezran, my chest heaving. He's still standing there, his fist clenched, nails biting his skin, staring at the floor like he's trying not to break. "Ezran, listen to me," I say, stepping closer, but he backs away, his lips trembling.

"I don't want to hear it,, please I don't," he whispers, his voice cracking. "You don't owe me anything, Keal. We're not- we're not anything." a sob broken free from him.

"Bullshit," I growl, closing the distance between us. He tries to shove me away, slaps my chest, but I don't budge. I grab his wrists, pinning them to his sides, and kiss him, hard and desperate, pouring every ounce of my frustration into it. But he doesn't kiss me back. He sobs against my mouth. I need to fix it. I need to fix everything. I can't loose it. I can't loose Ezran.
I bite down his lips. Hard. For a reaction. Any reaction. Fucking stop. Whatever happening in my chest stop. It fucking hurts. I can't breathe. I need him more than I need my next fucking breathe.

I didn't move.

"You think I don't have a right?" I hissed, dragging my mouth to his jaw, then lower, to the soft skin just beneath his ear. "Then why do you look like you're about to fall apart just from seeing me with someone else?"

He whimpered. Actually whimpered.
But still-"Keal, don't-"

I bit down on his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath hitched, his knees buckled.

My hand slid up his shirt, fingers brushing over the sharp dip of his waist, over his ribcage, then higher-slow, taunting-until my thumb grazed over his nipple. I rub my thumb over it. I rolled it between my fingers. Pinched hard. Punishing. Mean. Intimate.

Ezran moaned. Sharp and broken, like it had been ripped out of him.

And fuck-
That sound.
That sound made me want to ruin him.

But-
I stopped.

He whimpered again, his hands gripping my shoulders, but I force myself to pull back, my chest heaving. I'm too angry, too out of control, and I don't want to hurt him. I step back, my hands shaking, trying to rein it in.

But Ezran doesn't let me go. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me back, and he kisses me, raw and desperate.
A request.
A plea.
A fucking confession.

His lips trembling against mine like he's staking a claim. His glasses bump against my face, and I don't care. I kiss him back, my hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer.

He wants me. He fucking wants me.

And I'm not letting him go.

His tongue tangles with mine, desperate, needy, and I feel him hard against my thigh, his body pressed so close there's no space between us. And he's not trying to break free. He's surrendering to me.

Fuck fuck fuck.
I'm doomed.

My hands slide lower, gripping his ass, and he moans into my mouth, the sound sending heat straight to my core.

And just like that, he earned himself a night he won't be able to walk off.
I won't let him.
Not tonight.
Not... ever.

..........

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Chapter 23: Ch 23: First intimacy

Summary:

Took 23 chapters, but they're finally fu*king.
Happy reading.

Notes:

Hello, my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 23)

Ezran;

I should've left.

I should've walked out that door, grab my USB, and go. Pretend I never saw her, never saw him standing there, shirt wrinkled, belt half-undone, hands smelling like her perfume.

I should've run, should've saved myself from this moment, this mistake, this wreckage.

But I didn't.

I'm still here.

Pinned against the door, the wood cold against my back, Keal's mouth crashing into mine like he's trying to burn away the image of her, of them. His lips are brutal, punishing, his tongue forcing its way past my teeth, claiming every inch of my mouth with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth scrape my lower lip, tugging until it stings, until I taste the faint copper of blood.
I wince, but then he's kissing me softer, soothing the bite, licking the hurt away like an apology he already said out loud.

I can't breathe. And I don't know if I want to.

Everything hurts-my chest, my pride, my heart-but it feels so fucking good, too. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into the flesh above my waistband, bruising, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I feel him, hard and insistent, his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into my thigh. It's hot, solid, undeniable, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up, before my logic can stop me. Heat pooling low in my gut, my own dick twitching in response.

"Keal-" I gasp when he pulls back, my voice raw, shredded. My lips are swollen, throbbing, slick with spit and the faint tang of blood where he bit me.

His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, swallowing the dark brown of his irises until they're nearly black. "Don't say it," he growls, voice low and dangerous. "Don't you fucking say it, Ezran."

But I do. Because I'm an idiot. Because I'm drowning in him, and I can't stop myself. "You didn't do anything wrong. You're not mine."

His face cracks, a flash of pain so raw it steals my breath. "I should be," he says, and it sounds like it physically hurts him to admit it. "I should be yours."

And then I'm gone.

The door against my back vanishes as he lifts me like I weigh nothing, his arms corded with muscle, carrying me across the room in three long strides. My bag hits the floor with a thud, my glasses long lost somewhere during his kisses. He slams me down onto the kitchen counter, the wood groaning under my weight, the edge biting into my ass. His hands are under my shirt before I can suck in a breathe yanking it up and over my head, leaving me exposed, flushed, trembling.

His mouth is on me, hot and relentless, dragging across my chest like he's starving. His tongue flicks over my skin, tasting the salt of my sweat, his teeth grazing my collarbone before sinking in just enough to make me hiss. He soothes the bite with a slow, deliberate lick, then moves lower, his lips closing around my nipple. He teases it with his tongue, circling the sensitive peak, then sucks hard, pulling a moan from deep in my throat. It's loud, needy, embarrassing, but I can't stop it.

"Fuck," he hisses, his breath hot against my skin. "That sound. Make it again. Make it for me again, Ezran."

He pinches my nipple, hard, twisting just enough to send a jolt of pain-pleasure straight to my cock. My thighs clamp around his hips, my body arching off the counter, chasing the heat of him.

I've never felt like this-never been touched like this, never been wanted like this.
Never wanted something like this.

I've kissed girls, fumbled through awkward dates, but no one's ever looked at me the way Keal does.
Like I'm his salvation and his damnation, something precious and dangerous all at once.

His mouth trails lower, teeth scraping over the soft skin of my stomach, leaving red-blue hickey marks in their wake. He unbuckles my belt with a rough tug, yanking my pants down so fast my shoes fly off, clattering somewhere across the kitchen floor. I'm left in just my boxers, my cock straining against the fabric, a wet spot already forming where I'm leaking. Keal drops to his knees, and my breath catches.

On. His. Fucking. Knees.

"Fuck," he breathes, staring up at me, his hands gripping my thighs. "You're beautiful."

"Keal," I whisper, suddenly shy, suddenly cold without his body pressed against mine.

But he's already moving, climbing over me, his lips finding my collarbone again, then my chest, his tongue tracing a slow, torturous path back to my nipple. He bites it-harder this time-and I cry out, my hands flying into his hair, tugging at the dark strands.

"You like that?" he asks, voice rough, wrecked, low as sin. "Soft or mean, Med-guy?"

I'm panting, my mind a haze of want. "I don't... I don't know."

He chuckles, dark and low. The sound vibrating against my skin. "Then I'll give you both."

He sucks my nipple into his mouth again, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, while his hand slides between my thighs. My boxers are gone in a heartbeat, ripped down my legs, leaving me bare and aching. His fingers wrap around my cock, and I nearly black out. I'm hard, leaking, the head slick with precum, and his grip is tight, confident, stroking me with a rhythm that makes my hips buck.

"Keal, please-" I'm begging, and I don't care. I need him, need this, need more.

"Please what?" he teases, his lips brushing mine, swallowing my moans.

I don't have words. My hips jerk into his hand, chasing the slick, perfect pressure of his fist. He kisses me again, deep and messy, his tongue fucking into my mouth in time with his strokes. It's too much-his mouth, his hand, the heat of his body pressed against me. I'm drowning in it, in him, and I don't want to come up for air.

He strokes me slow, then fast, then slow again, his thumb circling the head of my cock, smearing precum over the sensitive slit. His eyes are locked on my face, watching every twitch, every gasp, every desperate sound I make. "You close?" he asks, voice rough with want.

I nod, frantic, my balls tight, my stomach clenching. "Yes, yes, I-fuck, Keal-"

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and teasing. "Not yet. You'll have to wait."

I whimper, a full-body, pathetic sound, my thighs trembling as he lets go of my cock. The sudden loss is torture, my dick throbbing, untouched, desperate for release. "No, I can't-" I choke out, my voice breaking.

"Shh," he soothes, his lips dragging down my stomach, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along the way. He bites my thigh, hard enough to leave a mark, then licks the sting away, his tongue warm and deliberate. Then his mouth is on me, and I nearly scream.

His tongue swirls around the head of my cock, lapping at the precum, teasing the slit with slow, torturous flicks. He traces the thick vein running down my shaft, his lips soft but firm, sucking lightly before taking me deeper. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, just enough to make me jolt, then he swallows me down, his throat tight and hot around me. I feel the back of his throat, the way his muscles contract as he fights his gag reflex. My hands tangled in his hair. Pulling, pushing. Just wanting to touch him.

"Fuck, Keal-" My voice is wrecked, my hips bucking, my knees trembling as he works me with his mouth. He's relentless, his tongue circling, his lips sucking, his teeth scraping just enough to keep me on edge. I'm going to lose it, going to come apart right here on this counter, but he pulls off with a wet, obscene pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're shaking," he says, his lips red, swollen, smug as hell.

I can't deny it. My body is a live wire, every nerve sparking, every muscle trembling. I loved it-every second, every humiliation, every time he made me beg.

Silence falls, heavy and thick, broken only by my ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart. He doesn't speak, just stares at me like I'm a gift he's been dying to unwrap, like I'm his only god and his personal hell.

I stare back. Keal's shirt is open, his chest heaving, his abs tight with tension. His eyes are dark, hungry, ferocious, and when he kisses me again, it's slow, reverent, like he's apologizing for the storm he's unleashed. His hand trails down my chest, and I whimper, already oversensitive, already twitching, but he doesn't care.

"You're still hard," he murmurs, licking a slow stripe down my neck. "Fuck, you're perfect."

I shake under him, my body a mess of want and shame. "Keal..."

"Shh. Let me take care of you," he promises, his voice low and sure.

He grips my thighs, spreading me open, exposing me completely. I've never felt more vulnerable, more wanted. His kisses trail lower, over my stomach, then lower still, until his lips brush the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. My legs tremble, my cock leaking against my stomach, and when his mouth finds my hole, I scream.

"KEAL-I-I don't-Keal-"

"Do you want me to stop?" His voice is a rasp, his breath hot against me.

Yes. No. Maybe. My brain is a fog, my body a traitor. I shake my head, unable to form words.

"Words, Ezran," he demands, his tone sharp.

"N-No," I manage, my voice breaking.

"Louder."

"No!" I cry out, my face burning.

He groans, low and primal, like he's tasting paradise. "Good boy."

The words hit me like a punch, my cock twitching, my face flaming. I try to push him away, but he catches my wrists, pinning them behind my back. He grabs his belt from the floor, looping it around my wrists with a practiced ease that makes my stomach flip. The leather bites into my skin, tight but not painful, and I gasp, my body arching toward him.

"Keal-!"

"You trust me?" he asks, his voice dark, dangerous, maybe a promise or a threat, I couldn't make out.

I nod, my heart racing. "I-I trust you."

He groans again, his tongue returning to my hole, licking slow, deliberate circles around the tight ring of muscle. The sensation is overwhelming, filthy, perfect. His lips suck gently, then harder, his tongue pushing inside, stretching me open with wet, sinful strokes. I'm shaking, my hips bucking against his grip, my moans turning to sobs as he eats me out like a man possessed. He spits, the warm slickness easing the way, then dives back in, his tongue thrusting deeper, curling, teasing nerves I didn't know I had.

"You're going to take me so well," he murmurs, his voice muffled against me. He slides two fingers inside, no warning, and I cry out, my body clenching around the intrusion. "I'm going to open you up first, baby. Going to make sure you're ready for my cock."

My eyes roll back, my cock throbbing, my thighs trembling. "Keal, I can't-I can't-"

"You can," he growls, curling his fingers, hitting a spot inside me that makes my vision white out. "You will."

His fingers scissor me open, stretching me slow and deliberate, while his other hand wraps around my cock, jerking me in time with his thrusts. I'm sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, my body a mess of pleasure and pain. I want him inside me, want him to ruin me, want him to make me his.

And then he stops. Again.

I scream, a raw, desperate sound. "Keal-don't stop, please, please-"

"Shh," he soothes, kissing my thigh, his lips soft against the bruised skin. "I'm going to fuck you, baby."

Baby.
Baby.
Keal called me baby.
And I swear something inside my heart healed.

He shoves his pants down, and I freeze. He's huge-thick, veined, the head glistening with precum. I've seen him naked before, careless and dripping from the shower, but this is different. This is real.

He's fucking huge.
It'll wreck me.

I can't. I can't take that thing anywhere near me.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, panic flaring in my chest.

He sees it, leans down, kisses my temple. "I'll be gentle."

"You'll break me," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"I'll put you back together," he promises.

He grabs a bottle of lube from a kitchen drawer-when did he even get that?-and slicks himself up, his hand stroking his cock with a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes my mouth water. He lines up, his hands lifting my thighs, spreading me wider. The tip presses against my hole, and I sob, the stretch burning, overwhelming, like nothing I've ever felt.

It hurts.
Oh god. It hurts like a mother.
I can't I can't I can't.
It feels like someone's pressing a hot coin from my insides.

"Relax for me, baby," he murmurs, kissing me soft and slow, his lips a stark contrast to the pressure below. "You're doing so good."

I try to breathe, try to relax, but it hurts, a hot, searing pain that makes me clench instinctively. Keal grits his teeth, his jaw tight, his control fraying as he holds himself still. "Breathe, Ezran," he says, his voice strained. "I can't move if you fight me."

I nod, forcing air into my lungs.
In. Out.
In. Out.

The pain dulls, just enough, and then he pushes inside in one slow, relentless thrust. I scream, my body arching, the stretch burning like fire, like I'm being split open. He's so big, so fucking big, filling me until I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.

"So fucking tight," he gasps, his voice wrecked, his hips still as he lets me adjust. "This hole was made for me. Only me."

Tears stream down my face, my bound hands clenching behind my back. But I don't say stop.
Not once.

He moves, slow at first, each thrust careful, deliberate, letting me feel every inch of him. Then faster, rougher, his hips snapping against mine, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. I'm screaming now, sounds I didn't know I could make, my cock leaking against my stomach, my body shaking with every thrust.

"You hear yourself?" he pants, fucking into me harder, the counter creaking beneath us. "You sound like you need me."

I do.
God, I do.
But I can't say it, can't give him that last piece of me. "I- Please-don't stop-" is all I manage, my voice breaking.

He slams into me, the rhythm relentless, his hand wrapping around my cock again, jerking me in time with his thrusts. It's too much, not enough, everything. "Come for me," he growls, his voice raw.

I explode, my orgasm hitting like a freight train, my body convulsing as I spill across my stomach, his hand, the counter. My vision blacks out, my cry cut off as pleasure rips through me, leaving me trembling, oversensitive, spent.

He doesn't stop.

He fucks me through it, past it, my moans turning to whines, whines to sobs. I'm too sensitive, too raw, but he keeps going, claiming me with every thrust. "I'm going to come inside you," he growls, his voice breaking. "I'm going to fill you up, Ezran. Youre going to feel me dripping out for days, med-guy."

He does. With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, his body shuddering as he comes, hot and endless, filling me until I feel it leaking out. His groan is primal, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.

Silence falls, heavy and thick, broken only by our panting. The room smells of sex, sweat, shame-and something softer, something like peace.

He unties my wrists, his touch gentle now, pulling me to his chest. I bury my face in his neck, letting the aftershocks ripple through me. "You okay?" he whispers, kissing my shoulder.

I nod, barely.

"Need anything?"

"You," I mumble, my voice muffled against his skin.

A pause. Then his lips graze my ear, his voice low, dark, promising. "Med-guy... we're not done yet." His hand slides down my spine, resting on my ass, squeezing lightly. "You just earned yourself a night that'll leave you begging me to let you walk straight again."

I swallow hard, my body already stirring despite the ache.
And god help me-I know I won't be walking tomorrow.

.........

 

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Notes:

Okay, I'm so damn embarrassed. I don't know who wrote this. I'm a nun. A damn Bible holder. Sex? Never heard of that. I'M SO EMBARRASSED.

Chapter 24: Ch 24: The aftercare

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello, my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 24)

Keal;

I've fucked up.

I lose control and fucked him like an animal. Again and again.

Ezran's passed out cold in my bed-sprawled across the sheets as if he belonged here from a long ago.

He's looking like a ruined angel-drenched in my sin, dipped in afterglow for me.

His skin's flushed, sticky with sweat, bite marks on his chest, hickeys blooming like bruised roses on his neck. Lips swollen. Lashes wet. Breath coming in soft, uneven little sighs.

And I know exactly what kind of dreams he's having.

Because I gave them to him.

I should feel guilty. I know that. I should feel something remotely close to shame.

But I don't.

Because he begged.
Because he whimpered my name like a lifeline.
Because every fucking sound he made dragged me deeper inside him.

Fuck.

I didn't mean to go that hard.
Not that hard.
Not when it was his first time.

But god help me-his sounds drove me insane. That whimper? That "please"? That little noise he made when I bit his neck?

I snapped.

I flipped him over. Bent him in half. Fuck his trembling body into the goddamn mattress. Then again. And again. One position bled into the next-legs over my shoulders, then straddling me, then on his knees with his head pressed into the pillows while I gripped his hips and wrecked his insides from behind like some starved beast. His voice kept cracking, hoarse and raw, begging for more even when he couldn't say the words. He didn't have to.

His body screamed it.

And I obeyed.

And now... now he's limp, soft and boneless under my sheets.
Used.
Mine.

I brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. He doesn't stir. Just curls in a little tighter, instinctively seeking the heat of me like he knows I'll keep him safe.

Jesus fucking Christ.
Keal, you're officially doomed and you even like it.

I've never felt anything like this-like I'd rip my own flesh out just to make him comfortable.

I should be kicking myself for not easing up when his legs started trembling so hard he could barely kneel.

But I don't regret it.

Because Ezran didn't stop me.

He begged.

He asked for this.

And fuck, he took it like a goddamn angel made for sin.

I push off the bed slowly, my muscles sore, hips aching yet my cock already twitching at the memory of how tight he felt around me.
I grab a clean towel from the closet and warm it up in the bathroom sink. The water hisses, steam rising as I wet the fabric, wring it out until it's just right.

When I come back, he's still out cold. One leg thrown over the sheets, ass on full display, thighs trembling slightly even in sleep.

My poor baby.

I kneel beside the bed and gently part his legs. He moans quietly at the movement, but doesn't wake.

I slide my fingers between his cheeks, parting them gently. His hole is puffy, red, slick with lube and the mess I pumped into him. The sight alone nearly makes me hard again. Every part of me wants to slide back inside him and fuck him slow until he wakes up gasping my name.

Down, boy.

I clean him up carefully, reverently, wiping away every trace of our chaos, my stomach twist in proud at how sore he must be.
At how wrecked I made him.

I toss the towel aside, grab the lotion from my nightstand. The unscented kind, something soft and clean-not perfumed or sharp. I warm it in my hands before touching him, rubbing gently around the rim, feeling him flinch even in his sleep.

"Shh," I whisper, my voice thick. "It's okay, Med-guy."

He moans again, softer this time, breath catching like maybe somewhere in that dream he knows it's me. My fingers work slowly, massaging the cream into his swollen skin. I take my time, careful not to push too deep, even though my dick was gard again.
Throbbing.
Slapping against my stomach.

But he needs rest.

He deserves better.
And I, being the idiot can't let him go.

So I will be the better.

I finish massaging the lotion in, place a soft kiss on one of the bruises on his thigh. Then another on the dip of his spine.

"You're perfect," I murmur, resting my forehead against the curve of his hip. "You have no idea what you do to me, Med-guy."

Ezran was out cold, sprawled across my bed like he'd claimed it years ago, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. His hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead, lips parted just enough to let out these soft little sighs that hit me square in the chest

The sky was turning a soft purple, goddamn creeping in like it was sneaking past a curfew, when I finished cleaning Ezran up. The room smelled faintly of sweat and the unscented lotion I'd used, a quiet reminder of the night we'd had.

I stood there longer than I should've, watching him.
He looked... perfect.
Used up, sure, but perfect.
And... mine.

Like he was made to be here, in my space, in my life. My fingers itched to touch him again, to trace the faint marks I'd left on his skin, but I held back. He needed sleep, not me railing at him like some horny idiot.

The clock glowed 5:42 AM. Ezran's classes started at 9, but no way was I waking him up.
Not after I'd gone at him like a goddamn animal. His body needed rest, and I needed to not be a selfish prick for once. So I let him sleep, pulling the sheets over him gently, like I could protect him from the world just by tucking him in.

I crawl back into bed, pulling him into my arms, tucking him against my chest. His face buries itself into my neck, his breath hot against my collarbone. I feel him sigh, long and content, his hand instinctively resting on my heart.

As if he knows it's his.

And maybe he does.

I hold him tighter.

Because I broke him tonight.
And I will do it again and again.

But I'll also spend every night putting him back together.

...........

When I woke up, the sun was blasting through the blinds, and the clock read 11:58 AM. I groaned, scrubbing a hand over my face, my stubble rough against my palm. Ezran was still dead to the world, one leg kicked out from under the sheets, his face buried in my pillow. I smirked. He looked like he belonged there, and fuck if that didn't make my chest do something stupid.

I wasn't about to let him wake up starving or hurting, though. I ordered breakfast from that diner he liked-pancakes with extra syrup, crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs because he got all nostalgic about them.
Added a bottle of water, some ibuprofen, and a hot pad I dug out of a drawer for his sore ass. I set it all on the bedside table, trying not to look too proud of myself. Then I grabbed a sticky note and scribbled, "Stay in bed unless you're crawling to me like last night, Med-guy." I stuck it to the water bottle, grinning at the thought of his reaction.

Fuck my luck.
Fuck that asshole Damien.
Why just can't I stay curled up with Ezran.
Why the fuck I have to leave for work.
Damien called said some paper needed my signature. I swear I'm going to cut off his salary for chugging down each shot this time. That motherfucker doesn't do shit.
I didn't want to leave, but my the club was opening in two days, and if I didn't get my ass to the venue, it'd be a shitshow.

Damien was probably already there, barking orders and chain-smoking. I grabbed my jacket, shot one last look at Ezran, and slipped out.

...........

The club was a madhouse when I got there. Half the lights were flickering, the bar staff were arguing over shelf space, and Damien was pacing like he was about to commit murder. He spotted me, tossed his cigarette into an ashtray, and smirked.

"Well, fuck me, you're alive," he said, crossing his arms. "Thought you'd be too busy playing house with your apron boy, ass."

I flipped him off, tossing my keys on the bar. "Don't get killed by my hand the first thing in the morning, Damien. I'm here."

"Barely." He leaned against the counter, his blonde hair a mess like he'd been tugging at it. "You look like you got hit by a truck. Good night, huh?"

I snorted, grabbing a water from the cooler. "Best-est night, motherfucker."

"Oh, come on," he said, grinning like a little bitch. "You're walking like you pulled a muscle, and I'm betting it wasn't from the gym. Spill, man. Did you finally fuck that kid into next week?"

"Damien," I growled, pointing at him. "Use his name and the word fuck in the same sentence next time and you're dead. Okay? Okay."

He laughed, dodging the bar rag I chucked at him. "Fineee, keep your dirty secrets, love-sick bitch. But you owe me for holding this place together while you were off getting laid."

"I don't owe you jackshit," I said, pulling up the inventory on my phone. "Final invitations confirmation on track?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's handled." He snatched my phone, scrolling through the list. "Bar's stocked, DJ's confirmed, and I only had to threaten one shareholder today. You're welcome."

We went at it like that for hours, trading insults while we sorted out the chaos. Damien was a dick, but he was good-kept the crew in line, charmed the vendors, and made sure I didn't lose my shit... completely.

By lunch, we'd gotten enough done that I could actually think straight.

I pulled out my phone and texted Ezran:

Me:"Good morning,Med-guy? Eat the damn pancakes before they get cold. And don't forget the pic."

His reply came a few minutes later, groggy as hell:

Survivor_on_Caffine: "The person you're trying to reach is currently sleeping and too sore to move. The food's good though. Thanks."

Little shit.

I grinned, my chest doing that dumb warm thing again.

Rest up, Sharma. I'm far from done.

I laughed, loud enough that Damien noticed.

"Goddamn, you're whipped," he said, leaning over my shoulder. "Texting your boyfriend already? What's next, matching tattoos in the ass?"

Boyfriend?
I liked that word firsf time.
First time in ever I liked the word Boyfriend.

Ezran = Boyfriend.
Um, doesn't sound bad.
Who am I kidding? I'd die to make it true.

Yet I shove him and said, "Fuck off. Go do your job."

...........

 

By 7:30 PM, I was done. My head was throbbing, and all I could think about was getting back to Ezran and inhaling his that sweet sweet bluebells smell. I swear his body flows drug mixed fragrance.

I grabbed my jacket, ready to bolt, when Damien piped up.

"I'm coming with you," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a wolfish grin.

I stopped, eyeing him. "Why the fuck?"

"Forgot those account details at your place," he said, smirking. "Unless you want me to guess the passwords and walk in when you're fuc-?" he cut himself off seeing me glaring at him, "Cardio. Unless you want me to walk in when you and Ezran's doing cardio. Special one."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "You're a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Aww, thank you, love," he said, clapping me on the back. "Let's go, lover boy."

I kicked him in the shin- hard enough to make him yelp. "Move, asshole."

He laughed, flipping me off as we headed out.

...........

When we got to my place, I didn't ring the bell. Ezran might still be in bed, and I wasn't about to wake him with that stupid chime. I unlocked the door quietly, pushing it open, and stopped dead.

Ezran wasn't in bed. He was on the couch. Papers were scattered across the coffee table, laptops open, pens and highlighters everywhere. Tanya, Matthew, and two other girls-his batch mate, I figured-were deep in some heated debate about a diagram, their voices overlapping.

Ezran looked up, his eyes catching mine. He froze for a second, then gave me a nervous smile.

"Hi-Hi. Didn't know you'd be back so soon. I... I am sorry for... um"

"Didn't know you were turning my place into a study hall, Med-guy" I said, keeping my tone light when my eyes fall on the cushion he's sitting on.

Yes, Ezran's sitting in a cushion-my cushion, because I'd fucked him so hard he probably couldn't sit right without it.

I smirk at the cushion. He blushed, ducking his head, and I had to fight the urge to drag him to the bedroom right then.

"Sorry," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "We've got this group project due, we were supposed to finish it last night but..."
He didn't finish his sentence. Cause I know Because last night you returned and I fucked you raw, baby.

"And, I... I didn't think to ask if it was okay," he said in a low voice as if he's not sure if he's done right or not.

"It's cool," I said, and I meant it. "Just wasn't expecting a crowd."

Meanwhile Damien's eyes were locked on Tanya-sharp, intense, like a wolf spotting a rabbit.

Tanya, who was usually all smirks and attitude- if I remember correct- went stiff. Her fingers tightened around her pen, and she shifted in her seat, suddenly very focused on her notes. Nobody else seemed to notice, but I did. Something was up, and it wasn't just Damien being his usual asshole self.

I raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. There's something wrong between this dick and Tanya. Yum, it'd be fun to kick his ass using that.

"I'm gonna change," I said, heading for the bedroom. "Damien, grab your shit and get out."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, but his eyes were still on Tanya, and his smirk was way too predatory for my liking.

In the bedroom, I swapped my pant for a clean one, didn't bother to put on a shirt, splashed water on my face, trying to shake off the day. When I came back out, Damien was leaning against the arm of the couch, way too close to Tanya. She was practically trembling, her jaw tight, her eyes darting anywhere but at him.

"-real good at disappearing, aren't you?" Damien was saying, his voice low, almost a sweet threat. "Slipping out before my cum even dried off. I can still feel your tight cunt strangling my cock. Didn't even leave a note for me, principessa. That's rude, don't you think so?"

Tanya's face went from pale in half a second. She gripped her pen like she was about to stab him with it. "Get the fuck away from me," she whispered, her voice barely audible and trembling.

I cleared my throat, loud and deliberate. "Damien, you done? Grab your shit and go."

He shot me a look, all innocence, but I knew that glint in his eye. "Just saying hi," he said, smirking at Tanya. "Right, principessa?"

She didn't answer, just started shoving her stuff into her bag with enough force to rip the zipper. Ezran, Matthew, and the girls were too busy arguing over their project to notice, but the air was thick with whatever the hell was going on between those two.

"Alright, everybody out," I said, clapping my hands. "Study time's over. I want my couch back."

Ezran frowned, looking up. "Keal, we're not done-"

"You're done," I said, grinning. "Unless you want me to embarrass you in front of your friends."

His face went pink, and Matthew laughed, oblivious to the tension. Tanya was already halfway to the door, one of the girls trailing after her. Damien followed, tossing me a lazy salute. "Catch you later, boss. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That's a short list," I shot back, and he laughed, disappearing out the door with Tanya practically sprinting to get away from him.

Once they were gone, it was just me and Ezran. He was still on the couch, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie, looking nervous. "I'm sorry about the crowd," he said, glancing up. "I should've asked you, take your permission."

I dropped onto the couch next to him, close enough that our thighs brushed. "It's fine, Med-guy. Just warn me next time so I don't walk in expecting you naked and instead get a room full of nerds."

His ear flush pink. "I'll... I'll warm up the food."

"You can walk?" I caught his wrist, tugging him down until he stumbled half into my lap.

His breath hitched, but before he could say a word, I tilted my chin up and kissed him.

Soft at first.

Just lips brushing-testing. His mouth parted slightly, and I deepened it, slowly. My tongue slid against his bottom lip, coaxing it open, teasing. He sighed, low and shaky, like he'd been holding it in, and that sound went straight to my chest, curling tight and possessive.

His hands found my hair, fingers threading through the strands and gripping-gently at first, then firmer when I sucked on his bottom lip, tugging it between my teeth before letting go with a slick little pop.

I licked into his mouth like I had all the time in the damn world. Tongue gliding against his, slow and warm and claiming, like I needed to taste every inch of him. And he let me. His mouth was sweet-syrup and sleep, like something too soft for the filth running through my veins-but I wanted it anyway.

Needed it.

Our tongues tangled, not frantic, but deep. Intimate. My hand slid up his back, holding him in place, while his thighs tightened against me like he didn't want to leave this moment either.

He moaned-quiet and needy-and I swallowed it whole.

When I finally pulled back, his lips were kiss-swollen, eyes half-lidded and dazed. I rested my forehead against his and caught my breath, still tasting him.

"You feeling okay?" I murmured, brushing my thumb against the side of his mouth.
"That cushion's doing its job, I see."

He groaned, burying his face in my neck. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." I grinned, running my fingers through his hair. "You're sore because of me, and you're still here. But you're moving, so I think I didn't do my job properly."

He mumbled something I couldn't catch, but his cheeks were red, and he didn't pull away. "You're impossible," he said finally, looking up at me, his voice a soft mumble. "Thanks for the food. And....the note. Even if it was stupid."

I kiss him again, slow and lazy. "You feeling alright? For real?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "Sore, but... good. You didn't break me, if that's what you're worried about."

"Wasn't worried," I lied, my hand sliding to the small of his back. "Just making sure my Med-guy's in one piece."

He rolled his eyes but leaned into me, his head resting against my shoulder. "Why Damien was here?" he asked after a moment. "He was acting weird with T."

I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. "No clue. Probably some drama. Damien's got a knack for pissing people off."

Ezran mumbled agains my shoulder, "Sounds like someone else I know."

"Watch it," I said, grabbing his ass cheeks softly until he squirmed, laughing so hard he almost fell off the couch. I caught him, pulling him back into my arms, and kissed him again, softer this time. "You're stuck with me, Med-guy."

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. "I am."

We stayed like that, tangled up on the couch, trading kisses and dumb jokes until the room felt warm and small, like it was just us.
Me, My Med-guy, sore and sleepy and perfect, right where he belonged.

..........
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(Please if you're liking the story, share with your friends. The AO3 algorithm doesn't promote new writers. So I'm not receiving much Kudo or reads. So it's a humble request, please, please share this story with your friends if you like it. Thank you.❤️❤️)

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Chapter 25: Ch 25: Places and People

Summary:

Idk

Notes:

I'm maybe kinda sick. So chapter's won't be per day. Happy reading..

(Chapter 25)

Ezran;

I’ve kissed a man.

I’ve let a man… God.

I’ve fucked a man.

No.

He fucked me.

Again. And again. And again. Like I was some goddamn toy that belonged to him. And worst part?

I fucking liked it.

It’s been a week since that night with Keal, and I still can’t think straight.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—those dark eyes, that smug grin, the way his lips felt against mine, claiming me like I was his to keep. My body still carries the memory of him, a dull ache that still lingers in my muscles, a unfamiliar warmth that spreads around my entire body when I think about how he held me, how he broke me apart and put me back together.

I let Keal take me in ways I never thought I’d want, I can't even bring myself to regret it.
Not even a little.
But I should.
I know I should.
Because I'm a man. I'm not supposed to be with another man. I'm not supposed to let a man touch me. I'm not supposed to moan for him. I'm not fucking supposed to beg him to touch me.

But I did.
I did.

My fingers tremble around the pen I’ve been trying to hold for ten straight minutes. My eyes are locked on the notes but my mind’s flashing images—him above me, inside me, owning me in ways no one ever has.

And now I’m sitting on my study table, surrounded by textbooks and notes, trying to focus on the anatomy of Thoracic Cavity.
The apartment is a mess—empty glasses of wine, whiskey or whatever Keal felt like chugging, Keal’s jackets slung over chairs, a pile of unwashed clothes in the couch.

It’s been my home for a month now.

Home?
I even didn't realise when I started calling his place my home.

I should be annoyed at the mess, but it feels like him, like Keal’s chaos is part of what makes this place safe.

I’m wearing his hoodie again, the gray one that’s too big for me, the sleeves slipping over my hands. It smells like him—cedarwood and spice and something warm that makes my head stop spinning. When I’m wrapped in his scent, the guilt quiets down, the shame doesn't choke me untill breathing becomes a chore.

It’s like he’s here, even when he’s not, keeping my demons at bay.

But then he leaves.

And the demons come back, crawling into my spine, whispering everything I never dared to admit out loud.

That I’m a disappointment.

That I’m a freak.

That I let a man ruin me.

And worse?

I want him to do it again.

.........

My phone buzzes on the bed behind me, and my stomach lurches.
Maa's name lights up the screen, and I freeze, my heart pounding like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. It’s just a call, a normal Sunday call, but it feels like a spotlight on everything I’m hiding. I take a deep breath and answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Ezran, beta, how’re you doing?” Maa’s voice is warm, full of love and pride, and it twists something deep in my chest.

“I’m good, Maa,” I say, my throat tight. “Just studying.”

“Of course you are. Always working so hard.” She laughs, soft and fond. “Your Papa was telling everyone at the temple how you’re going to be a doctor, make us all proud. You’re such a blessing, beta.”

The words hit like a punch. A blessing. A good boy. The son who’s supposed to carry the family’s hopes, who’s supposed to come home with a degree and a future, not a secret that would break their hearts.

My throat closes.

Good boy. Right. The kind who spreads his legs for another man. Who moans into his mouth. Who begs for more.

“Thanks, Maa,” I mumble, my fingers tightening around the phone. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing more than trying. You’re making us so proud. Your sister was saying we should start planning a big party for when you graduate. Everyone’s so excited for you.”

I force a smile, even though she can’t see it. “Sounds nice.” My voice is weak, and I hope she doesn’t notice. We talk for a while longer—her telling me about Papa’s new glasses, my cousin’s engagement, the neighbor’s kid who got into trouble at school. Normal brown family stuff. But every word feels like a weight, piling onto the guilt that’s been clawing at me all week. They think I’m their perfect son, their pride.
They don’t know I’m falling apart, letting a man touch me, kiss me, love me in ways I was raised to believe are wrong.

When we hang up, I drop the phone and bury my face in my hands. My chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe. I fucked a man. I kissed a man. I let Keal hold me like I was his, and I wanted it—still want it, even now, with Maa’s voice echoing in my head. What am I doing? How am I supposed to face them, knowing what I’ve done, what I feel? I tug the hood of Keal’s hoodie over my head, inhaling deeply. His scent wraps around me, and for a moment, the panic eases. My mind quiets. My heart slows. It’s like he’s here, grounding me, making the world feel less heavy.

I can’t sit still. I need to move, to do something to keep the thoughts from spiraling. I start cleaning Keal’s apartment, picking up his scattered clothes, wiping down the counters. It’s not my job, but I know he likes it when I do this. I know he likes it when I'm comfortable around him. When I'm making myself home at his place. He never says it, but I see it in his eyes, that soft look he gets when he comes home and finds me oddly bold at his space.
It feels good, like I’m taking care of him, like I’m giving him something back for the way he makes me feel safe.

By evening, I’m in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Chicken curry, fragrant with cumin and garam masala, simmering on the stove. Rice steaming in a pot. I’ve got a Bollywood playlist playing softly through Keal’s music system, Arijit Singh’s voice weaving through the air, slow and soulful. It reminds me of home, but not in a bad way—not tonight. It feels like a piece of me I can still hold onto, even with everything else falling apart. I stir the curry, tasting it, adjusting the salt. Keal loves when I cook for him. He never says it out loud, but he eats like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and that’s enough.

The doorbell rings, earlier than I expected. Keal’s usually not back until eight, but I don’t overthink it. He's coming home as soon as possible nowadays. Just to hold me. Even when we're not having sex. He just kisses me and holds me.
And... I like it.

I wipe my hands on the apron and head to the door, still wearing his hoodie, the hem brushing my thighs. I open the door, expecting his grin, but it’s Mrs. Andrew, standing there with her kind smile.

“Ezran, dear, hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, her gray hair neat in a soft bun.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. “Um, want some tea?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “I'd love to have some those chai you make, thank you. I  came to give you a good news. Your flat’s all fixed. The pipe’s repaired, everything’s back in order. You can move back. Even now if you want.”

My heart stutters. Move back? I’ve been at Keal’s for a month, and the thought of leaving—of not waking up to his warmth, his scent, his voice—makes my chest ache. “Oh,” I say, my voice small. “That’s great. Thanks.”

“You’ve been so considerate about managing here,” she says, smiling at me. “I know it’s not easy, sharing space, but you’ve handled it well.”

“It’s been okay,” I say, my throat tight. Okay? It’s been everything—too much, too intense, too perfect. But I can’t tell her that. We talk for a few minutes, her asking about my classes, me giving vague answers while my mind races. Move back. Leave Keal’s place. Go back to my own bed, where I won’t feel his arms around me, where I’ll be alone with my thoughts again.

The doorbell rings again, and my pulse spikes. Keal. I rush to open it, my hands shaking slightly. He’s there, all leather and stubble, his eyes lighting up when he sees me. His gaze drops to the hoodie—his hoodie—and a soft, knowing smile curves his lips. My ears burn, but I can’t help the warmth that spreads through me at that look.

“Hey, Med-guy,” he says, his voice low and warm for me. He steps inside, reaching for me, one hand sliding around my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck. He leans in, his lips brushing my jaw, soft and deliberate, before trailing down to my neck. My breath hitches, and I freeze, panic surging through me. Mrs. Andrew is right there. Bhindi the door. I can’t do this—not in front of her, not when I’m still drowning in the truth of what we are.

I flinch.

Panic snaps up my spine like a whip, and I jerk away. “Not now,” I whisper, eyes wide.

His smile falters, confusion flickering—but then he sees her.
I hate the disappointment in his eyes. I hate the way his eyes fall as if thinking he's some dirty secret I can't dare to give light.

His expression shifts, that easy charm sliding into place seeing her.

“Mrs. Andrew, didn’t expect you,” he says, leaning against the counter, all casual confidence. “What’s up?”

“Just letting Ezran know his flat’s ready,” she says, smiling. “He can move back whenever he wants. Thank you, Son, for letting him stay at my request.”

Keal’s eyes flick to me, sharp and intense, before he turns back to her. “He’s not moving out,” he says, his voice casual yet firm, leaving no room for argument.

My mouth opens to protest. “Keal, you can’t—”

He raises an eyebrow, silencing me with that look—serious, commanding, but soft around the edges. “He’s staying here,” he says to Mrs. Andrew, “I’ll keep paying for the flat. Let it stay empty.”

She gives a tight smile and leaves, probably thinking we’re two weird-ass roommates who share an apartment but not beds.
Not... feelings.

The door shuts.

I round on him.

My jaw tightens, frustration mixing with something warmer, deeper. “Keal, seriously—”

“Ezran,” he says, his voice low, cutting through my words. He steps closer, his arms wrapping around  my waist, hand sliding under the hem of my hoodie—his hoodie—his fingers brushing the bare skin of my lower back. My breath catches, and I feel my resolve waver. “You want me banging on your door at 2AM because I need to fuck you?” he murmurs, voice low. Dangerous. “Or 5AM ‘cause I need to kiss you stupid?”

Yet I murmured, “You can’t just decide where I live.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands sliding fully under my hoodie now, warm against my skin. He pulls me against him, his lips finding my neck again, soft and slow, leaving gentle bites that make my knees weak. “You’re wearing my clothes,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “Cooking my dinner. Smelling like me. You’re not going anywhere, Med-guy.”

I try to protest, but his lips are on my jaw now, his teeth grazing lightly, and my thoughts scatter. “Keal, I’m serious,” I manage, my voice shaky. “Why pay for my flat? Why keep it empty?”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and soft all at once. “I’m keeping that flat empty because I don’t want anyone hearing the sounds you make. The ones only I get to hear,” he says, his voice quiet but intense. “The way you sigh, the way you moan my name, scream for me—those are mine. No one else gets to have them.”

My breath catches, and my ears burn again. I want to argue, to tell him he’s being ridiculous, but his hands are still under my hoodie, his fingers tracing slow circles on my skin, and my mind goes quiet. The guilt, the shame, the weight of my family’s expectations—they fade when he’s this close, when he’s touching me like I’m the only thing that matters.

“You’re... possessive,” I mutter, but I lean into him, letting his warmth and his scent drown out the noise in my head.

He kisses my neck again, slow and deliberate, his lips soft but possessive, “You let me fuck you like that and expect me not to be?” he says, his voice teasing but warm. He slides his hands higher under the hoodie, his fingers brushing the curve of my spine, and I shiver, my body betraying how much I want this—want him.

We stay like that, tangled together on the couch, his lips on my neck, my hands clutching his shoulders. My Bollywood playlist looping softly in the background, but I don’t care. For now, it’s just us, and when he’s here, my demons don’t stand a chance.

........

[THANKS]

Chapter 26: Ch 26: The uninvited knock from the past

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello, my beautiful readers. Thank you that you choose Sin to Priest to read. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language. So I'd really appreciate if you be consider.
Please leave comments and Kudos.
Let me know your opinion about Keal and Ezran.
Have a good day.
Stay Hydrated.
Smile.♡

(Chapter 26)

Ezran;

It's been a few days since Mrs. Andrew dropped the bomb about my flat being fixed, and Keal's declaration that I'm not going anywhere still echoes in my head.

The night where Keal told Mrs. Andrew he'd keep paying for an empty flat just so no one else hears the sounds I make for him.

The night where I should've been offended. Should've argued. Should've walked out and slammed the door for how controlling that sounded.

But instead?

I slept in his arms.

While his fingers traced lazy patterns on my back. His lips soft on my neck. We didn't had sex thay night. Just him. Quiet, warm, real. Like I was something precious he didn't know how to handle without breaking.
So he takes extra care.

He wakes me up with his mouth wrapped around my dick or his tongue thrusting inside me, or... sleepy kisses.
He makes me eat breakfast every morning. And I make him eat out of the same bowl, too.

He drags me into the shower because "I study better when I'm clean and thoroughly fucked." His words, not mine.

Our nights are either loud or quietly loud.

Loud, when he has me bent over the kitchen counter, whispering filth into my ear which even makes devil blush as I beg for more.

Quietly loud, when we curl up on the couch, watching his stupid show Scooby-Doo and says Shaggy is low key hot. Or my medical documentaries which he bitches about but also devours it like he's solving cancer crisis.
Our legs tangled, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back or making his way towards anywhere he feels like.

Though we mostly end up with me being fold like a paper and he ramming inside me.
His hands pinning me to the couch, his lips claiming mine until I'm gasping for oxygen, my body arching under him, begging for more. He fucks me like he's staking a claim.

And I let him.
I want him to.

The way he moves inside me, the way he growls my name, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters in the world-it's addictive.
I'm addicted. And when it's over, when we're both spent and tangled in sweat-slicked skin, there's this quiet that settles over us. His arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck, his heartbeat steady in my ear. Those moments, the silent ones, are when I feel most like myself. Like I'm not fighting a war with who I'm supposed to be.

And when I cook for us he leans against the counter, watching me with that soft, unreadable look in his eyes.

It's crazy. And yet, it's home.

It's those moments that make me feel like I'm home.
Like I belong here, with him, in this chaos we've built.

But today, I've got classes, and the real world doesn't care about the bubble we've created.
I'm at college now, my backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing Keal's another hoodie because I couldn't bring myself to take it off. My anatomy notes are tucked as I weave through the crowded halls, the hum of student chatter filling the air.

Tanya, Matthew, and Rehan had planned to meet me at the library after class, but I got out early.

Might as well wait there.

They've been planning some group study session for our upcoming exam, and I'm supposed to be there. My last class let out early, so I've got some time to kill. The hallways are quieter now, most students already in their next lecture or grabbing coffee at the union.

I'm cutting through one of the older buildings, the one with narrow corridors, when I hear a muffled sound-a gasp, maybe, or a low voice.
My steps slow down, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The hall is empty, the early afternoon light filtering through the high windows, casting long shadows. I turn a corner, and that's when I see him.

Damien?.
What's he doing here?

Then I saw it.
Damien has Tanya pinned against the wall.

My stomach drops.
Damien's hand is wrapped around her throat-not enough tight to cut off her air supply, but firm, his fingers pressing just enough to tilt her head back. Tanya's breathing is heavy, her chest rising and falling fast, her eyes half-lidded but wide with something I can't quite place-fear, maybe, or something else entirely. Her hands are at her sides, fingers twitching like she's not sure whether to push him away or pull him closer. Damien's leaning in, his lips close to her ear, saying something too low for me to hear. Whatever it is, it makes Tanya shiver, her body trembling under his grip.

He's smirking.
Not his usual cocky smirk, the one he flashed to me when he's teasing or showing off.
This is different-darker, sharper, like a predator sizing up its prey. His eyes are locked on her, dark, angry, and there's a hunger there that makes my skin crawl.

I don't know what's happening, but every instinct in my body screams that this is not supposed to be.

"Tanya!" I call out, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

Damien's head snaps up, his hand still on her throat for a split second before he steps back, smooth and deliberate, like he doesn't care much.

Tanya's eyes dart to me, wide and startled, her breath hitching. There's a red mark blooming on her neck-a hickey, fresh and deliberate, like he meant to leave it there. Like he's marking her.

Damien turns to me, that predatory smirk gone, but his eyes glinting with something dangerous everytime he looks at Tanya. "Oh, hey, Ezran," he says, his voice dripping with fake friendliness. "Relax. Just passing through. Saw my dear ol' friend Tanya here and thought I'd say hi." He glances at her, his smirk widening, and there's something in his tone that feels like a threat, like he's daring her to contradict him.

I look at Tanya, my heart pounding. "You okay?" I ask, stepping closer. Her face is flushed, her lips parted like she's still catching her breath. She nods quickly, too quickly, her eyes flicking to the floor.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine," she says, her voice a little too high, a little too forced. "It's nothing. Really."

I frown, my gut twisting. It doesn't look like nothing. The way Damien was holding her, the way she's avoiding my eyes-it's not right. But she's already smoothing her hair, adjusting her scarf to cover the mark on her neck, and I don't know how to push without making it worse.

"Come on," I say, nodding toward the direction of the library. "We're gonna be late."

Tanya nods again, falling into step beside me as we head down the hall. Damien doesn't follow, but I can feel his eyes on us, that smirk burning into the back of my head. I want to ask her what the hell that was, if he's been bothering her, if she's really okay. But her jaw is tight, her shoulders hunched, and I know pushing her now won't get me anywhere.

I swear Damien's going to get a hard time if he was bothering Tanya.
I'm so going to tell Keal to kick his ass.

"You sure you're okay?" I try one more time, keeping my voice soft.

She forces a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Ezran, I'm fine. Really. Just... drop it, please?"

I nod, even though everything in me wants to keep asking. We walk in silence the rest of the way to the library, the air between us heavy with things unsaid.

The library is quieter than usual, the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft rustle of pages the only sounds. Matthew and Rehan are already at our usual table, books and laptops spread out like a battlefield. Matthew's got his headphones on, nodding to some beat only he can hear, while Rehan's scribbling notes with a pen that's leaking ink onto his fingers.

By the time we join the rest of our little squad in the library, Tanya's back to smirking, Rehan's being a menace, Matthew being his gossip king and me rolling my eyes like I got a PhD in Tolerating idiots.

"Thought you'd ditched us for some secret study spot."

"Nah, just got out of class early," I say, dropping my backpack and sliding into a chair.

"Ezran's glowing," Rehan announces suddenly like a five-year-old who discovered a new species. "Did you finally get laid, bro?"

"Or railed," Tanya laughs, throwing a pen at him.

"I'm just saying," Rehan grins. "Dude looks suspiciously happy lately. What's her name, huh? Or his name? Or their name? Spill, bitch."

I laugh, but it's a little forced.

Happy. Yeah, I guess I am.
Keal's face flashes in my mind-his grin, his hands, the way he makes me feel like I'm enough.

They don't know I wake up every day terrified of what this means, of how much I want to stay.

But I can't tell them that.

Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

"Or maybe I've been just sleeping better, idiots," I say, shrugging.

Tanya raises an eyebrow, "I texted you yesterday past 2 AM for cardio notes and you replied around 3, which says you were awake."

"Three hours' sleep is enough," I shoot back, trying to keep it light. It works, mostly. Rehan chuckles, and Matthew launches into some story about a professor who spilled coffee all over his lecture notes, and soon we're all laughing, the tension from earlier easing a little.

We dive into studying, passing notes and quizzing each other on the respiratory system. Tanya seems to relax, her smile coming easier, but I can't shake the image of Damien's hand on her throat, that smirk on his face. I want to ask her again, to make sure she's really okay, but every time I look at her, she's focused on her notes, like nothing's wrong.

So, I let it go, for now. But make a mental note to ask Keal to tell Damien not to bother her.

By lunchtime, my stomach's growling, and I'm waiting for Keal's text- his usual message about grabbing food or, more likely, him telling me to come home so he can "distract" me. But my phone stays silent. I check it again, frowning. Nothing. No text, no call, no stupid emoji that makes me roll my eyes but smile.

I try not to overthink it, but my brain's already spiraling.

Is he asleep?
Is he okay? Did something happen? Or is he just busy?
I hate how much I care, how much I need to hear from him. After a few minutes of staring at my phone, I give in and call him. It rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail.

My chest tightens. Keal had always picked up everytime I called him. Even when he's in the middle of something, he answers, even if it's just to tease me for being clingy. I try again. Voicemail again.

"Everything okay?" Tanya asks, glancing over from her sandwich.

"Yeah," I lie, shoving my phone into my pocket. "Just... gonna head home. Forgot something."

She nods, but her eyes linger on me, like she knows I'm not telling the whole truth. I grab my backpack and head out, my steps quickening as I leave campus.

The way to Keal's apartment- our apartment- feels longer than usual, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

What if he's hurt?
What if he's... I don't know, done with me?
The thought makes my stomach lurch.

When I reach the building, I press the elevator button multiple times but when it doesn't open fast enough I run to stairs. I take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding. I fumble with my lock, push the door open, and step into the living room- and... freeze.

Keal's there, his fist slamming into a man's face, the sound of flesh against flesh sharp and brutal. He's gripping the guy's collar with one hand, his knuckles bloodied, his jaw tight with rage. The other guy-a wiry man with red hair and a split lip-is laughing, a manic, unhinged sound that makes my skin crawl. The living room is a wreck- coffee table flipped, a lamp shattered on the floor, books and papers scattered like shrapnel. It's like a tornado tore through the place.

Keal doesn't see me at first, his focus entirely on the man he's pummeling. But the guy does. His eyes lock onto mine, and he grins, blood staining his teeth. "Hello, little obsession," he says, his voice casual, like he's greeting an old friend.

Keal freezes, his fist still raised. His head snaps toward me, and the look in his eyes-raw, unguarded, almost desperate-makes my heart stop. He shoves the guy away, hard, sending him stumbling against the wall. The man just laughs again, brushing off his jacket like nothing happened. He claps a hand on Keal's shoulder, leaning in close. "You know what's best, don't you?" he says, his voice low and taunting. "Do it, my boy."

Keal's shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists again, but he doesn't move. The man smirks, gives me one last glance, and walks out the door like he owns the place.

The room is silent except for Keal's heavy breathing. His back is to me, his head bowed, his hands still clenched. I step forward, my heart in my throat, not sure what to do, what to say.

I'm not scared of him-not exactly.
I'm scared of whatever this is, of the way he's trembling, like he's holding himself together by a thread.

"Keal?" my voice barely above a whisper.

He flinches, like the sound of my voice hurts him. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. He turns to face me, and his eyes are haunted, shadowed with something I've never seen in him before. "I didn't mean to kill him. I swear, I didn't. But then she... she was... she was hurt. Yet she... she looked at me like I was a monster. She was the first one to call me that."

My breath catches. Kill? Her? Who? My mind spins, trying to make sense of his words, but his voice is so broken, so raw, that I can't focus on anything but him.

I step forward, afraid to startle Keal.
He looks... wrong.
Off.
Broken in a way that doesn't belong to this version of him.

My heart cracks.

He sounds like a boy.
A boy. Lost in a memory that no longer belongs here.

I step closer, careful, like I'm approaching something fragile. "Keal," I say again, reaching out. My hands hover for a second before I rest them on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart under my palms. "You're not a monster. You're not. You never were."

He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to pull away, to shut me out. But then his arms wrap around me, pulling me against him so tightly it's almost painful. His face buries in my neck, and I feel the shudder that runs through him, like he's letting go of something he's been carrying for too long. I hold him just as tight, my fingers curling into his shirt, my cheek pressed against his heart. He smells like sweat and blood and Keal, and I don't care about the mess or the questions or the fear. I just want to keep him here, to keep him whole.

"You're not a monster," I whispered, even if I didn't know the whole truth. "You're mine."

He doesn't say anything, just holds me tighter, his breath hot against my skin. I don't know who's that he, or who the she is, or what happened to make Keal like this. But right now, it doesn't matter. I stroke his back, slow and steady, my hands gentle like I'm soothing something wild. His breathing starts to even out, his grip loosening just enough that I can pull back and look at him.

His eyes are still shadowed, but there's something softer there now, something that makes my chest ache. "Ezran," he says, his voice rough, like it's taking everything he has to speak. "Don't... don't leave."

I want to say I won't. I really do. But I can't. Not when I know my words will be proven empty promises one day.

Yet I cup his face, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and he leans into my touch, his eyes closing.

We sink onto the couch, the chaos of the room forgotten for now. He pulls me into his lap, his arms still around me, and I let him. I let him hold me like I'm his anchor, like I'm the only thing keeping him from falling apart. My fingers trace the lines of his face, the cut on his knuckles, the tension in his jaw.

And for the first time, I realize how much he needs me, too.

............

 

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Notes:

Please guys, let me know what you think about the story. And for sneak peek follow my IG account.
Happy reading. ♡
(And I'm still a little bit sick, no I won't be able to upload everyday.)

Chapter 27: Ch 27: "My boy"

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Guys, come on. Writing one damn chapter takes me more than 4 hours. If you just read silently, no response. Nothing null nada. How do you expect me to find interest in continuing writing. Please, please leave comments. It doesn't cost you anything. Just one comment, please.
Happy reading.
~Corvina Neven

(Chapter 27)

Keal;

The apartment's a fucking disaster, a mirror of the chaos ripping through my head. Shattered glass glints on the floor, the coffee table's flipped like it pissed someone off, and books are strewn like bodies after a brawl. My knuckles throb, still raw from slamming into that motherfucker's face, but it's not the pain that's got me unraveling. It's Ezran. It's the way he looked at me when he walked in-eyes wide, with fear, with something worse.

Like he saw the ugly thing I've been hiding my whole life, the thing I swore I'd never let him see.

I can't lose him.
Not him.
Not when he's the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing me whole.

It's been hours since that prick walked out, his taunting voice still echoing in my skull. "Do it, my boy."

My boy.
My boy.
That nickname?

It used to drag me in like a leash around my fucking neck.
I'd run to him-heart first, brain no-where in sight- just for the chance to feel wanted.

He said it like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
But it was all just noise.
Words he dropped when it suited him.
When his reputation needed it.
And I was real fucking dumb to think I ever mattered for anything more than polishing the shine on his goddamn reputation.

My fists clench just thinking about it, I want to punch something. Maybe wall. Maybe him.
Again and again like earlier.

But Ezran's here, moving through the wreckage like it's just another normal day.

Like he didn't walk in me beating my own fucking father like crazy.

He's picking up glass, stacking books, righting the furniture with this quiet focus that makes my chest ache.

I try to help, but I'm a fucking mess. I grab a vase-some tacky thing I don't even remember buying-and set it on the couch arm. "Maybe it'll look aesthetic," I mutter, half to myself, trying to sound like the cocky bastard I'm supposed to be. trying to lighten the mood. Ezran glances over, one eyebrow raised, and I can tell he's biting back a laugh. He doesn't need to say it-I'm making things worse, like always. He just just picks up the vase and moves it to the shelf where it belongs. Of course he does. He's always fixing my messes, even the ones I don't mean to make.

I pick up a book, try to shove it onto the shelf, but my hands are shaking, and I knock over a picture frame instead. It hits the floor with a crack, and I curse, my voice too loud in the quiet. Ezran's there in a second, scooping it up, his fingers brushing mine as he sets it back. His touch is soft, steady, and it makes my chest ache in a way I can't explain. He doesn't look at me, just keeps cleaning, but I can feel him watching me in that quiet way he has. Like he's trying to figure out what's going on in my head.

I don't want him in there.
Not now.
Not ever.

But I want to grab him, pull him against me, bury myself in him until I forget the blood on my hands, the way her voice sounded when she called me a monster. But I can't. If I touch him now, he'll feel it-the truth, the rot, the thing I've been running from since I was a kid.

By the time the apartment's clean, the sun's sinking, painting the walls in the sun's dipping low, painting the walls orange-red.
Shades of fire.
Like the fire inside me burning me whole.

The place looks almost normal, like I didn't almost tear it apart.
Like I didn't almost let Ezran see the real me.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, forcing a grin that feels like a lie. "Told you I'm a pro at this cleaning shit," I say, my voice sharp, too bright. Ezran snorts, tossing a rag into the sink. "Yeah, a pro at fucking it up," he says, but there's a warmth in his voice that makes my throat tight. He's standing there, in my hoodie, his hair a mess from bending over to pick up my chaos, and I want to pull him into my arms so bad and never let go.
But I don't.
I'm too scared I'll break him.
Or worse, that he'll see I'm already broken.

I'm still replaying his voice in my head, telling me I'm not a monster. Like he believes it. Like he means it.

But what if he changes his mind?

Because inside? Inside I'm a fucking hurricane.

He saw me lose it. He saw me with blood on my hands, ready to kill.
He heard me say it-"I didn't mean to kill him." The words slipped out, raw and jagged, and now they're hanging between us like a uncomfortable third person whom you can't unsee.
He doesn't know the whole story, doesn't know about her, about the afternoon that changed everything, but he saw enough.
Enough to make him wonder.
Enough to make him realize I'm not the guy he thinks I am. I'm not the cocky, confident bastard who fucks him senseless and makes him laugh. I'm a monster, just like she said, a goddamn murderer and the second he figures that out, he'll be gone. I can't let that happen.
I won't.

..........

The next two weeks are hell. I'm walking in eggshells, one wrong move away from falling into the abyss. Every look Ezran gives me, every word, every brush of his hand-it's like he's testing me, waiting for the mask to slip. I'm hyperaware of him, of every fucking thing. The way his lips curve when he smiles, the way his eyes soften when he looks at me, the way his voice sounds when he says my name.
It's all I have, and I'm terrified it's slipping through my fingers.

I try so fucking hard to be what he needs. I don't push him into sex, even when he gives me that look-the one that says he wants me to pin him down, to make him beg. I'm scared he'll think that's all I want, that I'm using him to drown out the voices in my head. So I hold back. I kiss him soft, careful, like he's made of glass. I make sure he eats breakfast, make sure his coffee's ready before he leaves for class, make sure I'm there when he gets home, even if it means I'm pacing the apartment like a caged animal, my mind screaming at me to keep it together. I'm trying to be perfect, to be the guy he deserves, but it's killing me. Every time I touch him, I'm terrified he'll feel the truth-the blood, the guilt, the thing I've been running from my whole life.

He notices.
Of course he does.
Ezran's too fucking smart, too perceptive.

He catches me staring at him when he's studying, my hands twitching like I want to reach out but don't know how. He catches the way I freeze when he asks about my day, like one wrong word will unravel everything. He catches the way I don't tease him as much, don't push him against the wall and kiss him until we're both gasping. I'm trying to keep him safe, to keep him here, but I'm fucking it up. I can feel it.

My head's a battlefield. Every second, I'm fighting the urge to tell him everything-to spill the truth about her, about the afternoon I try to save her and end up being a murderer, about the blood that's still on my hands no matter how many times I scrub them. But I can't. If I tell him, he'll see me for what I am. He'll see the monster, and he'll leave. I'd rather die than see that look in his eyes-the same look she gave me, like I'm something to be feared, something to be hated. So I keep the mask on, keep the grin sharp, keep the jokes coming, even when they feel like fucking acid in my mouth. I'm terrified, every fucking second, that he's going to see through me. That he's going to realize I'm not worth it.

It's a Tuesday, two weeks after the fight, and we're in the kitchen. Ezran's cooking-some pasta thing that smells like it could bring me to my knees-and I'm leaning against the counter, watching him. He's humming, stirring the sauce, and the sight of him-hair messy, sleeves rolled up, so fucking perfect-makes my chest feel like it's caving in.

I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him about the day I fucked up, about the blood, about how my father didn't ask if I was okay. How he thought if his reputation was okay.
But the words are a noose around my neck, tightening every time I open my mouth.

"Keal," he says, his voice cutting through the static in my head. He doesn't look up from the stove, but his tone is soft yet somehow sharp, like he's been holding this in for a while. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" I force a grin, crossing my arms, leaning back like I'm not falling apart inside. My heart's pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Being my charming self, Med-guy?"

He sets the spoon down, turns to face me, and his eyes are like fucking knives, slicing through every layer I've built up. "You know that's not what I mean," he says. "You're looking at me like... like you're hiding something. Like you're hiding yourself. Like you're fucking afraid of me to look at you see something I can't handle. You're being too careful, Keal. Too forced, too... too much everything which you're not."

My breath catches, and for a second, I'm back there, blood on my hands, her voice screaming in my ears, her eyes wide with fear. I shake my head, trying to laugh it off, but it comes out wrong, jagged. "Nah, I'm good, like always. Just keeping things chill."

He steps closer, and I flinch, not because I don't want him near, but because I'm terrified he'll feel the truth under my skin. His hands come up, cupping my face, and his thumbs brush over my cheekbones, soft but firm, like he's anchoring me. "You're not fine," he says. "You've been different since that day. You're holding back. You're not touching me like you used to, not talking like you used to. You're scared, Keal. And I'm not gonna let you keep pretending you're not. You're pushing me away. Please dont," his voice broke. It's trembling even more.

God, it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad to see him thinking I'm pushing him away. He swallows the lump inside him and says again, "I... I don't know what to do without you in my life."

My throat burns. I want to pull away, to run, to hide the ugly thing inside me before he sees it. But I also want to hug him.
Hug him so tight he forgets he saw a glimpse of the monster I am.
Kiss him so stupid that I forget I am a damn monster.

His eyes are steady, fierce, and I can't look away. "You don't know me," I say, my voice raw, breaking. "You don't know what I've done. You saw me that day, Ezran. You saw what I'm capable of. And if you knew the rest-" I stop, my hands gripping the counter behind me, my knuckles white. "You'd leave. You'd fucking leave, and I can't-I can't fucking lose you."

"Then tell me," he says, and it's not a demand. It's a plea, soft and desperate, and it breaks me like someone carved all the oxygen out of my lungs and stabbed thousands of tiny acidic niddles instead of them.

"Tell me, Keal. Whatever it is, I promise I'm not running. You say I saw you that day. You say I saw glimpse of a monster. Then you tell me why I am still here. Why am I felling suffocated because you're not lauging with me. Keal, I did saw you that day. But what I saw was not a monster. He was a small boy. A boy who couldn't grow from whatever happened."

I laugh, but it's bitter, hollow, like glass shattering. "You say that now," I mutter. "You say that, but you don't know. You don't know what I did. You don't know about-" I stop, the words choking me. Her face flashes in my mind, his blood on my hands, her voice calling me a monster.

The word monster echoing inside my head like a death fucking lullaby.

I can't tell him. I can't let him see that part of me. Because if he does, he'll look at me like she did, and I'll break.
I'll fucking end.

He doesn't push. He steps closer, his arms wrapping around me from behind, his chest pressed against my back. His lips brush the back of my shoulder, and I close my eyes, letting his warmth sink into me. "I don't need to know everything," he whispers. "Not now. But I need you to stop acting like you can't let me see you. Like I'll leave. Because I'll not. I'm here, Keal. I'm fucking here."

I turn in his arms, and before I can think, I'm kissing him. It's not soft, not careful-it's desperate, raw, like I'm trying to pour every fucking thing I can't say into it. My lips crash against his, hard and hungry, my teeth grazing his bottom lip, biting just enough to make him gasp. His mouth opens under mine, and I taste him-warm, sweet, like the mint chewing gum he was just chewing and something that's just him. My tongue slides against his, rough and needy, and he moans into my mouth, the sound sending a jolt straight through me. My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, my fingers tangling in those soft strands as I tilt his head to deepen the kiss. His teeth catch my lip, sharp and teasing, and I growl, pressing myself closer, my body flush against his.

He kisses me back just as hard, his hands gripping my chest, finger digging into my skin, pulling me against him like he's afraid I'll disappear. His tongue moves against mine, hot and slick, and it's messy, all teeth and lips and need. I bite his lower lip again, harder this time, tasting the coppery taste of blood and he makes this sound-half moan, half whimper-that makes my blood burn.

I want to devour him, to keep him here, to make him mine so he can never leave. My hands slide down, gripping his hips, and I feel him arch into me, his body trembling under my touch.

When we pull apart, we're both panting, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling.

His lips are swollen, red from my teeth, and his eyes are bright, fierce, like he's seeing right through me.

I want to believe him.
I want to believe he'll stay, that he won't look at me like she did.
But the fear's still there, clawing at my chest, screaming that he'll see the truth and run.

"I can't lose you," I say, my voice barely a whisper, rough with everything I'm holding back. "I can't, Ezran."

"You won't," he says, and his voice is so sure, so fucking steady, that I almost believe it. He pulls me into another kiss, softer this time, but no less desperate. His lips move against mine, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before slipping inside. It's gentle but deep, like he's trying to tell me something, like he's trying to anchor me. My hands cup his face, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and he leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed. I bite his lip again, soft this time, and he hums, his hands tightening on my hips.

We sink onto the couch, the chaos of my head forgotten. He's in my lap, grinding his ass like he has every right to.
Because he fucking does.

His arms around my neck, and I hold him like he's my lifeline.
My lips find his again, and it's all teeth and tongue and heat, my hands sliding under his shirt, tracing the warm skin of his back. He shivers, pressing closer, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine. I want to keep him here, to keep him safe, to keep him mine.

But deep down, I know the truth is still there, waiting. And one day, it's going to come out.

Because it never really goes away.
The past.
The blood.
The word monster carved into my veins by the woman who gave me life and then turned it into a living hell.

He doesn't know yet.
About her.
About the man I killed.
About the reasons I'll never see heaven with him even if I claw my every way through the every fucking layer of hell to try.

But I'll tell him.

One day.

When I'm brave enough.
When I stop fearing the moment he'll look at me like she did.

Until then, I'll keep choosing him.

Every fucking day.

Even if the demons inside me never quit making me relive that day.

............

(Hear out the song.)

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Kudo & Comments)

 

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If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram - @author_neven

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Notes:

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Chapter 28: Ch 28: The reality of dream

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello. And sorry sorry sorry. So sorry, my dear readers. For some work emergency, I didn’t get any time in last few days. So I'm uploading now. Please enjoy.
And leave comments and Kudo.

(Chapter 28)

Keal;

The apartment smells like heaven, or at least what I imagine heaven would smell like.
Ezran's quiet humming.

That's the first thing I register before I even opened my eyes. Not the heat wrapping around me under the blanket, not the faint ache in my lower back from last night's late shift, not even the faint pull of sunlight leaking through the curtains. It's Ezran, fucking humming.

I'm sprawled out on the bed, my body heavy from last night's bullshit. Got back around 3 a.m. then dropped Ezran off at his college around 7 a.m. and then crashed so hard I don't even remember hitting the pillow.
Sleep's been a rare bitch lately, what with the club opening breathing down my neck, but I'm not complaining.
Not when I wake up to this.

Ezran's voice drifts through the apartment, soft and low, weaving through some Bollywood tune playing faintly on the music system. It's not loud enough to be annoying, just enough to tug me out of sleep.
Normally, I'm a grumpy asshole when I don't get my full six hours-fuck eight, who's got time for that?-but his voice? It's like a hook in my chest, dragging me out of bed before I can think better of it, a fucking siren call, pulling me out before my brain can protest.

I roll over, groaning as my muscles scream at me. My knuckles are still sore from last week's bullshit, but I shove that thought down deep where it belongs. No time for that noise.

I drag myself up, barefoot, shirtless, just my boxers clinging to my morning wood. My skin warm from the bed as I pad across the apartment, barefoot, following that humming like it's a fucking hypnotic lullaby. The sunlight's spilling through the windows, painting everything gold, and I find him in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the music, stirring a pan of something that smells goddamn divine.

His back's to me, his hair a mess, wearing one of my old band tees that's too big for him. Fuck, he looks good. Too good. The hem brushing his thighs, showing off those lean legs. His hair's a mess, sticking up like he's been running his hands through it. Like he belongs here, in my space, in my clothes, in my goddamn life. My chest does that stupid clench thing.

I don't say shit, just move in behind him, silent as a ghost. He's too caught up in his song to notice, and I slide my arms around his waist, pulling his back flush against my chest. My lips find his neck, warm and soft, and I kiss him there, slow, letting my teeth graze just enough to make him shiver. "Fuck, Med-guy," I mutter into his neck, my voice rough, slurred with sleep. "I like you better in my clothes."

He stiffens for a second, caught off guard, then relaxes into me, his head tilting to give me better access. "Keal," he says, half-laughing, half-scolding, "you're supposed to be sleeping." His voice is light, but there's a hitch in it when my hand slides under the hem of his shirt-my fingers brushing over the warm skin of his stomach.

"Supposed to, if someone hadn't made me skip my breakfast," I say, nipping at his earlobe. My hand roams higher, tracing the lines of his abs, and I can feel his breath catch. I bite down on his neck, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him squirm. My dick's already hard, pressing against his ass through his those soft shorts, and I know he feels it because he shifts, his hips pressing back just enough to make me growl.

My hand slides higher, finding the hard bud of his nipple, and I roll it between my fingers, slow and deliberate. He gasps, his body arching back against me, and I can feel his ass pressing against my dick even more, my grinding against his jeans, and he shifts, pushing back like he's trying to drive me insane.

Ezran laughs, the sound light but shaky, like he's already losing his grip. "Eating me out first thing in the morning isn't breakfast, you caveman," he says, but his laugh chokes into a moan when I twist his nipple again, harder this time, my other hand sliding down to hover over the bulge in his jeans. I don't touch yet, just let my fingers brush close enough to make him tense, his breath hitching like he's begging without saying a word.

"Says who?" I say, my lips against his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Seemed pretty nutritious to me." My hand finally cups him through his jeans, feeling how fucking hard he is, and he bites his lip, trying to keep quiet, but a small whimper slips out. I grin, grinding my dick against his ass, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every inch of me.

He turns in my arms, probably to tell me to fuck off and shower, but that's his first mistake. I don't give him a chance to talk. I grab his hips, lift him like he's nothing, and set him on the counter, stepping between his legs. His eyes go wide, but before he can say a word, I'm kissing him-rough, lazy, my lips crashing against his like I'm trying to consume him. My tongue pushes into his mouth and he moans, low and needy, his hands gripping my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin like he's anchoring himself.
I kiss him deeper, my tongue sliding against his, hungry, my teeth grazing his bottom lip before I bite down, just enough to make him gasp. His mouth opens wider, and I take advantage, my tongue exploring every inch of him, claiming him. My hands slide up his thighs, squeezing through the denim, then slip under his shirt, pushing it up to expose his chest. I break the kiss, my lips moving down to his jaw, his throat, sucking hard enough to bruise, then lower, nipping at his collarbone before my mouth finds his nipple. I flick my tongue over it, then bite gently, and he arches into me, a choked moan escaping his lips.

"Keal," he pants, his hands in my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. "The food-"

"Can wait," I cut him off, my lips trailing lower, kissing the flat plane of his stomach, my hands working at the button of his jeans. I'm about to pull them down but then the faint smell of burnt spices hits me, sharp and annoying. Ezran pushes harder this time, sliding off the counter and darting to the stove, cursing under his breath as he stirs the pan frantically.

I pout, leaning against the counter, my dick still hard and my mood officially ruined. I groan, throwing my head back in pure betrayal. "Fucking spice, cockblocking piece of shit."

Ezran glares at me over his shoulder, but his lips twitch like he's trying not to laugh. "Go shower, you caveman," he says, pointing a wooden spoon at me like it's a weapon. "You're not touching me again until you're clean."

I smirk, crossing my arms. "You say that like you didn't just dry hump your ass against my dick two seconds ago."

He throws the spoon at me-fucking throws it-and it bounces off my chest, clattering to the floor. I laugh, loud and rough, dodging when he grabs a dish towel and chucks that too. "You're an asshole," he says, but his eyes are bright, and I can see the bulge in his jeans. He's not fooling anyone.

"Fine, fine," I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. "I'm going. But you're gonna regret making me wait, Med-guy." I wink, turning toward the bathroom, making sure to walk slow, letting him get a good look at my ass in these boxers. I know he's watching. I can feel his eyes burning into me.

The shower's quick but hot, the water scalding away the last of my sleep haze. I don't bother drying off properly, just sling a towel around my neck and stroll back into the kitchen, buck naked, my hair dripping wet, droplets running down my chest and abs. Ezran's back at the stove but the second he sees me, he freezes, his eyes raking over me like he's about to jump me right there. I grin, slow and deliberate, flexing my arms, letting my dick swing free as I saunter closer, giving him the full show.

"Keal," he says, his voice a mix of annoyance and something hotter, "put some clothes on."

"Nah," I say, leaning against the counter, letting the towel fall to the floor. "Thought you might want a better look." I turn slightly, showing off my ass, then face him again, letting him see my dick, my abs, the whole fucking package. His jaw tightens, and I can see his jeans straining, his dick hard as hell.

He grabs a spatula this time, hurling it at me with a glare that's more heat than anger. "You're fucking impossible," he mutters, but his voice is shaky with need, and I laugh, dodging the projectile like it's nothing.

"Impossibly charming, I know I know," I say, grabbing a boxer from the couch and stepping into them, slow as fuck, making sure he sees every muscle flex, every inch of skin before it's covered. "And you love this." I pull on a black tee, jeans and my leather jacket.

My hair's still wet, dripping onto my shoulders, and Ezran's glaring at me like I just kicked his puppy.

He stomps over, grabbing a towel from the counter, and before I can say anything, he's pushing me into the couch. "Sit," he says, his voice all commanding, and I raise an eyebrow but obey because, fuck, he's damn cute when he's pissed. He starts drying my hair, rough but careful, his fingers working through the strands, and I can't help but lean into his touch, my eyes half-closing.

"You're gonna catch a cold," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. He tosses the towel aside and digs through the cabinet, muttering something about why do I have to look so damn good even in plain t-shirt and jacket. Which I answer with my smug smirk, "Just born this way, Med-guy."

Then after an eternity of searching mission he pulls out the most god-awful plain grey t-shirt I've ever seen. I don't even remember owning it.

"Wear this."

I blink. "Absolutely not."

He ignores me and shoves it on me anyway.
I pull off the black tee and slipping into the grey one. It hugs my chest and arms like it was made for me, every muscle outlined just enough to make Ezran's eyes narrow. "Better?" I ask, standing up and spreading my arms.

He growls. Pulls the jacket over it. Zips it up from end to start.

I never zip my jackets. That's the style. Fashion. But now? I don't know anymore.

Now I look like I'm being modest for once.

His frown deepens, those cute little lines forming on his forehead, and I can tell he's pissed because I still look too good, even with the jacket zipped.

I can't hold it in anymore. I burst out laughing, the sound loud and rough, and he smacks me on the head, hard enough to sting. "You're such a dick," he says, but he's fighting a smile now, and I grab his wrist, pulling him close.

"You love my dick," I say, winking, and he groans, shoving me away.

"Eat your lunch and get out," he says, pointing at the table where he's set out plates of foods which tastes like heaven but I don't even know the names of. I just eat them 'cause Ezran cooks them.

I sit, still grinning, and we eat, the musics still playing softly in the background. He's across from me, stealing glances when he thinks I'm not looking, and I just... let him.

..........

The club's a fucking zoo, and I'm in my element.

Ombrá Hev's new branch, Nephilim-DarkNeon-NDN Sin for short-is finally coming together after four weeks of delays thanks to some bullshit with the shipments. The opening's the day after tomorrow, and I'm not about to let anything fuck it up.
The place is huge, all sleek black walls and neon accents, the kind of vibe that screams money and sex. The main floor's got a dance area big enough to cover up a small army, VIP booths tucked into the shadows and second floor, and a bar that cost me an actual fortune and now looking ready to serve the devil himself. I'm standing in the middle of it, barking orders at a couple of idiots who can't seem to get the lighting right.

"Yo, dipshit!" I yell at one of the techs, who's fumbling with a spotlight. "You trying to blind people or light the fucking stage? Get it together!" The guy scurries off, muttering apologies, and I shake my head, turning to Damien, who's lounging against the bar like he owns the place.

"Jesus, Keal," he says, tossing a bottle cap at me. "You're wound tighter than a nun's asshole. You need to get laid or, like, see a monk."

I grin, tossing a rag at him. "Got both, asshole. Ezran and tequila. What more do I need?"

Damien catches the rag, laughing. "Yeah, but tequila doesn't fix your control-freak bullshit. Why the fuck are you so obsessed with the lighting? And the menus? And-fuck, are you seriously checking the non-alcoholic drink list? Since when we give a shit about them?"

I flip him off, but he's not wrong. I've been a pain in the ass, micromanaging every detail like my life depends on it.

I'm doing it for Ezran.
I want him here opening night, want him to see what I've built, want him to be proud of me.

Not that I'd ever say that out loud. I've got a reputation to uphold.

"Shut up," I say, checking the sound system levels on a tablet. "I just want it perfect. It's the biggest club we're opening."

Damien raises an eyebrow, leaning closer. "That's true but- wait, wait a fucking second ! Your 're inviting apron-boy, aren't you? Ezran? That's why you're acting like a OCD asshole with a stick up your ass."

I kick his shin, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him yelp. "Fuck off, jerk."

He grins, dodging when I try to kick him again. Then his grin shifted. A smirk tugging at his lips, "Invite his friends too. That way Ezran's not standing around feeling out of place while you're playing big-dick club owner. We both know we'll be busy that night."

I pause, tablet in hand, and narrow my eyes at him. "Oh, I see how it is now. You just want Tanya here, motherfucker. What's got your panties in a twist about her?"

His smirks widen. Something predatory glinting in his eyes, "She's just enjoying the consequences of her act. Just invite them. And plus point Ezran will get a backup."

I roll my eyes, but he's got a point. Ezran's not exactly the club type, and I don't want him feeling like he's just tagging along. "Fine," I say, pulling out my phone to update the guest list. "I'll tell him to bring his crew. But if Tanya breaks a bottle over your head, that's on you."

"Deal," Damien says, smirking like he has already won something. "Now stop stressing about the fucking mocktails and help me with the VIP decorations. You want gold trim or silver?"

"Gold," I say without hesitation. "Classy, not tacky."

I swing at him, but he dodges, laughing, and we fall into our usual rhythm-bantering, shoving, getting shit done. The rest of the evening's a blur of sound checks, performance prep, and yelling at people for being idiots. The techs finally get the lighting right, a mix of deep purples and blues that makes the place feel like a fever dream. The bar's stocked, the menus are printed, and the VIP area looks like it could host royalty. By the time we're done, it's 2 a.m., and I'm running on adrenaline and whiskey.

Damien's doing a final walk-through, checking the sound system one last time, and I'm standing in the middle of the main floor, the dim lights casting shadows across the room.

It's quiet now, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like the calm before a storm.

NDN Sin is my fucking legacy, and it's finally real.

I built this.
Me.
Alone.
Fully on me. Not while pushing someone towards death.
I built something worth a damn.

I glance around, my eyes catching on the neon sign above the bar-NDN Sin in glowing red letters.

My chest tightens, I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible in the empty room, "Just don't fuck this up, Keal."

Damien calls from across the room, "You talking to yourself again, psycho?"

I laugh, flipping him off. "Fuck you, asshole. Let's get out of here."

We lock up, the night air cool against my skin as we step outside. The city's alive, even at this hour, and I feel it in my bones-the pulse of it, the energy.

This is my world, and I'm ready to own it.
For me.
For the kid I used to be, who thought he'd never be anything but a monster.

And somewhere in between... For Ezran.

...........

 

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Kudo & Comments)

 

--------

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram - @author_neven

Link:
https://www.instagram.com/author_neven?igsh=MXZkNXdrd2ozOGlsdg==

.........

Notes:

Even after my boss's asshole behaviour, here I'm writing. Come on, if I can make 5 hours to write a chapter, can't you make 2 minutes for a comment, please?
Please leave a comment.
And new readers,leave Kudos. ♡

Chapter 29: Ch 29: Not for him...?

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello, hello hello. I don't know what to say. So just enjoy reading.
And please, pretty please leave comments and new readers, leave Kudo.♡
🥺🥺🥺

(Chapter 29)

Ezran;

The apartment hums with a quiet tension as I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the maroon button-up shirt I've picked out. It's snug, outlining my shoulders and chest in a way that feels almost too intentional... sultry.
It's tighter than I'd usually go for, clinging to my shoulders and chest in a way that feels deliberate, purposeful.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame the mess, but it's no use-it's got that just-rolled-out-of-bed look Keal seems to like.

My cheeks flush at the thought. I'm not doing this for him, I tell myself, even as I glance at my reflection, the dark jeans clinging to my legs just right, the shirt's top button undone to show a hint of collarbone. I even wore cologne. A light one. Subtle. Clean. Just in case he leaned in close.

God, I hate myself.

It's not for him- I tell myself but that little idiotic voice inside me taunts me- Entirely for him.

I didn't want to go.

Really.

Not because I didn't care. I did-more than I ever knew was possible -but clubs weren't my thing. I wasn't wired for strobe lights, bass drops, and people grinding on each other like they were allergic to personal space.
I wasn't the let's fuck up our dignity before midnight kind. That was Rehan's department. Or Matthew's. And definitely Tanya's.

But that quiet hope in Keal's eyes when he left this afternoon-his voice casual, almost too casual, saying, "Come by the club tonight, Med-guy. Late evening. Bring your crew"-it's stuck with me. It wasn't a command, wasn't even a plea, just a look that sank into my chest and pulled.

So here I am, getting ready to step into his world, a place I don't belong, all because I can't say no to that look.

Rehan, Matthew, and Tanya are already buzzing with excitement when I meet them outside my apartment. They're dressed to kill-Rehan in a sleek leather jacket, Matt in a loud silk shirt that screams party, and T in a black backless dress that's practically painted on, her heels sharp enough to draw blood. They're made for nights like this, thriving in neon and chaos, while I'm just... well, me. The med student who'd rather be buried in textbooks than drowning in a sea of strangers. But they drag me along, their laughter infectious, and I let the knot in my chest loosen.

"Ez, you look fuckable," T says, looping her arm through mine as we head to the club, her eyes glinting with mischief. "You trying to seduce your flat-mate, straight boy?"

"Shut up," I mutter, my face burning, but she just cackles, loud and unapologetic.

Nephilim-DarkNeon, NDN Sin is a beast. From the outside, it's all sleek black lines and pulsing red neon, like the heartbeat of something alive and dangerous. The line snakes around the block, but maybe Keal has already told them and they just let us in without even checking our IDs.

Inside, it's pure excess-money dripping from every surface. The air thrums with bass and expensive cologne and alcohol, the lights a dizzying swirl of purples and blues that make the place feel like a fever dream. The bar is like if devil had a sugar daddy and no money limit, the dance floor heaves with bodies, and the VIP booths lurk in the shadows.

This is Keal's world, and it's fucking stunning.

I'm barely through the door when I feel him. Keal's presence hits like a physical force, a magnet drawing me in. He's across the room, barking orders at a tech, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
He looks like he owns every inch of this place-because he does-and my stomach flips, heat curling low in my belly. Then his eyes lock on mine, and the club fades to nothing. His grin is sharp, too happy, and before I can brace myself, he's striding over, long legs eating up the distance.

"Med-guy," he says as if he was waiting for me, voice low and rough muttering something about needing me to be somewhere and then he's on me, grabbing my wrist and yanking me into a shadowed corner near the bar.

My friends' laughter vanishes as he backs me against the wall, his body crowding mine, all heat and hard muscle. His hands cup my jaw, rough and possessive, and then his lips crashes against mine-hard, desperate, like he's been starving for it. His lips crash into mine, bruising, his tongue shoving past my teeth, claiming my mouth with deep, hungry strokes. I gasp, my hands fisting his jacket, and he angles my head back, his teeth scraping my lower lip before biting down, just hard enough to sting. His tongue dives deeper, tangling with mine, tasting of whiskey and need, and I'm drowning in it, my body arching into his as he sucks on my tongue, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

He breaks the kiss only to attack my neck, his lips hot and wet, sucking hard enough to pull a moan from me. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear, then bite, marking me with a sharp sting that sends heat straight to my cock. "Fuck, you look so fucking good," he murmurs against my skin, his voice a gravelly rasp that vibrates through me. His hands slide down my sides, fingers digging into my hips, and he presses himself closer, his hard-on grinding against my thigh through his jeans. I can feel every inch of him, thick and insistent, and my breath hitches as he sucks another bruise into my neck, his tongue soothing the sting before he bites again.

"Keal," I gasp, my voice shaky, my face flushed as I try to keep up. "People are-"

"No one's looking," he says, smirking against my skin, and then he's kissing me again, slower but no less intense, his tongue sliding against mine in a lazy, filthy rhythm that makes my knees weak. His hand slips under my shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of my stomach, and I shiver, my cock twitching in my jeans. "Go enjoy the party," he murmured in my ear, eyes dark. Then he's gone, pulling back with a wicked grin, leaving me panting and hard against the wall.

I stumble back to my friends, my neck throbbing with his marks, my lips swollen and tingling. Tanya's at the bar, a shot of vodka in her hand, her eyes bright with the night's energy. Rehan and Matt are on the dance floor, already lost in the music, their bodies moving like they own the place. I slide onto a stool next to Tanya, ordering a mocktail-something sweet and non-alcoholic to keep me grounded.

"Oh-hoo, bitch," Tanya says, eyeing the dark bruises on my neck with a grin. "Do I even need to ask?"

I groan, hiding my face in my hands, but she laughs, downing her shot and signaling for another. The music pounds, the lights pulse, and I let myself relax, sipping my drink, watching the crowd. Then I feel it-a shift in the air, like a predator stalking towards it's prey.

I don't see him at first, but Tanya does. Her body goes rigid, her shoulders tensing, her fingers tightening around her glass.

Damien saunters over, all slow, deliberate steps, his smirk easy yet dangerous. He's in a black shirt, unbuttoned to show the ink snaking across his chest, his eyes locked on Tanya like she's prey. He leans in close, too close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispers, "You're supposed to be tempting me, Principessa, not the crowd." His voice is a low, dark purr, dripping with intent. "You're really making it hard not to fuck that gorgeous body of yours till you're a whimpering, begging little whore for me."

Tanya's breath catches, her thighs pressing together, her knuckles white around her glass. Her eyes flicker with a storm of emotions-lust, anger, maybe also fear-and I can't tell if she's about to slap him or ride him. She doesn't say anything, just stares, her chest heaving.

I don't like it. Damien's too intense, too predatory, and Tanya looks caught, like she's uncomfortable. I straightened. "Hey. Damien, maybe, um... you should-"

He turns that smirk on me, all cocky confidence, like I'm no threat at all. "Relax, Ezran," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "Keal's looking for you," he says easily, like we're discussing lunch plans. "Something about you looking too untouched tonight."

I glance at Tanya, but she's still staring at Damien, her expression terrified. "I'm serious," I say, my voice shaky yet sharp. "Leave her alone."

Damien chuckles, low and dark, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, Apron-boy. Go find your man."

I don't trust him. I chew my lip and finally decide to just find Keal and ask him to tell Damien to stop whatever the hell that was.

He told me he'd be busy tonight, tangled with the chao of the opening, but I head off anyway, weaving through the crowd, my eyes scanning for him. The club is a maze of bodies and lights, and Keal's nowhere to be found. I check the bar, the VIP area, even the back rooms where the staff are bustling, but he's gone, probably buried in some last-minute crisis.

Frustrated, I head back to the bar, hoping Tanya's okay.

She's not there. Neither is Damien.

My stomach twists, a cold knot of worry settling in. What if Damien's pushing her too far? What if she's not okay? I start searching, my heart pounding as I weave through the crowd, checking every corner, every shadow. The music is too loud, the lights too disorienting, and my worry grows with every step. Finally, I find them in a dark alcove near the back, hidden from the main floor.

Damien has Tanya pinned against the wall, his hand wrapped around her throat-not choking, but firm, controlling. His mouth is on her collarbone, sucking hard, leaving a trail of red marks.
His other hand- God. It's under her dress, fingers moving between her thighs, and she's trembling, her head tilted back, eyes half-closed. She cries out, a desperate, "Pl-Please, Damien," her voice raw and needy.

I freeze, is she begging him to stop or...
Is he forcing her?

My heart hammering, ready to step in, to pull him off her. But then I hear his voice, low and commanding, "Please what, Principessa? Tell me what you need."

"Let me...," she begs, her voice breaking, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. "Let me cum, please."

He growls, his fingers working faster, and I can hear the wet sound of them moving inside her, her gasps turning to moans. Her hips buck against his hand, her dress rucked up to her waist, and I catch a glimpse of his fingers pumping in and out, slick with her arousal.

My brain blue-screens.

Oh.

...OH.

She's not being forced. She's very much into it.

My face burns, and I back away, mortified. I stumble away in embarrassment, ears on fire. I get back to the bar, my mocktail still there, and I down half of it, trying to erase the image of Tanya's flushed face and Damien's hand between her legs.

I'm happy for her, I guess, but I didn't need to see that.

I'm still shaking my head when a woman slides onto the stool next to me. She's all curves and confidence, her dress barely covering anything, her eyes raking over me like I'm dessert. "Hii," she purrs, leaning in, her nails trailing over my chest, scraping lightly through my shirt. "You look lonely."

"I'm not," I say, keeping my voice polite but firm, shifting away. "I'm here with someone."

She doesn't listen. Her hand slides lower, her body pressing against mine, her ass grinding against my thigh in a slow, deliberate roll. "Come on, don't be shy," she says, her nails digging into my arm, her breath hot against my ear. I try to ease her off, not wanting to cause a scene, but she's relentless, her hand brushing dangerously close to my crotch.

Then she's gone, yanked back so fast she nearly falls. Keal's there, his hand on her arm, his eyes blazing with a fury that stops my heart. His forehead veins are bulging, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch, his knuckles white where he's gripping her. "Back the fuck off," his voice a low, dangerous growl that echoes through the bar. The woman stumbles, her confidence crumbling under the weight of his rage, and she mutters something before scrambling away.

Keal turns to me, his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me against him so hard it knocks the breath out of me. His fingers dig into my hip, possessive, dominant, his body radiating heat and barely contained anger. "You seem to enjoy someone else's touch pretty good," he says, low enough to make me forget how to breathe.

"Keal," I start, my voice shaky, but he cuts me off, his grip tightening as he drags me through the crowd, out of the main hall, his knuckle white on his fist, his jaw still clenched like he's holding back a storm. I want to say something, to ease the tension, but the air is too thick, too charged with whatever's burning inside him.

We reach a VIP cabin, and the second the door slams shut, he's on me, pinning me against the wall with a force that makes my breath catch. His body presses against mine, all hard muscle and searing heat, his hands gripping my hips so hard I know I'll bruise. His eyes are dark, almost black, burning with a primal need that makes my cock twitch despite the fear curling in my gut. "You're mine," he growls again, his voice low and rough, like he's staking a claim he needs me to feel in my bones. His lips hover over mine, close enough to taste his breath, hot and sharp with whiskey. His thigh presses between my legs, grinding against my hardening cock, and I whimper, my hands clutching his jacket as he leans in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm going to remind you who you belong to, Med-guy. Going to fuck you till you can't think of anyone elsemm
."

............

 

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Chapter 30: Ch 30: The ownership lesson

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Soooo, I've been wanting to write this chapter from so long. And finally we're here.
And I guess, maybe, you guys also wanted this chapter, so I really hope it meets your expectations.🤞

Anyways, Happy reading.
Please let me know if you like the chapter and which part you liked the most.
New ones, Please leave a Kudo.
Love y'all.♡

(Chapter 30)

Ezran;

Keal's mouth crashes onto mine before I could speak, a brutal, punishing kiss that steals my breath. His lips are rough, bruising, his tongue forcing past my teeth, thrusting deep into my mouth with hungry, relentless strokes. I gasp, my head spinning, but he doesn't let up, his tongue tangling with mine, tasting of whiskey and raw, animalistic want. His teeth scrape my lower lip, biting hard enough to draw a coppery tang of blood, and I moan, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he sucks on my tongue, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. My cock aches, leaking into my boxers, and I'm drowning in him, my body arching against his as he grips my throat- not choking, but holding me still, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse.

I can't breathe, can't think, my lungs burn but I don't complain. He breaks the kiss to attack my neck, his lips hot and wet, sucking hard enough to pull a desperate moan from me. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear, then bite, sharp and deliberate, the stinging pain sending a jolt of heat straight to my cock. "Keal," I gasp, voice trembling, my hands pushing at his chest-not to resist, but to slow him, to explain. "I didn't-, I wasn't-"

"Shut the fuck up," he growls, his voice dripping with anger, and he grabs my wrists, slamming them above my head with one hand, pinning them against the wall. His other hand rips at my button-up, buttons flying as he tears it open, the fabric hitting the floor in a crumpled heap. My chest is bare, nipples hardening in the cool air, and he doesn't hesitate, his fingers finding one and pinching it hard. I cry out, the pain sharp and electric, my cock twitching as he twists, bruising the tender bud until it's red and swollen. Then his mouth is on it, hot and wet, sucking hard, his tongue swirling over the abused flesh, soothing the sting as I moan, my head falling back, my body trembling.

"Keal, please," I whimper, still trying to explain, but he's not listening, his eyes dark with rage and lust. His mouth crashes against mine again, harder, more punishing, his teeth biting my lip until it stings, his tongue thrusting deep, fucking my mouth with a rhythm that makes my knees weak. I'm helpless, my body shaking as he wraps my legs around his waist, lifting me like I'm nothing. He carries me to the massive bed in the center of the cabin, tossing me onto the soft mattress. I bounce, my breath hitching, my cock straining against my jeans as I look up at him.

Keal stands at the foot of the bed, his leather jacket long gone, his black shirt unbuttoned to reveal the hard planes of his chest. He sinks into the plush couch across from me, his eyes locked on mine, dark and predatory. His hands move to his belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate movements, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft, menacing thud. My throat dries as he unzips his jeans, pulling out his cock-thick, veined. His cock rock-hard, the veins jumping in anger, the tip glistening with precum. He strokes it lazily, his thumb circling the swollen head, smearing the slickness, his eyes never leaving mine. "Strip," he orders, voice low and commanding, dripping with dominance.

"Keal, I didn't- that woman wasn't-" I stammer, voice shaky, trying to explain the bar incident, but his eyes narrow, his hand stilling on his cock, the veins in his forearm bulging.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Ezran," he says, voice dangerously calm, a predator toying with prey. "Strip. Now."

My hands tremble as I fumble with my jeans, my cock throbbing, leaking a wet spot into my boxers as I shove them down, kicking them off along with my shoes. I'm naked, skin flushed, cock hard and dripping, curving up toward my stomach.

I never have been this hard. I didn't know I like Keal being rough this much.

Keal's gaze rakes over me, hungry and unyielding, his hand stroking his cock faster, the slick sound filling the room. "Touch yourself," he doesn't raise his voice, it's calm and calculating. "Loosen that tight little hole for me. Show me how much you want my cock."

I freeze, face burning. "Keal, ...I've never-fuck, you always-" I choke out, voice breaking. He's always prepped me, his fingers gentle and thorough, easing me open with care before fucking me senseless. I've never done it myself, never had to face this vulnerability alone.

He raises an eyebrow, his hand still stroking his cock, slow and deliberate, the head flushed and leaking and now purple as if it's also mad. "Drawer," he says, nodding toward the nightstand. "Lube. Use it. Don't make me wait."

I crawl across the bed, my cock bouncing, precum dripping onto the sheets as I pull open the drawer and grab the bottle of lube. My hands shake as I look at him as if for permission and pour the slick liquid onto my fingers, the coldness making me shiver.

"On your four. Ass up, face down," he says in lazy ease.

I settle back on the bed, legs spread wide, face burning with embarrassment and arousal as Keal watches, his hand moving lazily over his cock, he's breathing heavy.

"Go on," he says, voice thick with lust. "Fuck yourself for me. Show me that pretty hole."

I whimper, my fingers trembling as I reach down, circling my hole with slick fingertips. I push one finger inside, gasping at the stretch, the lube easing the way but the intrusion still burning. My cock twitches, leaking onto the bed soaking the sheets as I work the finger deeper, my hips rocking instinctively. Keal's eyes are locked on me, his hand stroking faster, his cock glistening as he growls, "That's it, Med-guy. Fuck, look at you. Add more two."

I obey, pushing in the second finger and then the third, the stretch sharper now, a low moan spilling from my lips as I fuck myself, the slick sound of my fingers moving in and out filling the room. My cock throbs, aching to be touched, but Keal's voice cuts through the haze. "Don't touch anywhere I didn't allowed," he says, eyes blazing. "Pinch that pretty nipple for me. Hard."

I whimper, my free hand shaking as I pinch my nipple, the pain sharp and electric, mixing with the pleasure as I fuck myself with three fingers now, my hole stretching wide, slick with lube. I'm moaning, crying out, my body trembling as I chase the edge, my cock leaking a steady stream of precum. "Keal," I gasp, voice raw, "I'm-fuck, I'm close-"

"Stop," he growls, and I freeze, fingers buried deep, chest heaving, my hole clenching around them.

He stands with his jeans slung low on his hips, cock thick and flushed, jutting out like he owns the fucking world-and maybe he does. Then he sinks back down like a king on his throne, legs spread, arrogance dripping off him.
"Come here."

I pull my fingers out with a shaky gasp, slick coating them, my thighs trembling. I try to rise to my feet, but his voice cuts through the air.

"Not like that," he murmurs, eyes dark and fixed on me. "Crawl to me."

My body locks. Blood rushes to my face. Shame. Lust. Humiliation. It crashes into me like a fucking freight train. My knees hit the floor with a soft thud. I crawl-slow, deliberate, each movement dragging me deeper into submission. The air feels heavier.

Still, I keep my eyes on him, even when everything inside me screams to look away.

He watches me like I'm the best show he ever paid for.

I should be scared of him... so why the fuck I'm begging for more?

By the time I reach him, his cock is right in front of my face-veined, dripping, hard enough to ache. My mouth waters and my throat feels bone dry.

I lift my head-just to taste-but he grips my chin with two fingers, forcing my head up like I'm some pathetic thing. His eyes burn down into me. Tilts my head up, forcing my gaze to stay locked with his.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Dripping, wide open, needy... crawling for my cock."

I shudder. My knees ache. My mouth's dry and I hate how much I love this.
I'm still on my knees, slick and exposed, hole still stretched and glistening.

He leans in, voice rough now-dark and absolute.

"Take a seat."

And I know exactly what he means.

My hole clenches.

He wants me to ride his cock.

Wants me to sink down, stretched and dripping, while he watches every inch disappear inside me.

"Keal, I-, I can't-" I panic, my voice breaking, but his eyes narrow, and I swallow my protest. My body trembling with fear and arousal, my cock dripping as I straddle his lap on the couch. His hands grip my hips, guiding me, and I feel the blunt head of his cock press against my hole, thick and unyielding. I cry out, the stretch too much, too soon, too painful. Too fucking good. But Keal doesn't let me pull away. "Sit," he orders, voice rough, and I lower myself, gasping as his cock breaches me, the burn intense as he stretches me open, inch by thick inch.

"Aahh, Keal!" I scream, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fills me, his cock so deep it feels like he's splitting me open. My hole clenches around him, the stretch burning, but the pleasure is overwhelming, my cock leaking onto his stomach. "It's too deep-fuck, too much, I... oh god. I can't-"

"Your hole's worshipping me. Me. Calling out for God won't help," he growls, hands forcing my hip down until he's buried to the hilt, my hole stretched tight around his thick shaft. I'm trembling, tears pricking my eyes, but he grips my hips, guiding me as I slowly start to move, riding him slowly at first, then faster, my moans turning to cries as his cock hits a spot inside me with every thrust, sending sparks through my body. "That's it," he says, voice thick with arousal. "Ride my cock, Med-guy. Show me you're mine."

I'm screaming now, voice raw, body shaking as I ride him, his cock splitting me open, hitting so deep it hurts, but the pleasure is unbearable. His mouth finds my nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before biting down, the pain making me scream louder. My cock throbs, aching to cum, but Keal's hand wraps around the base, his thumb pressing against the slit, denying me. "Not yet," he growls, and before I can beg, he flips me onto the couch, face down, ass up, my cheek pressed into the cushions.

He doesn't give me a second to breathe, his cock slamming back into me, hard and relentless, the wet slap of his hips against my ass echoing in the room. I scream, voice muffled, body trembling as he fucks me from behind, his cock driving deeper with every brutal thrust. His teeth find my shoulder, biting hard enough to bruise, his hands gripping my hips as he pounds into me, his balls slapping against my skin. "Fuck, you're so tight," he growls, voice raw with need. "So fucking perfect for my cock."

I'm crying now, tears streaming down my face, my body overwhelmed by the mix of pain and pleasure. "Keal, please," I beg, voice breaking, "slow down, it's too much, I can't-fuck, no, more, please more- I don't know-" I'm incoherent, my cock throbbing, my hole clenching around him as he fucks me harder, his teeth marking my back, my neck, leaving bruises everywhere he can reach.

"Cum for me," he orders, voice a command I can't resist, and I do, my cock pulsing as I spill onto the couch, my vision whiting out as the orgasm tears through me, my hole clenching tight around his cock. But Keal doesn't stop, his thrusts relentless, his cock driving into me even as I tremble, oversensitive and spent. "I'm not done," he growls, and I whimper, body shaking as he keeps going, his pace brutal, his cock splitting me open with every thrust.

When I cum again, my body convulsing, Keal groans, his cock pulsing as he spills deep inside me, his cum hot and thick, filling me until it's dripping out around his shaft.

"Greedy little hole. I could breed you empty and you'd still beg for more," he whispered against my shoulder before biting it hard enough to make me cry out a whimper.

Yet he stays buried for a moment, breath ragged, then pulls out, and I feel his cum leak from my used hole, slick and warm, dripping down my thighs. I whimper, too exhausted to move, but Keal's fingers are there, pushing it back inside, his touch possessive, fucking his cum back into me with two thick fingers. "Mine," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, and I shiver, my hole clenching around his fingers.

Then he pulls his fingers out, slick with his own release and my embarrassing want, and shoves them into his mouth-eyes locked on mine as he sucks them clean with a slow, filthy drag of his tongue. I swear, nothing has ever looked more sinful.

He leans close, lips brushing my ear. "You don't get to rest so soon, Med-guy," he whispers, and I mumble a weak protest, too tired to form words, but he scoops me up, carrying me to the bathroom.

The shower is running, hot water steaming up the room, and he presses me against the tiled wall, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. Water cascades over us, soaking my skin, and he's on me again, his cock hard and ready, pressing against my thigh as he kisses me, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, claiming me with the same hunger as before.

"Keal," I whimper, voice barely audible, but he lifts my leg, hooking it over his hip, and pushes into me, slow but deep, the stretch easier now but still overwhelming, my hole slick with his cum and lube. I moan, hands clutching his shoulders as he fucks me against the wall, the water slicking our skin, his cock sliding in and out with wet, obscene sounds. "Fuck, you take me so well," he growls, lips against my throat, teeth grazing the bruises he's left, his hips snapping harder, his cock hitting my prostate with every thrust. I'm moaning, my cock hardening again despite the exhaustion, and he strokes me in time with his thrusts, his hand rough and relentless. I cum again, my body shaking, cries echoing in the steam-filled room, and he follows, his cum mixing with the water, filling me again.

But he's still not done. He carries me to the counter, setting me on the edge, the mirror in front of me reflecting our bodies-my flushed, marked skin, his inked chest, his cock still hard, glistening with cum and lube. My face burns. Shame, lust, humiliation, embarrassment crashes into me altogether like a fucking freight train. But soon it vanishes when his voice cuts through, "Eyes on the mirror, Look how beautifully I ruin you for anyone else," his voice rough as he pushes my legs apart, guiding his cock back to my hole. "See how fucking good your hole swallows my cock like the perfect needy cock hungry whore you are." I moan, head falling back as he fucks me again, slow and deep, making me watch in the mirror as his thick shaft slides in and out, my hole stretched wide, red and slick, cum dripping down my thighs. "Look at you taking my cock like a good boy," he growls, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wider. "You're fucking made for me. This hole belongs to me. You fucking belong to me."

I shut my eyes as pleasure shot through me, raw and overwhelming. Every thrust hit that spot deep inside, over and over again, dragging broken moans out of me like confessions I didn’t want to make.
I could feel every inch of him—thick, hard, punishing— fucking me like he owned every part of me.

His hand suddenly wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, not choking, but firm enough to jolt me back. Possessive. Controlling.

My eyes flew open in shock, body still jerking with each ruthless snap of his hips. My mouth parted, breath stuttering, but before I could say anything, I felt his lips near my ear.

His voice came out low, dark, edged with something dangerous.

"No closing your eyes."

He bit down on my ear—hard enough to sting, to make me whimper and clench around him.

"No looking down either. Watch— every fucking expression you make when my cock’s rearranging inside you."

I swallowed hard, my head pressed back against his shoulder as I obeyed. I looked at the mirror.
At us.
Him behind me. I'm spread apart.

I watched.
Watched as I pathetically whimper.
Beg like a slut.

My eyes locked with his in the mirror. He held it in quiet domination.
His thrusts grew harder. Rougher. Too pleasurable to bear.

My face was flushed, eyes glossy, mouth open like a starving person begging for more. And he was loving every second of it—watching me crumble for him, watching me unravel on his cock like I was made for it.

I'm screaming, voice raw, body shaking as he fucks me harder, his cock splitting me open, his hand stroking my cock until I cum again, my vision blurring, my body giving out. I pass out, the pleasure too much, my hole clenching around him as he groans, spilling his hot heavy load inside me one last time.

............

When I come to sense, I'm in bed, the sheets soft against my aching body. Keal's beside me, his touch gentle now, a warm cloth wiping the cum and lube from my skin. He's careful, cleaning between my thighs, his fingers soft as they brush my swollen hole, soothing the soreness. He wipes my chest, my stomach, his lips brushing my forehead, my temple, soft and reverent. "You okay, Med-guy?" he murmurs, voice low, the anger gone, replaced with something tender.

I nod, too tired to speak, my body heavy and sated. He pulls me against his chest, arms wrapping around me, his heartbeat steady under my cheek. "Never let anyone else touch what's mine," he says, soft now yet a command, and I drift off, safe in his arms, knowing he has got me.

............

 

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave comments & Kudo)

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Notes:

Hello, hello, people. Alive? Cause duh, I'm half dead. I hate work (T T). And btw, are you guys not liking Damien and Tanya dynamic? Should I, maybe, tone it down?

And also, wanted to request, please leave a comment and let me know how you're liking (or disliking) the story progress.
Happy reading.
Love you all. ;)

Chapter 31: Ch 31: Glimpse of past

Summary:

Not gonna say, sorry. I feel like this summary thing just ruins the thrill of the chapter. So read and find out. ♡

Unpopular opinion: I hate this chapter summary thing. Such a spoiler.

~ Your author
Corvina Neven♡

Notes:

Hello, readers!
Disappeared for a few days ‘cause I decided to audition for a stunt movie… without being in one.
Well, got in an accident. Landed myself in the hospital. Don’t worry, I survived (the hospital food too). Now I’m on bed rest, basically living my best potato life. So yeah, all good.

(Chapter 31)

Ezran;

My back arches with a cry-sharp, hoarse. My body jerking hard against the soft sheets of the bed. I'm sprawled face-down, legs spread wide, my cock pressed into the mattress, already rock-hard and leaking.

"K-Keal-!"

My voice cracks as heat floods me from below. My eyes snap open, muscles stiff, body aching in the most delicious ways. There's something hot and wet between my cheeks, something sinful and relentless and so fucking good that I whimper, fisting the sheets.

His mouth is on me, his lips and tongue working my hole in ways that makes my whole body shake. Keal's strong hands grip my thighs, holding them apart, his fingers digging into my bruised skin. His lips are hot and wet, kissing the sensitive rim of my hole, sucking gently before his tongue flicks out, teasing the tight, puckered edge. I gasp, voice scratchy from screaming last night, and moan, "Ahh, I'm... Keal n-no," as his tongue pushes inside, slow and deep, licking every inch of my stretched, tender hole.
His tongue is buried deep in my ass, licking slow, filthy circles around my hole, the same hole he fucked senseless last night.

I'm sore.
So goddamn sore.

But that doesn't stop him. He's got my legs pushed apart, my hips tilted up on a pillow, spreading me wide as he feasts like a starved man.

His lips press harder, sealing around my rim, sucking with a wet, sloppy sound that fills the room. His tongue thrusts in, curling and twisting, lapping at the slick mess of his own spit. My hole clenches around his tongue, sore but so fucking sensitive, and I whimper, my hips bucking, grinding my cock into the sheets. "Keal, -too much," I choke out, my hands clawing at the sheets, but he growls, the vibration buzzing through my ass, making me cry out louder. His tongue fucks me deeper, sliding in and out, wet and hot, while his lips nibble at my cheek, tugging gently before he sucks hard again, pulling a desperate moan from me. His teeth graze the edge, a sharp little nip that stings, and I yelp, my cock throbbing, leaking a sticky trail onto the mattress. He keeps going, his tongue plunging deep, licking every inch of my insides, tasting me like he's starving, and I'm shaking, moaning, my ass twitching under his mouth.

"F-Fuck," I sob, the sound embarrassingly desperate. Every stroke of his tongue sends aftershocks of last night's brutal fuck rippling through me again and again. He moans against me like he's savoring dessert, his tongue curling, diving in deeper, nose pressed flush against my ass like he belongs there.

He spits, licks it back in. Sloppy, nasty, obscene sounds fill the room-wet slurps, my breathless moans, his low growls vibrating into my skin. My cock's half-hard again, twitching helplessly against the sheets, even though I swear I should be dry.

He pulls back with a lewd pop, kisses my overstimulated hole once-soft, tender, mockingly gentle-then nips it. My body jerks.

I'm so close, my cock pulsing, but he pulls back right before I can cum, leaving my hole slick and empty, quivering with need.

"Good morning, Med-guy," he murmurs, voice low and smug, his lips shiny with spit and my juices as he wipes his mouth with his hand. He's shirtless, the tattoo on his chest sweaty, dark hair messy, and he's giving me that fake-innocent look, like he didn't just eat my ass like it was breakfast or fuck me like an animal last night.

I make a sound. And it's not human.

..........

Twenty minutes later, I'm glaring at him over my cup of coffee, still naked under one of his oversized shirts because, well, I can't fucking wear pants. Or sit properly.

My legs are draped awkwardly across his lap while he feeds me slices of toast smeared with Nutella. As if he didn't just eat me alive.

"You're staring," he says, lips quirking.

"You fucking took my life."

He shrugs, utterly nonchalant. "You moaned my name like I gave you life."

"I was unconscious." I snap, my voice rough for screaming whole night, but I'm still hard, my hole wet from his tongue, and I'm a total mess. I want to be mad, but my body's betraying me, craving him all over again.

"You were drooling on the pillow and thrusting your ass in my face but sure. Go with unconscious."

I groan.

Jerk.
Asshole.
Dickhead.

He grins, all smug and charming, as if he can hear me cursing him at mind and points to the tray of breakfast on the table-pancakes, bacon, eggs, coffee. "Eat up," he says, standing and stretching, his low jeans showing off the hard lines of his hips, that V of muscle making my mouth go dry. "You need your energy back after I fucked you last night."

I try to move, but my legs are shaky, my ass screaming in pain. I shoot him a harder glare, but he just laughs, picking me up like I'm nothing. He sits me in his lap, gentle now, but I wince, my sore ass hating the pressure against his thighs. "Keal," I grumble, but he shushes me, tearing a piece of pancake dripping with syrup.

"Open your mouth," he says, holding it to my lips, and I roll my eyes but do it, letting him feed me. The sweet taste hits my tongue, and I'm starving, my body worn out from last night. He feeds me slowly, one hand on my thigh, his touch soft but still claiming me, and I relax against him, his warmth calming me down.

We eat quietly, just the sound of the fork and my small winces when I shift wrong. His hand stays on me, stroking my leg, like he's reminding me I'm his.

When we're done, he pushes the tray away and helps me into one of his spare shirts-a black button-up he keeps at the club. It's too big, hanging off my shoulders, but it smells like him, all leather and whiskey, and I like it more than I'll admit. I pull on my jeans, the rough fabric against my bruised skin making me curse in 7 different languages.

"I'm going back home," I say, voice still rough, hobbling toward the door. Keal stays behind, muttering about checking last night's club accounts on his phone, already distracted.

I step out into the main hall of NDN Sin. My eyes scan the main floor and it's a disaster.

People are passed out everywhere-on couches, on the floor, someone's using a feather carpet as a blanket.

I'm heading for the exit when I spot Tanya, rushing out the door like she's running from something bad.
Her black dress is wrinkled, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes wide and scared.

I don't call out.
I can't.
My face burns remembering what I saw last night. Her pressed against the wall, Damien's hand between her legs. Her moaning. Begging.

My stomach twists.

And speaking of nightmares...

Damien.

He's leaning against the bar, looking pissed but still stupidly hot.

One thing no one can deny, he is indeed handsome.
More than handsome.

He is in his wrinkled black shirt, unbuttoned to show his chest tattoos. His hair's messy, sticking up like he's been yanking at it, but he's got that dangerous vibe, like he owns the room.

He stops when he sees me, his eyes narrowing, then shifting to that fake, charming smile. "Well, look who's still here, Apron-boy," he says, voice smooth but sharp. "Thought you'd be long gone by now."

My face gets hot, my ass still sore, my walk probably weird. "Um... uh- I-I was with Keal," I mumble, looking at the floor, my cheeks burning as I think about how Keal fucked me raw last night, how I screamed his name.

Damien's smirk grows, all knowing and teasing. "That explains why you're walking like you got something stick up your ass," he says, voice full of amusement.

I choke on air. My face explodes in red, muttering, "Shut up," but I'm thinking about him and Tanya in that dark corner, her moans echoing in my head. He just pushes off the bar and walks out, his steps quick and sure, leaving me standing there, embarrassed and uneasy, my mind spinning.

I grab a cab to our apartment, the ride quiet except for the city waking up outside.

My body's a mess. I soak in a hot bath until I can breathe again. My body still aches in places I didn't know could ache.

The warm water easing my sore ass and stiff muscles. I soak for a while, the steam loosening me up, and when I get out, I can walk better, though every step still reminds me of Keal's cock stretching me wide. I throw on a baggy jeans and a hoodie, nothing fancy, and rush to college.

I already missed my cardiac infection class, and I need to hit the lab work before I fall too far behind.

The campus is alive, students hurrying around, the air cool and crisp. I make it to the lab, my hands steady as I work through the tasks, but my mind keeps slipping back to last night-Keal's mouth, his hands, the way he owned me. The lab is a blur of chemicals, diagrams, and trying not to wince every time I shift in my seat.

My body still tender, but I head to the library to meet Rehan, Matt, and T at our usual spot.

Rehan and Matt were insufferable.

"So," Rehan said, grinning like a demon. "You and Keal, huh?"

"Never saw that coming," Matt added. "You used to act like he was Satan. Now you're-"

"-screaming his name in club, his own club," Rehan finished.

"Fuck off," I mutter, my face heating up, and Rehan laughs, leaning in with a big grin.

"Never thought you'd let a dude like Keal get his hands on you," he says, eyes sparkling. "You used to hate him. What's the deal? He fucked the hate right outta you? Can't blame you. His dick is godly."

I groan, covering my face, but they don't stop, teasing me about Keal, asking how I ended up covered in Keal's marks. "You're red as a tomato," Matthew says, laughing. "We know it was heavenly. Come on. Tell us, bitch!"

"It's not your business," I snap, but I'm not really mad, and they just laugh harder, loving how embarrassed I am.
Tanya stays quiet, her eyes on her phone, and I notice her hands shaking a little. I want to ask what's wrong, but I'm still mortified about seeing her with Damien, so I keep quiet.

Finally, they chill out, and Tanya gets up to grab a book we need for our group project. Her phone lights up on the table, and I glance at it, seeing a text. "Tanya, you got a message," I say softly, not wanting to disturb others. She's too far to hear well, so she waves a hand, saying, "Just read it, Ez. Probably my mom or someone."

I pick up her phone, and my heart stops.

New Message: Dickmien

"You fucked up real bad this time, Principessa. You shouldn't have run from me, not after begging for my cock like the little pathetic slut you are. Now, I'll hunt you down. And I will make it hurt, it's a promise."

My breath catches.

Dickmien.

Principessa.

...Damien.

I flash back to last night-his hand on her throat, her willing moans- but this feels wrong, threatening, not like what I saw.

Tanya comes back, arms full of books, and asks, "Who was it?" Her voice is light, but when she sees my face, she grabs her phone. Her face goes pale, her hands shaking as she grips it so hard her knuckles turn pale. She tries to smile, but it's fake, her eyes scared, and I can feel her panic.

"Tanya," I say quietly, worried, but she shakes her head, shoving her phone in her bag.

"It's nothing," she says, voice tight, and buries herself in the books, acting like she's fine. Matt and Rehan are too busy arguing about some dumb joke to notice, but I can't let it go. I lean closer, keeping my voice low.

"T, I don't know what's up with you and Damien, but I'm here, okay? If you need help, I got your back. You know you have me always. Right?"

She looks at me, her eyes softening, and gives a small, real smile. "Thanks, Ez," she whispers, but doesn't say more, and I don't push.

.........

I'm waiting for my cab outside, the evening air chilly, when Damien's car-a shiny black beast-rolls by. He slows, then backs up, lowering the window to lean out, smirking like always. "Apron-boy," he coos, voice smooth. "Need a ride?"

I act like I don't see him, my face burning, but he keeps at it. "Come on, don't be a pain. Get in. I'm heading your way, anyways."

"I'm good," I say, voice tight, but he laughs, low and mocking.

"Don't worry, Ezran. I'm not suicidal enough to fuck with Keal's boy. And I like my face too much. Get in, I'll drop you."

I don't want to, but he's pushy, so I get in, the leather seat cool under me. The car smells like him-fancy cologne and something dangerous. He's chill, bobbing his head to the radio, but the air feels thick, tense. I can't keep quiet. "Why are you bothering T?" I ask, voice harder than I mean.

He stops, just for a split second, his jaw tightening, but then he's back to bobbing his head, acting like he's into the music. "Don't think too much about things that'll burn you, Ezran." he says, voice calm but with a scary edge, like a threat. "It's not your problem."

I want to argue, but his eyes-dark and cold-make me shut up. The ride's quiet after that, my head full of questions about Tanya, Damien, and what I saw last night.

We're almost at my apartment when I see a car-a silver one, sleek and fast-speeding away. My heart jumps. I know that car. It was there the night that guy showed up at our place, the one Keal beat bloody, the night Keal lost it and smashed everything, his eyes full of pain I didn't understand.

I almost throw my head out of the window, trying to see better, and Damien hits the brakes hard. "What the fuck?" he snaps, eyes sharp.

"That car," I say, voice shaky. "I saw it before."

"There's are hundreds of same looking car-"

I cut him off. No, I'm sure it's not any same looking car. It's that. I didn't pay attention to a unknown car out of the building that night but today it made me hyperaware.

"No, I saw that car that night. When Keal... when that guy was in his apartment. The night Keal lost it."

He genuinely looked confused, "Keal lost it?"

"Yes. A guy. He was punching that guy. His was bloody. Yet he... he was laughing. He called me Little obsession and Keal My boy. And... and-"

Damien's jaw clenches, his hands gripping the wheel so tight that his veins jumping and his knuckles white. "What'd he look like?" he asks, voice so calm it's creepy, like he's barely holding back.

"I didn't see his face. It was bloody," I say, my mind racing. "Few inches shorter than Keal. Maybe five-eight or five-nine. Was wearing expensive clothes. And yes, red hair. After he was gone keal was so broken. He was...he," I'm breathing hard, I couldn't even finish my sentence.

Damien's jaw locks so hard I think it'll break. He mutters, almost to himself, "That fucking bastard. Won't leave him alone, even after ruining his damn childhood. God knows what else went down. And that motherfucker didn't even fucking told me."

My stomach drops.

Childhood?
What the hell?
I think of Keal that night, muttering about that She. That He.

"Who is he?" I ask, voice desperate. "Damien, who's that redhead? What's he got to do with Keal?"

Damien glances at me, eyes hard. "If Keal wants you to know his past, he'll tell you," he says, voice like a door slamming shut. "It's not my story to tell."

I keep asking, pushing hard, but Damien's a wall, giving me nothing. Finally, he says, voice low and dead serious, "If that redhead bastard shows up again, and anything goes down with Keal, don't leave him alone. Not for a damn second. Understand?"

I nod, my gut churning, but he doesn't say more, dropping me off at my apartment and driving away. I step inside, the place empty-Keal's not home, it's only about 5 PM, so that tracks. I sink onto the couch, my body still sore, but it's my head that's a mess, questions piling up with no answers.

Who's the redhead?
What did he do to Keal's childhood?
Who's the She Keal talked about, the He he killed?
And why did that guy talk to Keal like they were tied by something heavy-maybe real, maybe mocking, but so deep it hurts?

The ache in my body a faint echo of last night, but it's the weight of those unanswered questions that keeps me up.

The apartment gets darker, and I'm left with nothing but the knowledge that- I don't know the man I'm falling for.

Or... already fell for.

Not even close.

............

 

[THANK YOU FOR READING]
(Please leave Kudo & comments)

 

--------

If you'd like to stay connected with the chaos I create, feel free to reach out on Instagram - @author_neven

Link:
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.........

(If you're enjoying the story, share with your friends. The AO3 algorithm doesn't promote new writers. So I'm not receiving much reads. So it's a humble request, please, please share this story with your friends if you like it. Thank you.❤️❤️)

♡♡♡

Notes:

Hello, hello, people. Alive? Cause duh, I'm half dead. I hate work (T T). And btw, are you guys not liking Damien and Tanya dynamic? Should I, maybe, tone it down a little?

And also, wanted to request, please leave a comment and let me know how you're liking (or disliking) the story progress.
Happy reading.
Love you all. ;)

Chapter 32: Ch 32: The beetle

Summary:

Enjoy.♡

Notes:

I'm not crying. Who's cutting onions.
No jokes, I was crying while writing it. You might not. But Keal and Ezran are something that I'm deeply attached to. So while writing it I was sobbing.

Please enjoy.
And I really really request Please leave a comment. I keep writing but there's barely any engagement. Please leave a comment.

Say anything. Just anything. Curse Keal, cry for him or at least say how I'm writing. Guys, this is my first story. Please support me.

And also love you all.♡

(Chapter 32)

The boy was small, no older than seven, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement, his deep black hair a wild mess curling over his forehead, sticking to his sweat-dampened skin.
His wide, bright eyes sparkled with an innocent untamed wonder, reflecting the golden light of the chandeliers that hung like stars in the grand mansion. His shoeless feet slapped against the polished marble floor, the sound echoing through the fancy halls, a soft thump mingling with his breathless giggles.

In his tiny hand, he clutched a treasure-a beetle, its shell a dazzling mix of blue, green, and yellow, shimmering like a jewel in sun's ray.
He'd found it in the garden, roaming on flowers while he was playing with the neighbor kids, their laughter ringing through the warm afternoon air. Now, all he could think about was showing it to her. His mama.

"Mama! Mama!" his voice high and bubbling with joy, bouncing off the walls, the sound swallowed by the huge mansion's emptiness. "Mama, look what I found!" He charged through the halls, his small body running past antique vases and heavy velvet curtains, his heart pounding with the kind of happiness only a child could feel, where every discovery was a miracle.
The winding staircase loomed ahead, its polished stairs gleaming under the light, and he took the steps two at a time, his little legs straining, his breath coming in short, excited puffs.

He didn't understand why Mama never came outside?
Why she never ran through the grass with him?
Why she never watched the clouds like Damien's mom did?
Why she stayed locked behind that big door?
Does she have a secret?
Hidden away in her room?
Like Mia? Mia also wouldn't tell him her secret.
He doesn’t like it. At all.

His innocent mind was simmering with questions. The questions which he couldn't bring to understand.

But that didn't stop him.
He'd bring the world to her, every shiny bug, every story, every piece of his day, hoping it would make her smile.

He reached the second floor, his sneakers forgotten in the garden— leaving faint smudges of mud on the pristine floor as he sprinted to the far end of the hall. The wooden door, it's dark panels carved with flower, unrecognisable patterns that seemed to guard her from the world.

He pushed it open, the door creaking in protest, a low groan that filled the quiet space. "Mama! Look!" he said, his voice bursting with excitement, holding out his hand. The beetle wriggled on his palm, its tiny legs tickling his skin, its shell catching the sunlight streaming through the heavy curtains, casting shadows color across the room. "It's blue and red and yellow! It was on that pink flower! Damien wanted to kill it. I saved it for you!"

His mother sat on the edge of her bed, her thin frame swallowed with a pale nightgown that hung loosely on her shoulders. Her dark hair, almost as likely as the little kid, was tangled, falling in messy strands over her face, hiding her eyes.
Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white, her fingers twisting the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her together. The room smelled of a musky scent, the air heavy with a stillness that pressed against the boy's chest, though he didn't understand why. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, staring at nothing, as if the world beyond her mind didn't exist.

He didn't understand her silence, the way it filled the room like a fog, or why her face was always so white, her gaze so empty.

He was too young to understand his mother's mental condition.
Too innocent to understand words like depression or loneliness.
But yet he felt it— a heavy ache in his chest, a longing for her to look at him, to see him, to be the mama he saw other kids having.

"Mama?" he said, stepping closer, his grin still wide, holding the beetle higher so she could see its colors dance in the light. "It's pretty, right? I got it for you." His voice was bright, hopeful, his eyes shining with the hope that this time, this gift, would make her happy, would make her laugh or hug him like he dreamed that night after Aunt Alisa, Damien's mother hugged him.

But she didn't move. Her eyes flicked to him, then to the beetle, and her body froze, still as a stone.

Her hands trembled, a faint shake at first, then harder, her fingers digging into the nightgown, her breath catching in her throat. Her face was pale, almost gray, her lips pressed into a thin line as if holding back a scream.

The boy's smile faltered, worry creeping into his chest. "Mama, Mama!" his voice smaller now, the joy fading as he took another step, holding the beetle out, thinking maybe she didn't see it clearly.

Her trembling grew worse, her whole body shaking, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her eyes— dark, hollow, haunted-locked on his face, not the beetle, as if his presence alone was too much.
Her lips twitched, her hands clutching harder at the fabric, and the boy's heart sank, panic rising like waves after waves.

"Mama, are you hurt?" he asked, his voice breaking, his small hands trembling now too. "Mama, should... should I call Doctor Uncle? I'll tell him not to give you bad medicine, I promise." He dropped the beetle, the insect crawling across the floor, and ran to her, his arms reaching to wrap around her waist, wanting to hug her, to make her feel better just like the way he feels better when Aunt Alisa hugs him.

She screamed— a raw, broken sound, not loud but sharp, even hollow. Her hands shoved him away, hard, her palms cold against his chest, and he stumbled back, falling on his butt with a soft thud.

His eyes burned, tears welling up as he stared at her, confused, his heart aching. "Mama... I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking as bad as her hands. "I just wanted you to see..."

She was still trembling, her hands covering her face now, her breaths jagged, her body curled in on itself like she was trying to disappear. "Go," she said, her voice a cracked whisper, sharp and desperate. "Get out, GET OUT."

The boy backed away, his chest tight, tears spilling down his cheeks, hot and stinging. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong, why she was always like this, why she wouldn't love him.

At the door, he paused, looking back at her one last time, hoping for a smile, a word, anything to make it okay.
She didn't look at him, her hands still covering her face, her trembling filling the room. He set the beetle down on the doorway, its colors dull in the dim light, thinking maybe it would make her happy later, when she wasn't hurt anymore. The beetle darted under the bed, lost in the huge space.

Then he ran, his bare feet slapping the marble, his sobs quiet but heavy as he raced downstairs and out into the garden.

.........

The grass was soft under his knees as he collapsed by a patch of flowers, their petals bright in the afternoon sun. His tears dripped into the dirt, soaking the soil as he poked at it with a stick, watching a little worm wiggle through the earth. "Why Mama's always hurting, Mr. Worm?" he whispered, his nose running as he wiped it with his sleeve. "Why doesn't she love me? Am I so bad? But Aunt Alisa said I'm a good kid. I try so hard..." The worm didn't answer, just kept moving, and the boy felt pain.
Lots of unnamed pain.

A soft hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up, his tear-streaked face breaking into a smile. "Aunty!" he said, his voice brightening despite the ache in his chest. His aunt, his mother's sister, Lenora, knelt beside him, her warm eyes and sunny smile chasing away the shadows.

She was different from Mama- bright, happy, like the flowers around him. She always laughed with him. She'd make him cookies for his school too.

"Hey, little man," she said, her voice soft and warm, pulling him into her arms. He crashed into her, wrapping his small arms around her neck, his tears soaking into her shirt. She twirled him around, her laughter mixing with his giggles, and for a moment, the sadness melted away like it never existed. "What's wrong, Keal? Why're you out here talking to worms?"

"Mama's hurt again," he mumbled, his face buried in her shoulder, her perfume sweet and comforting. "I showed her the beetle, and she got scared. She pushed me."

Lenora's arms tightened, and she sighed, stroking his messy curls. "Your mama's just... a little sick, okay? She loves you, baby. Like how you love your toy airplanes, hmm? She also likes her quiet. So don't go to her room too much, alright? Let her rest."

The boy nodded, not really understanding but trusting her, believing her. Like always.

"Can we play?" he asked, his tears drying, his smile coming back as she ruffled his hair.

"Race you to the swing!" she said, and he was off, his bare feet pounding the grass, his laughter echoing through the garden. They spent the afternoon painting his hands with washable ink, blue and green bright shiny colours smearing across his fingers, making airplanes with paper and flying them over the smaller trees.

His innocent giggles filled the air, bright and warm, and for a while, he forgot about his mother's trembling hands, her empty eyes, and the heavy ache in his chest.

.........

He was older now, maybe nine, kneeling on the hard floor of his mother's bedroom. She lay on her side, her skin unnaturally pale, almost gray, her lips blue and still. Her dark hair fanned out across the rug, her nightgown twisted around her thin frame. The room was silent, the air heavy with the smelling like lavender and something sharper. Something wrong.

He didn't cry.
He didn't scream.
He thought she was sleeping, maybe on the floor because her bed hurt her. He sat beside her, his small hands wrapped around hers, her fingers cold and limp. He stared at her face, softer now, no trembling, no screaming. No pushing him away. He thought his mother's finally not hurting. Thought she's fine sleeping. "You're okay now, Mama, right?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the big, quiet room. "You're not hurting anymore."

He didn't want to wake her, so he moved carefully, tiptoeing to her bed to grab her favorite blanket, the one with the soft blue flowers Aunt Lenora said Mama likes. He draped it over her, tucking it gently around her shoulders, making sure she wouldn't get cold.

The floor was hard, cold against his knees, but he lay down next to her, a few inches away so he wouldn't disturb her. He was shivering in cold, but he liked it, liked being close to her like this, without her pushing him away.

"Mama, you know you're pretty. Damien says his mama is pretty. But you're more. Aunt Alisa is beautiful too but she doesn't has the green-green eyes like yours. You are like that pretty dolls Mia has. She said she'd gift me one, too. I'm so happy. I'll show that to you first, okay? That won't hurt you." He whispered, low as if trying to tell her but also wanting not to disturb her.

"My English teacher said my accent's really nice. Like daddy," he whispered again, his voice small, like he was sharing a secret. "And you know, I made it to the football team at school. I'm getting bigger, Mama. I checked in P.E. I'm one hundred eighteen centimeters tall now, my teacher told me. Four whole centimeters taller than last time." He smiled, proud, his chest puffing up. "I'll keep growing, okay? Really tall and strong. And also big. And I'll protect you next time you're hurting. I'll scare the pain away. I promise."

The door open, and his aunt stepped in, her face bright until she saw his mother. Her eyes widened, and she dropped to her knees, her hands steady as she touched his mother's face, her neck, feeling for a pulse. Her breath caught, and then she screamed, a sharp sound that filled the room. "No! No, no, no!" she shaked his mother's shoulders. "She took the pills! Oh God, she took them all!" Her voice cracked, and she was screaming his mother's name, her cries echoing through the house like a call for help that would never come.

He didn't like it.
Why Aunt Lenora would disturb her sleep?
Can't she see Mama's sleeping and also maybe dreaming beautiful?

The boy crawled back, his heart pounding, his small body trembling. "No..." he whispered, his voice cracking, haunted. "No, she's just cold. She's just sleeping..." He stumbled back, his knees hitting the floor, his eyes locked on his mother's still face, the blanket he'd placed over her, everything blurred as his aunt's voice screamed his father's name.

...........

Keal;

I jerk awake, my body soaked in sweat, the sheets of my bed clinging to my skin like a second skin. I'm shirtless, just in boxers, the AC humming at the perfect temperature, but I feel like I'm freezing, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and I run a hand through my wet hair, trying to shake off the fucking nightmare. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," I mutter, my voice rough, barely above a whisper. I haven't had that dream in years, not since I figured out how to dodge sleep at night, staying up till dawn with work, whiskey, hookups or whatever else kept the ghosts away.

I rarely dreamt anymore.

Not since Ezran moved in.
Not even if I sleep.

Not since my nights became full of soft warmth, sleepy murmurs, his gentle hands curled around my chest.

But Ezran was gone.
He's off at some three-day medical camp for his college, and without him, the nightmares creep back, clawing at me, dragging me back to that cold room, that pale face, those blue lips.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, the screen's glow harsh in the dark. It's late, past midnight, but I can't stop myself. My fingers shake as I open my messages and type to Ezran,

Me: Asleep?

No reply.
I lean back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the shadows shifting in the dim light.

My mind's a mess, the dream still clinging to me like a damn shadow.
My father's face flashes in my head, uninvited, and I clench my jaw, the old anger bubbling up.

That cold bastard was never around, always locked in his office, chasing money, building his perfect businessman image. Even the day Mom died, swallowing every last one of her sleeping pills like they were nothing, he was home but might as well have been a thousand miles away, working in his study, too busy to notice his wife was gone.

She didn't think about me, about Aunt Lenora, about anyone.
Just left me with a hole in my chest and questions I'll never answer.

That day didn't broke me, not really. What broke me was the facade people was holding. The reality, the actual harshness of life that slammed in me knocking out the last inhale of breathe from my lungs.

I lost my shit when my fucking father showed up that day in my place, stirring up the past he had spent his fucking fortune burying.

My phone pings, and I snatch it up, my heart easing when I see Ezran's reply,

Survivor-on-caffeine: No. Was freshening up. Just got back to the tent.

I exhale, the tightness in my chest loosening just a bit.

Me: Rough day?

I type, settling back, the sweat cooling on my skin, the nightmare blurring in the background.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Long hikes, medical drills, and I had to work the whole time standing. Cause I couldn't sit on the stools for you. My body still hurts.

I laugh, the sound rough but real, picturing him in some shitty tent, all flushed and trying to act tough.

Me: Miss me, Med-guy?

I ask, my fingers quick on the screen, a grin tugging at my lips.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Nuh-uh.

Little liar.

His reply comes fast, and I can almost see the teasing look he gets, the one that makes my heart do stupid, soft things.

Me: But I did. And you did too, you lying shit.

I pause, my thumb hovering over the screen, the dream still lingering but losing its grip.

Me: Camp any fun?

Survivor-on-caffeine: It was okay. Stitch a major wound today. In real. Not the dummy.

I chuckle, imagining him all serious, hunched over some patient, his hands steady as he threads a needle.

I'm Proud as fuck.

Me: You gonna stitch me up next time I get in a fight?

I type, the image of him patching me up making me smile.

Survivor-on-caffeine: No. I'm going to lock you up in the apartment next time you get in a fight.

He shoots back, and I laugh again, louder this time, the weight in my chest lighter now.

Me: Kinky, Med-guy.

I lean back, the nightmare almost gone, his words pulling me out of the dark like they always do.

Me: What's the camp like?

Survivor-on-caffeine: Cold as hell. Tents suck. Food's worse. Wish I was home.

My heart warming at the thought of him curled up next to me, his soft breaths against my chest.

Me: And in my bed. My bed's empty without you. Hurry the fuck back.

Me: Still surrounded by Matthew and Rehan?

Survivor-on-caffeine: You forgot mosquitoes. I'm basically a walking blood donor.

Me: I bite better. Should've let me instead.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Too late. They already did. Pretty sure I'm married to a mosquito now.

Me: I grope better too.

Me: Med-guy, Come home faster.

I mean it, more than I'll ever say out loud. Ezran's the only thing that keeps the past from swallowing me whole, the only one who makes me feel like I'm not drowning in my own head.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Two more days.

His text is simple, but it hits me hard, warmth spreading through me like a shot of whiskey, chasing away the cold.

Me: Good. I'm holding you to that. Or I might have to send you my video while jerking off at your name.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Don't you dare, Keal.

I inhale deep. I'm missing him. I want to hold him close and kiss him. Kiss that collarbone mole. Fuck, how I ever thought that was not sexy?

Me: Everything sucks without you.

Survivor-on-caffeine: You being sweet or horny?

Me: My vote goes to horny.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Idiot.

I smirk.

Me: I want to hear your voice.

Survivor-on-caffeine: Call me, dumbass.

I did.

Ezran picked up after the first ring, his voice soft, slightly hoarse.

"Hey."

"Hey," I murmured.

There was silence.
Comfortable.
Warm.

"You sound tired," Ezran said.

"Didn't sleep well."

I yawn, my eyes getting heavy, the panic from the dream fading into the nothing.

His voice comes through the phone, warm and teasing, and I settle the phone against my ear, listening as he starts rambling about some dumb thing Rehan did at camp, tripping over a tent peg and cursing loud enough to scare a bird that stole Matt's snack. His laugh is soft, a little tired, but it's like a lifeline, pulling me under, away from the ghosts.

I don't remember falling asleep, but his voice is steady, grounding, talking about the stars he can see through the tent flap, the way the camp smells like pine and dirt. My breathing slows, my body relaxing into the mattress, and I hear him whisper, "Goodnight, asshole," before the call ends. I smile in my sleep.

The nightmare gone.
My heart full of him.
Like nothing's broken.
Like everything's okay.

....Because of him.

..........

Notes:

Please please please spare me a minute and leave a comment.
Write whatever you're feeling. Any suggestion, any feeling, any feedback, anything please.

And readers who haven't left a kudo yet, please leave a kudo and comment.

I refresh my mail like a junkie for a comment notification or a kudo notification.

Chapter 33: Ch 33: Hobby?

Summary:

As y'all know my story doesn't have any summary.
Just read and Find out. ;)

Notes:

Please enjoy.
And I really really request Please leave a comment. I keep writing but there's barely any engagement. Please leave a comment.

Say anything. Just anything. Curse Keal, cry for him or at least say how I'm writing. Guys, this is my first story. Please support me.

And also love you all.♡

(Chapter 33)

Ezran;

The college auditorium buzzed with chatter and camera flashes. The college's function was always a big deal, but the seniors saying this year felt different—  grander, more polished, the kind of event that screaming money. The stage was decorated with a sterile sort of formality, a sleek backdrop announcing the success of the three-day medical camp the college had recently completed.

My medical camp.
The one I'd spent three grueling days at, stitching wounds, hauling supplies, and dodging mosquitoes. Banners of thanks fluttered from the ceiling, and neatly dressed students filled the rows, tired but proud.

I shifted in my seat, the velvet covered wooden chair creaking under me, my legs still sore from the endless hikes and standing drills at camp.
My navy blazer felt too tight across my shoulders, the tie around my neck a little too stiff, but appearances mattered at events like this. My white coat folded on my lap. I rubbed at my sore neck, just wanting to go home and fall into Keal's arms. The thought alone eased the ache in my muscles.

The dean was already at the podium, droning on about "community impact" and "future leaders," his steady voice practiced that blended into the background. My classmates around me whispered, their eyes darting toward the front row where the special guest will sit.

Then the chief guest stepped up to the podium, introduced as the generous sponsor behind the medical camp. A billionaire businessman.

Mr. Hyrjon.

The name had been on every flyer, every email, every announcement leading up to today. The famous business tycoon, the man who'd single-handedly funded the entire medical camp, down to the last bandage. His name carried weight, a kind of gravitas that made people sit up straighter, speak more carefully. I hadn't thought much of it when I first heard it-just another rich guy throwing money at a cause for good PR, probably. And thought many people can have the same surname. But then I saw him.

Red hair, neatly slicked back, catching the stage lights like a flame. A tailored suit, charcoal gray, so sharp, screaming wealth in a way that was almost unnatural.
Broad shoulders, a jawline that could've been carved from marble, and those eyes-brown, sharp, calculating, scanning the room like he owned it. He looks exactly like Keal.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat, my heart stuttering as realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I knew him. Not from the glossy headshots on the event program or the articles plastered across the business pages. I knew him from a night I'd tried to forget, a night that still lingered in the back of my mind like a scar.
His face, bloodied and bruised, swollen under Keal's fists, his laughter echoing in our living as Keal pounded him, rage pouring out of him like something feral. I'd been there, frozen, watching Keal lose himself in that violence, his knuckles raw, his breath ragged, while this man-this man-just laughed, like it was all a game.

Mr. Hyrjon.
Keal's father.

The realization hit me like a freight train, my stomach twisting as I stared at him, now pristine and untouchable, sitting in the front row like royalty. The resemblance was uncanny-those same brown eyes, the same sharp cheekbones, the same commanding presence that Keal carried without even trying. Keal's hair was dark, not red, but everything else... it was like looking at an older, colder version of the man I'm with. The man I shared a bed with, a life with. The man I had been unraveling in arms every damn night.

My hands curled into fists in my lap, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to process it.
Keal had been beating his own father that night.
His father.

The man who sat there now, smiling politely as the dean praised his generosity, his vision, his legacy. Why? What could've driven Keal to that kind of rage? I'd seen Keal angry before— hell, his temper flaring hot and fast, but that night was different. It was personal, raw, like he was trying to erase something with every hit.

The dean's voice snapped me back to the present. "And now, let us welcome our esteemed guest, Mr. Vincent Hyrjon, whose contributions have made this year's medical camp a resounding success."

The room erupted in applause, polished and enthusiastic, but it felt hollow to me. I clapped along, my movements mechanical, my eyes locked on Mr. Hyrjon as he stood, his smile practiced, his posture exuding confidence.
He took the stage, his voice smooth and commanding as he began his speech, talking about innovation, opportunity, and the importance of giving back. It was the kind of speech you'd expect from someone like him— polished, calculated, every word chosen to inspire awe. But all I could see was the blood on his face that night, the way he'd laughed while Keal's fists rained down.

I barely heard the rest of his speech, my mind spinning. Keal never talked about his father, nothing about his family, his past. Just vague mentions of a cold bastard, a man too busy with his empire to care about his family. But this? This was something else. Something darker. I needed to know more, needed to understand what I'd stumbled into. I shifted in my seat, my tie feeling tighter, my heart pounding as I watched Mr. Hyrjon shake hands with the dean, his smile never faltering.

When the function ended, the crowd spilled into the reception area, a sea of students and faculty mingling with trays of sparkling cider. I waited back, my hands stuffed in my pockets, my eyes tracking Mr. Hyrjon as he moved through the room, shaking hands, laughing at the right moments, every inch the charming tycoon.

I needed to talk to him, to ask... something, anything, but he was surrounded, cameras, security.

I was just a student here, a nobody in his world. Every time I got close, someone else stepped in, their voices loud, their smiles eager.

I was about to give up, my frustration mounting, when a man approached me-a tall guy in a crisp suit, I saw him with Mr. Hyrjon, his secretary, his expression neutral, his eyes scanning me. "Ezran Sharma?" he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, my throat dry. "That's me."

He handed me a card. A sleek dark card. "Mr. Hyrjon would like to meet with you. The address is on the back. He said today, if possible."

I stared at the card, my fingers brushing over the embossed text.

Vincent Hyrjon,
CEO,
Hyrjon Empire.

The address on the back was handwritten, the ink sharp against the surface. I looked up, questions on my tongue, but the man was already walking away, disappearing into the crowd.

My heart pounded, a mix of dread and curiosity twisting in my chest. Why me? Why now? I didn't know what Mr. Hyrjon wanted, but I knew it had to do with Keal. And I needed answers- about Keal, about his past, about the man he killed, the woman he was talking about.

I slipped the card into my pocket, my decision made.
I'd go.
For Keal.

.........

The cab ride to the address was a blur, the city lights streaking past as my mind raced. The address led to a mansion. The kind of place that made you feel small just looking at it-tall iron gates, perfectly manicured lawns, a estate that screamed wealth in every detail.
The cab dropped me off at the entrance, and I stood there for a moment, my sneakers scuffing the gravel, feeling wildly out of place in my shirt and tie.

A maid greeted me at the door, her uniform so pristine even it was screaming power, her smile was politely practiced.

"Mr. Hyrjon is expecting you," she said, her voice smooth as she led me through a foyer that looked like a museum-marble floors, crystal chandeliers, paintings that probably cost more than my college's semester fee. My stomach churned as I followed her, the weight of the place pressing down on me, making my usual confidence feel like a cheap imitation.

She led me to a study, the door heavy and dark, carved with patterns.
My chest tightened, but I pushed it down, stepping inside.

Mr. Hyrjon sat behind a massive oak desk, his red hair catching the light from a Tiffany lamp. The room smelled of leather and old money, bookshelves lining the walls, a fireplace crackling softly in the corner.

He looked up as I entered, his brown eyes-so like Keal's-locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"Ezran," he said, his voice smooth, but there was an edge to it, like a blade wrapped in silk.

I nodded, my throat tight, unsure what to say. I stood there, awkward, my hands clasped in front of me like a kid called to the principal's office.

"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "You're my son's... latest fling."

The word hit me like a slap. I don't liked the way he was looking at me. My face heating as I straightened. "I'm not his fling," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I'm..." I faltered, the words catching in my throat. What was I to Keal? I can't be his... boyfriend. Not just a hookup, either.

We were something more, something I still couldn't dare to name, something that lived in the quiet moments, the way he held me at night, the way his voice softened when he said my name. "I'm not a fling," I repeated, weaker this time, my eyes dropping to my hands.

Mr. Hyrjon's lips twitched, a cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes. "His little obsession, then," he said, his tone neutral, like he was testing me, seeing how I'd react.

I didn't say anything, my jaw tight, my mind racing. Obsession. The word felt wrong, too heavy, too cold for what Keal and I had. But I didn't argue, didn't know how to. Instead, I met his gaze, forcing myself to hold it, even as my instincts screamed at me to look down.

"Sit," He gestured to a leather chair across from his desk, and I sat, the cushion sinking under me, too soft. "Do you drink?"

"No."

"Shame."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, Ezran, your family back in India... they run an old jewelry business, don't they? I did my research. Old money. High tradition."

I nodded. That surprised me. He actually... looked at my background.

"Impressive," he murmured. "Doesn't say much, though. Old money doesn't mean smart money."

I stayed silent.

"Tell me about yourself, Ezran."

I hesitated, my fingers twisting in my lap.

He nodded when I didn't say anything, but I could tell he was filing it away, analysing me like I was a business deal. The silence stretched, heavy, and I shifted in my seat, my curiosity outweighing my nerves. "Why am I here?" I asked, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. "Why did you want to see me?"

Mr. Hyrjon chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a chill down my spine. "Straight to the point. I like that." He leaned back again, his hands folding in his lap. "It's about Keal. My son has... an obsession with you. At first, I thought you were just another one of his many... distractions. Just a bed warmer. He's always had a knack for those." His tone was dismissive, like Keal's life was a series of dumb choices. "But you've lasted longer than the others. He listens to you. Even cares for you. That's foolish yet rare for him."

My heart pounded, a mix of pride and unease swirling in my chest. "What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, my voice quieter now, cautious.

He sighed, his expression hardening. "I'm not getting any younger, Sharma. Hyrjon Empire is my legacy, my life's work. Keal is my only son, my only heir. I need him to take over, to carry it forward. But he's... rebellious. Blind with emotions. Always has been. He walked away from everything I built, prioritising his stupid emotions. And what does he do now? Clubs. Bars. Lounges. Hobbies."

Hobby.

A club empire pulling millions.

I understood in that moment just how massive the Hyrjon legacy was.

My jaw clenched. "His club business makes millions."

Mr. Hyrjon gave a dry chuckle. "So does a street magician with the right crowd. I don't need entertainment. I need power."

The disdain in his tone sent a chill through me.

I bristled at that, my hands clenching in my lap.

Mr. Hyrjon's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with something cold. "A distraction," he continues, the word dripping with disdain. "I even told him he can keep it, if he wants. But Hyrjon Empire is his ultimate future, his responsibility. He can't run from it forever."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. The sheer scale of his dismissal made my head feel heavy.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

His smile faded, his expression turning serious, almost threatening. "Because you're the only one who can make him do it," he said. "You're the only one he listens to. He used to listen to me. Now he plays club owner like a child with a toy drum. He's stubborn, but he's not stupid. He'll come around, with the right... persuasion."

"Convince him to stop this rebellion," Mr. Hyrjon continued, tone darkening. "Or I'll be forced to do it my way. And I would really hate that."

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, like a blade held just above my skin. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry, my mind racing with questions I didn't dare ask.

Do in his way? What did that mean? What kind of man was this, to talk about his son like a chess piece, to threaten him so casually?

I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the arms of the chair. Mr. Hyrjon watched me for a moment, his eyes unreadable, then leaned back, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Think about it, Ezran. You're a smart boy. You know what's at stake."

I stood, my legs unsteady, and turned to leave, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. As I reached the door, I heard him call after me, his voice calm but firm. "Don't disappoint me. Ezran. Or I'll take something from him that even his fists can't win back."

The maid was waiting outside the study, her expression as blank as before, ready to escort me out. I followed her.

My heart still racing, my mind stuck on Mr. Hyrjon's words.
Obsession.
Legacy.
Force.

I was so lost in thought that I barely noticed the woman storming toward us, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, her dress a glittering designs of silk and expensive ruby even here, inside her own home. She looked like she'd stepped out of a gala, her makeup flawless, her jewelry dripping with wealth. But there was something off about her, something cold and sharp that made my skin crawl.

The maid stepped forward, her voice polite and a bit... afraid. "Madam Lenora, Mr. Hyrjon is not to be disturbed."

The woman-Lenora-stopped short, her eyes narrowing, her lips twisting into a scowl. "Don't you dare tell me what I can and can't do to my husband," she snapped, her voice dripping with venom. She pushed past the maid, her hand on the study door, but Mr. Hyrjon's secretary appeared from nowhere, blocking her path.

"Mrs. Hyrjon," the secretary said, his tone calm but unyielding. "Mr. Hyrjon said no one's allowed."

Husband?
Mrs. Hyrjon?
My breath caught, my eyes widening as I stared at her. Keal's mother? But she looked nothing like him-not the dark hair, not the quiet kindnesses he carried even in his worst moments. And her behavior-sharp, volatile, nothing like Keal's careful respect, the way he always made sure to check in with me, to make sure I was okay. This woman was a storm, all sharp edges and barely contained rage.

I turned away, my heart pounding, and hurried out of the mansion, the air outside cool against my flushed skin. I stood by the gate, waiting for my cab, my mind spinning with questions. If she was Keal's mother, why didn't she feel like it? Why did she give me such a dark vibe, like a dark shadow I couldn't shake?

"Waiting for someone, sweetheart?" a warm voice asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I looked up, startled, to see a woman standing a few feet away, her smile soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She was older, her hair a soft blonde streaked with gray, her face warm and open, like someone who'd spent her life laughing. She looked... familiar, in a way I couldn't place at first, until it hit me. Damien. She had his eyes, the same olive-toned skin that made him look like he belonged on a beach somewhere.

"Just my cab," I said, my voice awkward, my hands stuffed in my pockets. "It's taking a while."

She tilted her head, her smile widening. "Why don't you wait in the gazebo? It's cold out there."

I hesitated, my introvert instincts kicking in, but her warmth was genuine. "I'm okay," I said, but she waved me off, her laugh soft and inviting.

"Come on, it's no trouble. I'm Alisa, by the way."

I followed her, my sneakers crunching on the gravel as we walked to a small gazebo tucked into the garden, its wooden frame draped with climbing roses. I sat on the bench, my hands clasped between my knees, while she leaned against the railing, her eyes curious but kind.

"You're here to see Mr. Hyrjon?" she asked, her tone light, conversational. "You seem a bit young for business dealings."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "It's... personal," I said, not sure how much to reveal. "I'm Ezran."

Her eyebrows lifted, but her smile didn't falter. "Ezran," she repeated, like she was testing the name. "You don't look familiar. First time around here?"

I nodded, my fingers twisting together. Something about her warn smile made me want to talk, to open up, even though I barely knew her. "Do you... anyhow know someone named Damien?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Her face lit up, her laugh bright and warm. "Damien's my son," she said, pulling out her phone and scrolling to a photo. She turned the screen toward me, showing a grinning Damien, his hair messy, his arm slung around a younger Keal, both of them covered in mud and laughing like they'd just won a war.

"That's him," I said, a smile tugging at my lips seeing how happy Keal's looking in the picture.

She laughed again, her eyes sparkling. "That's my boy. Are you friends with him?"

"Not exactly," I said, hesitating. "I'm... with Keal."

Her expression softened, a warmth spreading across her face that made my chest ache. "Keal," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "My another boy."

I blinked, surprised by the affection in her voice. "You know him?"

She nodded, her smile tinged with sadness. "I used to. When he was little, he was over at our house all the time, running around with Damien, getting into trouble. But it's been... fourteen years, maybe, since he's come around here."

I frowned, my heart sinking. "Why not?"

Her expression darkened, a shadow crossing her face. "His mother," she said, hesitation laced in her sentence as if she's not sure telling this to me, her voice quieter now. "She had MDD— major depression disorder. She was... struggling, always. Never really there for him, not the way he needed. And then, one day, she took all her sleeping pills. Left him alone."

My throat tightened, my eyes stinging. "I... I thought the woman inside, Lenora, was his mother," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Alisa sighed, shaking her head. "No. Lenora's his aunt. And his stepmother, now. Vincent married her not long after Keal's mother died."

I stared at her, my mind reeling. Aunt and stepmother? The pieces were starting to come together, but they didn't fit right. "Is that why Keal doesn't come around?" I asked. "Because of her?"

Alisa's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes distant. "It's not just Lenora," she said. "It's Vincent. He... pushed Keal's mother toward that end. He was never there, always working, always chasing his legacy. She was so alone, Ezran. So lonely. Keal was too young to understand, but he felt it. And when she died, Vincent didn't even stop to grieve. He was too busy protecting his empire, his image. Keal needed him, and he wasn't there. That's when the hate started. And then... when year later Keal mistakenly murde—"

She cut off, her eyes flicking to the side, her expression tightening. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I glanced at it, seeing the cab driver's number. "My ride's here," I said, standing, my heart pounding. "I have to go."

She nodded, her smile returning but softer now, tinged with sadness. "Take care, Ezran. And tell Keal... tell him I miss him."

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak, and hurried to the cab, my mind a mess of questions and half-formed truths.

...........

By the time I got home, the sun was setting, the apartment bathed in a soft orange glow. Keal was already there, sprawled on the couch, his dark hair messy, his shirt nowhere to found in his body, Scooby-Doo playing on the TV. I kicked off my shoes, my body aching from the day.

His eyes fall on me, tender and soft.
He rises from the couch and walks over.

Then, he kisses me. Softly.
Like a silent welcome.
His arms wrap around my waist, warm and grounding.

When we pull apart, I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. The familiar scent of him sinks into my chest, easing the tension behind my ribs.

"Rough day?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my hair.

I sigh. "Not really. Just... didn't like the crowd."
"I'll cook dinner," I add, more out of habit than intent.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, a small smile tugging his lips.
"No need. I already ordered."

Another kiss. Gentler this time. Then a light push, playful but firm.
"Go freshen up. I'll set the table."

By the time I return, everything's was served perfectly.
Soup, pizza— no olives, just how I like it, juicy grilled chicken, and a chilled beer waiting beside his plate.

Home didn't need walls.
It just needed this.
Him.

We ate at the table, our usual banter flowing easily-him teasing me about my camp stories, me rolling my eyes at his dumb jokes.

But the weight of the day sat heavy in my chest, Mr. Hyrjon's words, Alisa's story, all of it pressing down on me.

After dinner, he washed the dishes while making me sit in the counter. I watched him. Silently like a dance we'd perfected over months of living together. He dried his hands on a towel, my heart pounding as I turned to him, knowing I couldn't keep this in any longer. "Keal," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Your dad... Mr. Hyrjon was at my college today."

His face changed instantly, his easy smile vanishing, his jaw tightening like an iron trap. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and I felt a pang of guilt for bringing it up. "Why?" he asked, his voice rough, low, like he was holding back something bigger.

I swallowed, my hands fidgeting at my sides. "He... he sponsored the medical camp. Gave a speech. And he... he talked to me. About you."

Keal's eyes narrowed, his body tensing. "What'd he say?"

I hesitated, my heart racing. "He said he wants you to take over the family business. Hyrjon Empire. He said he's told you before, but you're... refusing."

Keal's laugh was sharp, bitter, cutting through the air like a blade. "Fuck his business," he said, his voice low and venomous. "I'm not touching that shit. His legacy can burn for all I care."

I stepped closer, my hands reaching for him, needing to calm the storm I could see building inside him. "Keal," I said softly, my arms wrapping around his waist, my cheek pressing against his chest. His heart was pounding, fast and hard, and I could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself together by a thread. I tiptoed pressing soft kisses along his jaw, feeling him relax slightly under my touch. "Talk to me," I whispered. "Please. I want to know you. About you. The real you. I don't want the fake pretence of you that everyone gets. I don't know anything about you, about... this."

He didn’t move. His arms hung limp at his sides, fists half clenched like his mind couldn't decide if he should hold on it or hit or just... fall apart.

His breathing was uneven, chest rising in shallow puffs of air against mine.

I didn’t ask anything.
Didn’t let go either.
Just pressed my cheek to his bare chest, hearing the wild thump of his heart.

Then—
His voice broke the silence.

Rough.
Quiet.
Like every word making him bleed in the worst way possible.

“My mom had MDD.”

Each word was deliberate, slow, like he was tasting his own blood behind it.

“It was... bad.”

A pause.
He sucked in a deep breathe.

“She was supposed to be perfect. Pretty. Polished. Something my father could... show off. He’d make her smile for the cameras, parade her around like she was one of his expensive lifeless collection. But when the flaslights were gone?”
He laughed once, sharp and humorless. Even hollow, “She was alone. So fucking alone.”

I felt the tension under my palms.
Muscle tight.
His body was trembling. Not violent. I'd even miss it if I was not pressed against him so tight.

“I was nine,” he said. “Came home from school. Found her on the floor. I thought she... she was sleeping. Her skin was cold. Lips were blue.”

His voice dipped lower.

“I tucked her in. Blue flower blanket. That was her favourite. Sat with her... told her about football tryouts. Told everything I couldn’t say when she's awake. Thought she's not hurting anymore. She'd be proud of me. But I didn’t know.”
A hollow breath.
“Not till Lenora screamed.”

He was breaking.
In silence. The worst kind.

I rubbed small circles on his back, but he didn’t soften. Didn’t melt.
Just… kept going.

“Two months later, he married her. My aunt.”

A bitter scoff scraped past his lips.

“All flashy media. Beautifully decorated hall. He said he married her cause she takes care of me. Because he cares about me," he laughs, a haunting hollow sound.

"Liar. He was a fucking liar. Yet I was so fucking happy. Thought—maybe she’d love me. Like before. But she didn’t. I was too stupid to understand she actually never loved me. I was just a key for her to my father's wealth.”

His throat bobbed.

“She hit me. Not always. Just... when she thought I was in the way. Or when he wasn’t looking.”

Then something shifted. He stiffened. Voice strained like it was physically hurting him.

"Still I kept trying. I thought I was at the fault that's why she stopped loving me. I tried so fucking hard. Then... then that day I was happy. I won my first official football match. I ran to my house with the trophy in my hand, wanted to show her, wanted her to pat me like she used to. But when I entered the house I heard her. Crying. Screaming. Against the wall. Begging him to stop.”

A beat of silence. I felt like someone was wrenching out something from my heart.

“I just... wanted him to stop. I didn’t mean to—”

He cut off.

Didn’t say kill.

Didn’t need to.

I felt him pull away—not physically, but emotionally, mentally.
I could feel his mind taking a step backward.

His stare was hollow.

And I didn’t dare ask who.
Not today.
But I'll do one day.
I have to.

Today I just tightened my arms around him.

He didn’t cry.
He didn’t show any emotion.
As if he forgot how to react.
How to be... human.

So he just pressed his face into my hair and breathed me in.

And I held him.

Held him like his shattered pieces were slipping and I had to save every one.

I didn’t know how to erase what he’d lived.

Didn’t know how to fix a boy who had buried his childhood next to a body.

But I could be here.

I could want him through the worst of it.

And I fucking did.

..........

[Sorry for the long chapter. But it was necessary.]

--------

 

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Notes:

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Write whatever you're feeling. Any suggestion, any feeling, any feedback, anything please.

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Chapter 34: Ch 34: Beginning.

Summary:

Find out yourself.

Notes:

Guys, please leave me a comment.

(Chapter 34)

Keal;

 

The days after that night blurred together, each one heavier than the last.

I’d spilled my guts, told him things I’d buried so deep I thought they’d never see light again.
My mom.
Lenora.
The blood on my hands.
Not all of it, not the worst of it, but enough to make any sane person run. I braced myself for it. I kept waiting for Ezran to look at me different— to see the monster I was sure I am. I thought I’d wake up to hate. To a quiet goodbye. Maybe a trembling body disgusted from my touch. I kept waiting for the guilt to catch up to Ezran. For terror to settle in those bright brown eyes. For a slap, a scream, a you’re a monster, Keal.

But he didn’t.

Ezran just held me tighter, his arms wrapping around me like he was trying to keep my pieces from falling apart.
He kissed me deeper, his lips soft but sure, like he was saying something which he couldn't bring himself to give word.
He smiled at me, that quiet, warm smile that made my chest ache, like I was the most fucking pure and also ruined thing for him, and he loved both.
He moaned for me in the dark, his voice raw and proud, like he wasn’t just okay with me— he wanted me, all of me, even the parts I couldn’t want for myself.

I didn’t get it.
I didn’t deserve it.
But I clung to it like a drowning man clings to his last breathe.

Ezran was my anchor, my air, the only thing keeping me from falling into the black hole I’d been circling my whole life.

And I? I realized something terrifying.

I thought I had broken that night when I  confessed.
But no.
I'd really break if Ezran ever left me.

If he left… fuck, I couldn’t even think about it. The idea of him walking away, of his warmth gone, his voice silent— it’d ruin me. Not like that night. Worse.
I’d go fucking crazy.

That thought alone was enough to curl something dark and panicked in my chest.

What if that was the line?
What if he heard it and saw me for what I really was?
A killer.
A monster.
I couldn’t risk it.
So, no— I didn’t dare to say more. Didn’t tell him whom I killed. Didn’t mention how or why or what it meant. Because if Ezran ever looks at me like he’s not safe— if he runs— I would lose my goddamn mind.

I’d lock that shit down, bury it deeper than my mom’s grave, and never let it out.
Never.

--------

The morning sun filtered through the apartment windows, soft and golden, catching the steam rising from the plate of eggs Ezran had just slid in front of me. He’d made breakfast again, like he always did, his hands moving with that quiet confidence I loved. Scratch that, I love every fucking thing about him.

Scrambled eggs, just the right amount of fluff, toast with butter melted into the edges, and a glass of orange juice because he knew I’d never take that nasty too bitter coffee.

He leaned against the counter, his dark hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of my T-shirts that hung loose on his frame. It was too big, the collar slipping to show a glimpse of his collarbone, that damn mole and I had to look away before I did something stupid like pull him into my lap and forget about the day.

“Eat,” he said, nodding at the plate, his voice gentle but firm.

I smirked, picking up the fork. “Bossy.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. He crossed the kitchen, grabbing the navy button-up he’d laid out for me last night, holding it up like a trophy.

“This one today. It makes your eyes pop.”

“My eyes pop?” I raised an eyebrow, shoving a bite of eggs in my mouth. “You sound like a fashion magazine.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his cheeks pink as he tossed the shirt over the back of my chair. “You’d wear that ratty black hoodie to a meeting if I didn’t stop you.”

I laughed, the sound rough but real, and for a second, the weight in my chest lightened. This was us. Easy. Normal. Him picking out my clothes, me giving him shit for it. We were like some over-concerned boyfriend.

I’d let him dress me literally in a clown suit if it made him smile.

I finished breakfast, the plates clinking as he took them to the sink. I stood, grabbing my jacket from the couch, and he was there, smoothing the collar of my shirt, his fingers brushing my neck. He even buttoned my shirt for me. Slower than necessary. With too many kisses in between.  His touch was soft, deliberate, and I felt that familiar pull in my gut, the one that made me want to pin him against the wall and kiss him until we both forgot the world outside.

“Don't get into trouble,” he said, his voice quiet, his dark eyes searching mine.

“Trouble loves me,” I grinned, leaning down to kiss him.

-------

NDN Sin was my baby, my dream carved out of sweat and stubbornness. The club wasn’t old, barely four months in, but it was already pulling crowds that rivaled the biggest spots in the city. I’d poured everything into it— late nights, endless meetings, every dime I could scrape together.

The biggest, boldest club I’d ever built. Gleaming with glass and chrome and the kind of alcohol that could get you drunk just by looking at the bottle.

It was mine, not some handout from my father’s empire, not a piece of his legacy.
Mine.

The place was quiet when I got there, the late morning light streaming through the high windows, catching the polished black floors.

Damien was already there, sprawled in a booth with his laptop, his hair a mess like he’d rolled out of bed and come straight here. He looked up as I walked in, grinning like an idiot. And of course, I was stuck with Damien.
The dickhead was helpful, yeah. But also annoying.

“Morning, boss,” he said, kicking a chair out for me. “You look like you actually slept for once.”

“Fuck off,” I said, dropping into the seat. “You look like you lost a fight with your little Tanya. Did she leave you for tiny dick energy?”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair, making it worse. “Jealousy’s ugly, man.”

We got to work, going over the numbers from last night, checking the bookings for the weekend. Going through lighting setups, arguing over the music playlist, and occasionally punching each other in the arm just to make a point.
Boys being boys.
Or in our case, man-children being man-children.

We’d been through too much— fights as kids, sneaking beers as teens, building this place from the ground up. He was family, more than my actual family ever was.

Around noon, we took a break, and he shoved me hard enough to make me stumble. “You’re slow, Grandpa,” he said, grinning.

I shoved him back, harder, and we ended up wrestling like idiots, laughing and cursing until one of the bartenders yelled at us to knock it off. It was dumb, but it felt good, like shaking off the rust of the past few days.

By late evening, the club was coming alive. The staff buzzed around, setting up for the night, the air thick with anticipation. Damien and I were doing a final walk-through, checking the lights, the sound, the bar stock. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

BOOM.

A loud pop cracked through the air, like a gunshot, and the DJ booth sparked, flames licking up the cables. I froze for half a second before my brain kicked in.

“Fire!” someone shouted, already moving.

Damien was right behind me, yelling for the staff to grab extinguishers. The bar was worse— flames spreading fast, catching the bottles lined up like soldiers. The smell of burning alcohol hit me, sharp and chemical, and my heart pounded as I grabbed an extinguisher, spraying foam at the base of the fire.

It was chaos— staff running, smoke stinging my eyes, the heat pressing against my skin. But we moved like a unit, Damien and me barking orders, the team falling in line.

The fire was new, contained, but it shouldn’t have happened. Neither the burst.

The weirdest part?
Everything— everything— was brand new. DJ box, alcohol setup, fuses. No reason it should've combusted. Nothing at all. The alcohol was sealed, stored right. This wasn’t a malfunction.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a sharp vibration I ignored. No time. The fire was under control in minutes, but the damage was done—charred cables, a ruined booth, half the bar stock gone. No one was hurt, thank fuck, but NDN Sin would be closed tonight, maybe longer.
Restock, repairs, inspections— it’d take days.

I wiped sweat from my forehead, my hands black with soot, my chest heaving. Damien clapped a hand on my shoulder, his face grim but steady. “We got this,” he said. “No big loss. We’ll be back up by the weekend.”

I nodded, but my gut twisted. Something was off.

My phone buzzed again, and I pulled it out, my heart sinking as I saw the screen. Eleven missed calls from Ezran. A string of texts, each one more panicked than the last.

Keal, are you okay?
I saw something about a fire on X.
Call me.
Please, just let me know you’re alright.
Are you in NDN? Is the fire in NDN?
Please reply me.

Guilt hit me like a punch. I hit call, and he picked up on the first ring, his voice shaking. “Keal? Where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice rough from the smoke. “Fire at the club. Small one. No one’s hurt. Just… a mess.”

Ezran was panicking. Breathing fast, voice trembling.
I soothed him, gently. Murmuring soft promises. "I’m okay. Not even a scratch." He let out a shaky breath, and I could picture him, pacing our apartment, his hands in his hair. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Med-guy. I’m good. Promise.”

“Okay,” he said, softer now, but I could hear the worry still there. “Just… come home soon.”

“I will.”

I hung up, my thumb hovering over the screen, and that’s when I saw it. A notification from a private number. A single message.

“It’s time to stop playing with rebellion and take your legacy, my boy. I let you build your toys. Now return home, Keal.”

My blood turned to ice.
I didn’t need to guess who it was.
My father.
That fucking piece of shit.

Who else had enough power and pettiness to torch my club just to make a point?

He wanted to remind me who owned my blood.
Who still held the leash, even if it was frayed.

This wasn’t an accident. It was a message, a warning. He’d burned my club— my dream— to show me he could. To show me he could touch anything, anyone, if I didn’t fall in line.

Rage boiled up, hot and black, and I hurled my phone at the wall. It hit with a crack, the screen shattering, but it didn’t help. The anger was still there, clawing at my chest, and under it, something worse— fear.
Not for me.
For Ezran.
For Damien.
For everything I’d built that he could destroy with a snap of his fingers.

Damien was watching me, his eyes narrowing. “Damn, that bad?”

I said nothing.
Couldn’t.

Damien sighed. “Go home. I’ll handle this.”

“I’m not leaving my fucking club in chaos—”

“Keal.” Damien’s voice turned serious. “Ezran’s probably losing his shit at home. You wanna argue or be a decent boyfriend for once?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Don’t make me drag you out, man. Go.”

I glared at him, but he was right. Ezran needed me. And I needed him, more than I’d ever admit out loud. I grabbed my jacket, my hands still shaking, and left, the cool night air hitting me like a slap.

The cab ride home was a blur, my mind spinning with that bastard’s message, the fire, Ezran’s voice on the phone. I was holding it together on the outside— strong, steady, the way I always had to be. But inside, I was a mess. Tired. Scared.
Fucking exhausted.

When I got to the apartment, I heard Ezran’s voice before I even reached the door. Low, soft, like he was talking to someone. My heart stopped. No one was supposed to be here. Was he in trouble? Was someone— my father’s people— here?

I rang the bell, my hand hovering over the knob, ready to barge in if I had to. The door flew open almost instantly, and Ezran was there, his eyes wide, his hair a mess. He threw himself at me, his arms wrapping around my neck, his body pressing against mine like he needed to make sure I was real. His body shaking in quiet sob.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice muffled against my shoulder.

I hugged him back, my arms tight, my hands running over his back, checking for myself that he was safe. “I’m fine, Med-guy. You okay?”

He nodded, pulling back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine. Then he pressed his lips to mine— not a kiss, just a touch, like he needed the contact to ground himself. I lifted him, his legs wrapping around my waist, and kicked the door shut with a soft thud.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked, keeping my voice light, but my eyes scanned the apartment over his shoulder.

“Papa” he said, his voice quiet, pressing him tighter against me.

I didn’t say anything, just buried my face in his neck, breathing him in. The familiar scent of him— bluebells and something warm, something Ezran— calmed the storm in my chest, but it didn’t erase it.

He kissed me then, soft, his lips brushing mine like a promise. I felt the tension in him, the way his hands gripped my shoulders, like he could tell I was breaking even if I didn’t show it. It hurt him, I could see it in his eyes, and that hurt me more than anything.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t just a kiss— it was a distraction, a lifeline. He pressed himself closer, his body warm and solid against mine, and I kissed him back, harder, letting myself get lost in him.

His hands slid into my hair, tugging gently, and I groaned against his mouth, the sound raw and needy. He moaned back, soft and sweet, and I felt that pull again, the one that made me want to lay him down and worship every inch of him.

I carried him toward the couch, my lips never leaving his, the world narrowing to just us. His kisses were softer now, passionate but tender, like he was pouring everything he felt into them. I could feel it— his love, his fear, his need to fix me, even if he didn’t know how.

I sat down, pulling him into my lap, his legs straddling me. His hands framed my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks, and he kissed me again, slow and deep, his body pressing closer. I slid my hands under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles shifted under my touch.

“Keal,” he whispered, his voice breaking, and I heard it— the pain, the love, the need.

“I’m here,” I murmured, my lips brushing his jaw, my hands tightening on his hips.

He kissed me again, and I knew where this was going. Not just sex, not tonight. Something more— soft, passionate, emotional.
Something that would stitch us back together, even if just for a little while.

..........

Notes:

I spend 6 to 7 hours writing a chapter. Yet is it too hard for you to spare me 2 minutes for one comment?
Please leave a comment..

Chapter 35: Ch 35: Phone call.

Summary:

So...
📞 *Ring. Ring*
🗣 Yup?
... Your fluff ends.

Notes:

Guys, so my mom gonna bury me under six foot of ground if I don't leave my phone now. I've been using the phone the whole day. Damn.

(Chapter 35)

Keal;

The apartment was a sanctuary, our safe haven.
The world outside reduced to a faint echo, drowned out by the quiet that wrapped around us like a warm blanket on a stormy winter night.

Ezran’s lips were on mine, warm and trembling. His breath came in short, uneven bursts. His hands clutched my shoulders, not like he wanted me— but like he needed me to stay. Like I was the only damn thing keeping him tethered.

His heartbeat thundered against my chest.
Loud.
Wild.
It matched mine beat for beat, like our bodies were having a conversation our mouths couldn’t catch up to.

I could feel the weight of everything we weren’t saying— the fire, my father’s venomous message, the fear that gnawed at my core which I'm too stubborn to show. But here, in this moment, none of that mattered.
It was just us, just his warmth, his scent, the soft gasps he let out against my mouth.
Just us.

I pulled back, just enough to see him. His dark eyes were wide, shimmering with a tangle of emotions— fear, need, something deeper that made my chest ache.

His cheeks were flushed. His lips— red, kiss-bruised, parted. And that tiny mole on his collarbone peeked out from beneath the collar of my shirt— my shirt, hanging loose on his body. That single mark made my chest ache like it had a heartbeat of its own. A small, perfect mark that drew me in.
I wanted to kiss it, to kiss every part of him, to make him feel as safe as he made me feel, even if I didn’t deserve it.

“Ezran,” I murmured, my voice rough, scraped raw by the smoke from the fire and the weight of the day. His name felt like a confession, something pure I had no right to speak.
He didn’t answer, just leaned in, his lips brushing mine, soft but deliberate, like he was trying to say something words couldn’t carry. His hands slid up my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tugging gently, and I groaned, the sound low and raw, spilling from all the things I’d buried for years.

His kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, slow and warm, and I felt it—the way he poured himself into me, like he was trying to heal the broken pieces of my soul.
I lifted him, his legs still wrapped around my waist, and carried him to the bedroom, my steps slow, careful, like I was holding something fragile.
Because I was.
Ezran was not just anyone.

He's everything.
My anchor.
My breath.
My reason.
The only thing keeping me from falling into the void I’d been circling my whole life.

The bed creaked softly as I laid him down, his body sinking into the mattress, his eyes locked on mine. He reached for me, his hands tugging at my shirt, and I let him pull it off, the cool air hitting my skin as his fingers traced the lines of my chest, the sentence of my tattoo, soft and reverent, like he was touching something holy. I leaned over him, my hands framing his face, and kissed him again, slow and deep, my lips moving against his like I could memorize every curve, every taste. His eyes stayed on mine, dark and open, and I felt exposed, seen in a way that made my heart stutter.

His hands slid down my back, nails grazing lightly, and I shivered, the sensation grounding me, pulling me back from the chaos in my head. I tugged at the hem of his shirt and he lifted his arms, letting me peel it off. His skin was warm, soft, the mole on his collarbone stark against the flush spreading across his chest. I kissed it first, my lips lingering, tasting the salt of his skin. He sighed, a soft, shaky sound, his hands tightening in my hair. I moved lower, kissing his shoulder. The faint scar below his shoulder. I remembered when he told me how he got it— clumsy childhood accident, nothing heroic. But I kissed that too.
My lips moved to his chest, finding the small, sensitive peak of his nipple, and I brushed my tongue over it, slow and deliberate. He gasped, his body arching slightly, and I did it again, sucking gently, my teeth grazing just enough to make him moan, a low, needy sound that sent heat curling through me.

“Keal,” he whispered, his voice trembling, and I looked up, meeting his eyes. They were so open, so unguarded, it hurt to look at them.
He was seeing me. Not the polished pub owner, not the club boy in tight jeans and confidence. He saw the blood on my hands. The darkness. The monster. And still—

He stayed.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
Just watched me. Felt me. Breathed with me.
He was here, his hands on me, his body warm and alive under mine.

I kissed his other nipple, my tongue circling slowly, and he moaned again, louder this time, his fingers digging into my shoulders. The sound was raw, beautiful, and I wanted to hear it again, to keep drawing those sounds from him until they were all I could hear.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmured against his skin, my lips brushing the curve of his chest as I moved lower, soft and slow, and he arched beneath me, his breath hitching. “So fucking beautiful,” I said again, my voice rough, and his eyes fluttered, his cheeks flushing deeper as he looked at me, like he didn’t quite believe it but wanted to.

I kissed his stomach, my hands sliding up his thighs, feeling the way his muscles tensed under my touch.
“I’m here,” I whispered. My voice cracked. But I meant it.

He reached for my jeans, his fingers fumbling with the button, and I helped him, kicking them off, my hands shaking as I tugged at his sweatpants. They slid down his hips, and I paused, my breath catching at the sight of him— bare, vulnerable, so beautiful it made my chest ache. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and trusting, and I felt something shift inside me, something soft and grounding, like he was holding me together just by looking at me.

I settled between his legs, our bodies pressed together, skin to skin, and I could feel his heartbeat, fast and steady, against my chest. His hands roamed my back, my shoulders, like he was mapping me, memorizing me, and I kissed him again, deeper this time. Every word I couldn’t say poured into the spaces between our mouths.

Don’t leave me.
I’m yours.
Please, be mine.
I love you. So damn much.

My lips trailing along his jaw, his neck, the soft spot just below his ear that made him gasp. “Med-guy,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, and he arched against me, his hands tightening on my back, his eyes never leaving mine.

I reached for the drawer by the bed, my fingers closing around the small bottle of lube, and I took my time, warming it in my hands, my eyes locked on his. He nodded, a silent trust, and I kissed him again, slow and deep, as I prepped him, my fingers gentle, careful, watching his face for every reaction. His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed, and he moaned, soft and low, his hands gripping the sheets. I moved slowly, my fingers sliding inside him, curling gently, and he gasped, his body arching, his moans growing louder, more desperate. “Keal,” he whimpered, and I kissed him, my lips brushing his, my free hand caressing his thigh, grounding him as I worked him open, slow and careful, making sure he felt every touch, every moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured against his lips, my voice rough with emotion, and his eyes opened, meeting mine, shimmering with something that made my throat ache. I kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, whispering his name like it was the only word I knew. When he was ready, I withdrew my fingers, and he whimpered at the loss, his hands reaching for me, pulling me closer. I moved over him, our bodies aligning, and I paused, my forehead resting against his, our breaths mingling, our eyes locked.

I entered inside him slowly, carefully, watching his face, his lips parting in a soft, shuddering gasp. The warmth of him, the tightness, was overwhelming, like I was sinking into something sacred, something I didn’t deserve but would fight to keep. I moved slowly, each thrust deliberate, my hands framing his face, my lips brushing his in soft, open-mouthed kisses. His moans were quiet, raw, desperate, each one a sound I wanted to hold onto forever. I kissed his neck, his collarbone, that damn mole again, my lips lingering as I moved, slow and steady, my eyes never leaving his.

“You’re everything,” I whispered, my voice breaking, and his eyes shimmered, his hands tightening on my hips. His moans grew louder, more desperate, as I thrust deeper, my pace steady but slow, each movement a promise, a vow. I could feel him trembling, his body responding to every touch, every thrust, and I slowed even more, wanting to make this last, wanting to stay in this moment where it was just us, where nothing else could touch us.

“Keal,” he moaned, his voice raw, and I kissed him again, deeper, my lips moving against his like I could pour my soul into him. My hand slid to his chest, my thumb brushing over his nipple, circling slowly, and he gasped, his body arching, his moans spilling out, loud and needy. I did it again, sucking gently, my teeth grazing just enough to make him shudder, and his hands slid into my hair, tugging, pulling me closer.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate— it was soft, passionate, like we were weaving something between us, something stronger than the fear, the anger, the world outside. I could feel the tension in him, the way his breaths came faster, the way his hands gripped me like I was his anchor too. My hand slid between us, stroking his hardness in time with my thrusts, and he gasped, his body arching, his eyes squeezing shut. I kissed him, slow and deep, my eyes locked on his face, watching every flicker of emotion, every shudder, every moan.

“Keal,” he gasped, his voice breaking, his legs tightened around me, pulling me closer, and I felt the shift— the way his body tensed, the way his moans grew softer, more desperate, the moment he let go, his body trembling, his cum spilling over my hand, his moans loud and raw, filling the room. It pushed me over the edge, the heat and closeness overwhelming, and I came with a low groan, my face buried in his neck, my arms wrapping around him like I could keep him here forever. Our moans mingled, our breaths panting, filling the space between us as we clung to each other, his body trembling in the afterglow.

We stayed like that, tangled together, our breaths slowing, our heartbeats finding a shared rhythm. I kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, soft and lingering, and he sighed, a quiet, content sound that made my chest ache. His hands slid up my back, gentle, soothing, and I felt it— the way we were stitched back together, even if just for now. I pulled him closer, his body curling into mine, and I reached for his hand, guiding it to my chest, pressing it over my heart. My fingers curled around his, holding his hand there, and I murmured, my voice rough, “It hurts when you’re not near.”

His eyes widened, shimmering with something unspoken, and he leaned in, kissing me softly, his lips lingering against mine. It wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even a promise— it was just us, grounding each other, holding onto this moment. I tucked the blanket around us, my arms wrapping around him, and he nestled against my chest, his breath warm against my skin. I kissed the top of his head, my fingers threading through his hair, and he hummed softly, his hand still resting over my heart.

We lay there in silence, the kind that didn’t need words, the kind that felt like home. His warmth, his weight, his steady breaths— they were enough. They were everything. I wanted to stay here forever, to keep him safe, to keep this moment where nothing could hurt us. But even as I held him, I felt the weight of the world creeping back in—the fire, my father’s message, the fear that he could reach us, could take him away.

But what we didn’t know was his phone was still on the couch, the call to his father still active, the seconds ticking by on the screen. The other end had heard everything— every moan, every pant, every raw, intimate sound we made.

...........

(Thank you for reading)
[Please VOTE and leave COMMENTS]

Notes:

Guysssss, please leave a comment. 😭😭😭
And, hiii, silent readers. So, how it feels to silently read the chapter in 10 minutes which I wrote in 6 hours?
At least move your pretty lazy butt and leave a KUDO.

I love y'all.
Ba-bye my pretty bootyphool readers.

Chapter 36: Ch 36: One nod. One fucking nod.

Notes:

Hii, homies. Bruh, you all can at least tell me how I'm wrecking your pretty soul. Come on. Leave a comment. And Love you.♡

(Chapter 36)

Keal;

The morning light was too soft, too kind for the wreckage inside me. It spilled over Ezran’s sleeping form, painting his skin in gold, his hair a messy halo against the pillow.

Like an angel.
My fucking angel.

Ezran lay curled into my chest, his breath warm against my neck, his fingers unconsciously curled into my side like I was the only thing holding him to this earth. His chest rose and fell, steady, peaceful.
My heart was still raw, bruised from the way we had poured ourselves into each other, every touch a desperate attempt to hold the chaos at bay.

I pressed soft kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids. He stirred slightly, a low hum vibrating from his throat, and I smiled, trailing kisses down his neck, to that damn mole that made me weak every time. My lips brushed over it. Soft. Warm. Then pressed another kiss just below Ezran's ear where he was most ticklish. He murmured something— half a dream, half my name— and turned in his sleep, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

“Ezran,” I whispered, my voice rough, scraped raw by the smoke of yesterday’s fire.

But then—

Then the fucking doorbell shattered the morning followed by a loud bang.

I stiffened.
The knock wasn’t polite.
It was furious.
Violent.

Another bang.
Louder.

"Stay," I murmured, kissing his shoulder. "I got it."

My blood was boiling, my fists already clenched as I strode to the door. If it's Damien, then that motherfucker is a dead meat today.

The second I cracked the door open, my voice ready to tear into them. Then the hinges nearly screamed with the force of it being shoved open. And before I could speak, a man in his late fifties barreled inside, his face twisted with rage, his eyes burning with something darker— disgust, hatred. Behind him came a woman, mid-forties, her face streaked with tears, her hands trembling like she has been crying for years. Another man, older, followed, his expression a storm of hatred. They didn’t wait, didn’t even ask, just barged into my apartment like they had every right.

What the actual fuck?

"Who the hell are you?" I barked. "How dare you—"

They ignored me. The older man’s eyes swept the room, his face contorting further, and he roared, “EZRAN!” The sound was a blade, sharp and venomous, cutting through the air. My stomach twisted, a cold, sick dread settling in my gut. These weren’t strangers. They knew him.

Ezran’s footsteps came fast, uneven, and I turned to see him stumble into the living room, still in my shirt, the fabric hanging loose, hickeys blooming on his neck, his collarbone.
He froze, his eyes locking on the three figures, and I watched the life drain from him. His face went paper white, his breath catching like he’d been punched, his body trembling so violently I thought he might collapse.
His hands shook at his sides, his lips parted, but no sound came out. He was a ghost, hollowed out by their presence.

“Med-guy?” I said, my voice soft, pleading, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on them, wide with terror, like he was staring into the abyss.

"Ezran," the younger man— his father, it had to be— growled. "Come here."

Ezran didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just trembled.

The older man— his uncle— stormed toward him.

Then the slap came.

So fast.

So fucking loud.

The crack of skin-on-skin echoed like a gunshot. Ezran’s head snapped to the side, blood welling at the corner of his lip, a crimson drop against his pale skin. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t flinch, just looked down, his shoulders hunching, his body curling in on itself like he deserved it.

I saw Red.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped in front of him, my body a shield, my voice shaking with rage. “Get the fuck out,” I growled, my fists clenched, my veins pulsing. “Say what you want, but you don’t touch him. You don’t get to hurt him.” But the uncle raised his hand again, and I was faster, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back, hard enough to make him groan in pain. “I’m letting you spew your bullshit,” I hissed, my voice low and deadly, “but if you lay a finger on him again, I’ll break every bone in your body and bury you in pieces so small they’ll never find you.”

“Keal.”

Ezran's voice.

Small. Fragile.

Begging.

I froze. His eyes begged me.

My grip loosened, just enough, and I shoved the man back, my chest heaving, my veins pulsing with anger I could barely contain.

The uncle stumbled, his face twisting into a sneer as he turned to the other man— Ezran’s father. “Look at this,” he spat in Hindi, his voice thick with disgust. “You sent your son to a foreign country to be a doctor, and now he’s whoring himself out to men. Spreading his legs like a filthy animal. What will people say when they find out the eldest son of the Sharma family is a disgrace? A pervert? A stain on our name?”

The father’s face was stone, his eyes cold as he stepped forward, his voice all venomous. “You’ve shamed us all, Ezran,” he said, his words dripping with contempt. “We gave you everything— education, opportunity, our pride. And this is how you repay us? By spreading your legs for a man? By becoming this… this disgrace? Do you know what they’ll call you back home? A kinnar, a hijra, a filthy thing no one will touch. You’ve brought shame on generations.”

I didn’t understand the words, but the venom needed no translation. Each word landed on Ezran’s trembling frame. He stood there, head bowed, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, his body shaking like he was trying to hold himself together. His mother was sobbing, her hands pressed to her face, her shoulders shaking like she was mourning a corpse. She didn’t speak, didn’t defend him, just cried.

I took a step toward Ezran. I couldn’t stand him like this— shoulders hunched, hands shaking, blood drying on his lip.

So I wrapped my arms around him. Just held him.

He flinched.

Trembled harder, his body stiff, like my touch was burning him. His breath hitched, a broken, shuddering sound.

The older man shouted something, "Get your filthy hands off our son!” his eyes blazing with hatred. I glared back, my own eyes burning with murder, my hands tightening on Ezran’s shoulders. I wanted to scream, to tell them to get the fuck out, to leave us alone.

Then Ezran shoved me off, barely a touch, but it cut deeper than any blade.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

His father stepped closer, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “You disgust me, Ezran,” he said. “How could you do this? Let a man touch you? Defile you? Are you so whorish that you’d throw away your honor, your family, for this? You’re no son of mine. You’re nothing but a dirty, shameful thing. An animal who’d rather rut with men than live with dignity.” He spat on the floor, the sound sharp and ugly. “You’re a curse. We should’ve killed you at birth rather than let you grow into this.”

Ezran’s head bowed lower, his breath hitching, his body shaking so violently I thought he might break apart. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice so small it was barely there, a broken plea that tore through me. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t… I didn’t want to.” His words were a knife, twisting in my chest, and I wanted to shake him, to make him look at me, to tell him he didn’t have to apologize, didn’t have to carry their shame. But he wouldn’t meet my eyes, wouldn’t lift his head, just stood there, letting their words slit him open.

His uncle’s voice rose again, sharp and cruel. “In our family, we don’t even let boys and girls sit together before marriage,” he snarled. “We’d have forgiven you if you’d slept with a woman. We’d have called it a mistake, a moment of weakness. A modern slip.  But this? With a man? You’re worse than a whore. You’re a rotten piece of shit, Ezran. A filthy, disgusting thing that doesn’t deserve to carry our name. Do you know what they’ll say? They’ll spit on us, on your mother, your sisters, on us because of you.”

Ezran’s mother sobbed harder, her voice breaking as she spoke for the first time. “Ezran, how could you?” she choked out, her hands trembling. “We raised you to be our pride, our honor. You were supposed to be a doctor, a son we could be proud of. And now this? This sin? This filth? How could you let this man touch you? How could you do this to us?” Her words were a plea, a desperate attempt to rewrite reality, and Ezran’s body shook harder, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

His uncle’s face red with hatred and fury, and turned back to Ezran, his voice a roar. “You’re a disgrace!” he shouted. “You’ve dragged our name through the mud! You think you can live like this, like some filthy animal, and we’ll just accept it? You’re nothing, Ezran. Nothing but a shame we’ll have to erase.”

Ezran’s voice was barely a whisper, broken and raw. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his head still bowed, his hands trembling at his sides. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t… I wouldn’t.” He sounded like he was pleading for his life, like every word was tearing him apart, and I felt my heart break, the pieces grinding into dust.

The father’s voice was cold, final, a blade slicing through what was left of Ezran. “You’re dead to us,” he said. “We don’t have a son anymore. You’re a stain, a curse, a thing we’ll never claim. You’ve shamed us beyond forgiveness.” He turned to Ezran’s mother, his voice sharp. “Stop crying. He’s not worth your tears. He’s nothing.”

Ezran’s body shook harder, his breath hitching, and he whispered, “Please, Maa. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.” He reached for her, his hand trembling, but she flinched, her sobs choking her as she turned away, like his touch was poison. “Please,” he begged, his voice breaking, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

His mother’s voice was a sob, desperate and pleading. “Ezran, tell us he... he forced you,” she said, her hands reaching for him but stopping short, like she couldn’t bear to touch him. “You’re our son. We raised you better. You’d never do this. Tell us he made you. Tell us you didn’t want this. He forced you, didn’t he, beta? Tell us. Tell your maa.”

The uncle’s voice was a growl, his eyes boring into Ezran. “Did he rape you?” he demanded, the word ugly and raw, tearing through the air like a bullet. Ezran flinched, his body jerking, his breath catching like he’d been struck. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just stood there, pale and shaking, his eyes fixed on the floor. The silence was suffocating, a weight that pressed down on all of us, and I felt my heart pound, a sick, cold dread pooling in my gut.

“Answer us!” the uncle roared, and Ezran’s mother sobbed louder, her voice breaking. “Tell us, Ezran. He forced you, didn’t he?  You’d never do this sin, this filth. Tell us he raped you.”

Ezran’s breath hitched, a painful, shuddering sound that broke something inside me. His eyes were glassy, his face so pale he looked like he might collapse. He nodded, just once, a small, broken movement that felt like a blade through my heart.
.
.
.
.
.

The ground fell away. My breath caught, my heart shattered, and I stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to look at me, to see me. But he didn’t. He stood there, lifeless, his body trembling, his eyes fixed on the floor like he couldn’t bear to face me. The pain was a living thing, clawing at my chest, ripping me apart from the inside.
Ezran, my Ezran, the one who’d seen every broken piece of me and loved me anyway, was calling me a monster.
A rapist.

The word burned, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the agony of his betrayal.

The uncle was on me in an instant, his fist crashing against my face, the pain sharp but distant, like it belonged to someone else. “You filthy animal!” he roared, his voice thick with rage. “You dared filth our son? You dared touch him?” Another blow landed, and I didn’t move, didn’t fight back, just stood there, my eyes locked on Ezran, searching for something— anything— to tell me this wasn’t real.

“Ezran,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, raw and trembling. “Say it again.” I needed him to look at me, to take it back, to tell me it was a lie. But he didn’t. He stood there, pale as death, his body shaking, his eyes empty, like he was already gone. His mother was sobbing, clutching at her husband, begging him to stop, but his uncle hit me again, his fists wild, uncontrolled, and I let him, the pain a dull echo compared to the agony in my chest.

I laughed, a hollow, jagged sound that tore from my throat, sharp and bitter.
Last night, I’d given him everything—my soul, my heart, every piece of me I’d kept buried for years.
I’d told him he was my anchor, my breath, my fucking reason. And now he was letting them paint me as a monster, letting them tear me apart. “What could I do?” I said, my voice cold, distant, like it wasn’t mine. “Couldn’t resist a tight warm hole, could I?”

The uncle’s fist crashed into my face again, the pain blooming across my cheek, but I didn’t flinch. I laughed harder, the sound manic, unhinged, like something inside me had snapped. Another blow landed, and I staggered, my vision blurring, but I kept laughing, the sound raw and broken, like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Ezran’s father grabbed his arm, yanking him toward the door. “You’re coming home,” he snarled. “You’re done with this filth.” Ezran didn’t resist, didn’t look at me, just let himself be pulled, his body limp, his eyes still fixed on the floor. His mother followed, sobbing, her hands reaching for him but stopping short, like he was something tainted, something she couldn’t touch.

I wanted to scream, to grab him, to beg him to look at me, to tell me it wasn’t true, that he didn’t mean it. But my voice was gone, my body heavy, like I was sinking into the void I’d spent my life running from. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the empty apartment, and I fell to my knees, my hands shaking, my chest heaving with sobs I couldn’t let out.

I stared at the floor, at the spot where Ezran had stood, his blood still staining the corner of his lip in my memory. The pain was unbearable, a raw, bleeding wound that wouldn’t stop.

I’d loved him.
I learnt love for him.
I’d given him everything— my heart, my soul, my trust.
And now he was... gone.
And with him—

So was the last piece of me I had left.

The only person who ever loved me…

Taught me what love meant…

Had turned me into a monster with one wordless lie.And with him—

So was the last piece of me I had left.

The only person who ever loved me…

Taught me what love meant…

Had turned me into a monster with one wordless lie.

 

......

(My poor baby. *cry cry*)

Notes:

Please leave COMMENTS and new readers leave a KUDO.

Chapter 37: Ch 37: If you're divine, why am I dirty?

Summary:

This chapter wasn’t meant to disrespect anyone.
Yes, I used the example of a God—but my point was simple: love doesn’t have a gender. Feelings can grow for anyone, and that doesn’t make you weak or “less.” It makes you stronger. It makes you extraordinary.

And if someone believes love must obey rigid rules… then sorry, we’re not the same. Honestly, I pity that mindset.

Because not only in Hinduism, but across countless religions, myths, and folklores—you’ll find stories of Gods loving mortals, Gods loving Gods, and even love that blossomed between the same gender.

For me, opposite-gender love is beautiful. No denying that. But same-sex love? That’s divine. Beyond beautiful. It’s sacred in its own raw, unapologetic way.

Happy reading.♡

Notes:

Hello, my pretty readers. Hope you're enjoying the story.
But I have a different announcement today.
So tomorrow instead of any new chapter from Sin to Priest, I'd upload a new story. An one-shot MLM. Hope you guys would give it a try.
Are you excited for it?
And also I'll try uploading few one-shots from time to time.
Sin to Priest would continue like it's being now.
So enjoy and I'm looking forward for your comments on the upcoming story. Love you all. Take care.

(Chapter 37)

Ezran;

Four days.
It’s been four fucking days.

Since Four fucking days since I was dragged across oceans, out of the only arms that ever held me with love. They ripped me away from Keal, four days since I stood in his apartment, my head bowed, my voice silenced, my heart bleeding out on his floor. Four days since I nodded, since I let them call him a monster, since I betrayed the only person who ever saw me, who ever loved me, who ever made me feel like I wasn’t a mistake.

The air in this house is a noose, tightening around my throat with every breath I'm forcing myself to take.

They haven’t spoken to me.
Not that I want them to.

Not my mother. Not my father. Not my uncle.
Not when every look screams, 'You are not one of us anymore.'
Not when I already know.
I never was.

Their eyes pass through me like I’m a corpse—
No.
Worse.
Like I’m dirt beneath their feet.
Like they’re holding themselves back from throwing up every time they glance my way.

But I don’t care.
I should care.
That’s what I’ve always done— cared enough to bend, to break, to shrink until I fit in the box they built for me.
But now…
I can't even feel bad for their silence.
Because their silence is still kinder than the silence Keal left behind.

I couldn’t bring myself to feel their hatred, their shame, their rejection.
I don’t feel anything.
Just this gaping, bleeding wound where my heart used to be, where Keal used to be.
A hollow abyss that swallows every thought, every breath, every piece of me that’s left.

I’m sitting on the floor of my room, my back against the wall, my knees pulled to my chest, trying to hold myself together when all I want is to fall apart.
I haven’t slept in five days, not since that morning in Keal’s arms, when the world was soft and warm, when his kisses on my forehead felt like a promise, when his breath against my neck was the only thing keeping me happy on this earth.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see him. His face, his eyes, his smile.

His laugh.
That haunted, hollow, dead laugh. It echoes in my ears louder than any scream.
His voice, his face—
I see them.
Constantly.
When I close my eyes. When I blink. When I stare at the ceiling at 3 AM, too shattered to sleep, too numb to cry.
He’s there.

Keal.

My Keal.
The man who loved me even when I was cruel.
Even when I flinched from him.
Even when I turned away.
He held me like I mattered.
Treated me like I was something sacred.
And I—
I fucking destroyed him.

A single nod.
That’s all it took.
A coward’s nod.
Because I chose fear over him, chose survival over love, chose the boy I used to be, the boy who prayed every night for these feelings to disappear, who thought loving a man was a sin, a curse, a sickness to be cured.

I called him a rapist.
Without words.
I let my silence paint him as a monster.
The man who touched me with reverence, who gave me nothing but warmth, laughter, safety—
I made him filth in their eyes.

And I watched him break.

I saw it.
The way his eyes died.
The way he looked at me like I wasn’t Ezran anymore.
Like I was a stranger.

I haven’t eaten.
When they force me, I chew because my body needs to function, but in every bite, I taste him.
Us, at the dining table.
Keal pretending not to sneak more food onto my plate, grinning when I caught him.
The smell of coffee, his ridiculous pineapple shirt, his stupid jokes that made me laugh even when I wanted to strangle him—
God, I miss him.
I miss him so bad it makes breathing feel like a sin.

I hate myself. I hate every breath I take, every moment I exist in this body that betrayed him.
I hate the boy I am, the boy who stood there, silent, and let them destroy the only thing that ever mattered. I hate the boy who nodded, who lied, who labeled the only person who ever loved him a rapist.
A rapist.
Keal, who was so gentle our first time, so afraid of hurting me, so afraid of crossing a line, that I had to pull him closer, had to beg him to touch me, to love me, to make me his. And I called him a rapist. I let them believe he forced me, that he defiled me, that he was the monster when the only monster in that room was me.

Today, my uncle forced me to go to the temple.
I haven’t believed in divine intervention since I was fifteen.
But they dragged me there.
Told me I needed to wash off the filth.
Repent.
As if water can erase the feel of Keal's touch from my heart.

I stood in front of the idol—
Lord Hariharaputra. Ayyappa.
Son of Lord Shiva and Lord Vishnu.

Two male Gods.

Two men.
And they birthed a divine being together.

But me loving a man is a sin?

I stared at the deity, incense burning in the air, prayers humming in the background, and I wanted to laugh.
Not a real laugh.
Just the sound that dies in your throat and mocks your existence.

They worship the child of two men, call him sacred.
But call me a disgrace.
They bow their heads to a symbol of male unity,
But spit on me for finding home in a man’s arms.

Hypocrites.

But it’s not enough to make me feel. Not enough to make me care. All I feel is Keal’s absence, the hole he left behind, the hole I carved out with my own weakness.

My cousin, Rohan, was there, of course. The golden boy, the perfect son, the pride of the family. The same Rohan who sneaks out at night, who leers at girls on the street, who thinks consent is optional, who treats women like toys to be used and discarded. He was sent to guard me, to make sure I didn’t run, didn’t disgrace them further. He stood next to me in the temple, his posture stiff, his eyes cold, like I was something toxic, something he didn’t want to touch.
The pujari didn’t know why I was there, why I was repenting. Rohan didn’t tell him the truth— just said I’d gotten carried away with “some filth,” that I wasn’t in my right mind, that I was being fixed, being put back on the “right path.”
And I laughed again, inside, where no one could hear.
The irony was suffocating. Rohan, the predator, the hypocrite, calling me filthy. Rohan, who thinks women are nothing but fuck and forget, who thinks their bodies are his to take, standing there like he’s better than me.
And I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the strength. I didn’t have the will.

They said to beg for forgiveness.
To ask the Lord to wash my sins, my urges, Keal’s hands from my skin.
But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t because I didn’t feel dirty.
Not when I was with Keal.
Not when I kissed him.
Not when I moaned for him.
Not even when he was inside me, whispering my name like I was his custom made heaven.

I felt loved.
I felt wanted.
I felt alive.

So I folded my hands, bowed my head.
And I didn’t beg for forgiveness.
I asked Ayyappa a question, silently, desperately.

“Why do they worship you but punish me? If you’re divine, why is my love disgusting?”

I didn’t get an answer.
Not that I expected one.

The priest gave me instructions. I followed.
Offered flowers.
Lit the diya.
Pretended I was repentant.
While my cousin, the perfect golden bastard, told them I was “getting back on the right path.”
Right path.

I went through the motions, respected the rituals, because it was expected, because it was part of being a good son, a good Sharma. But standing there, in front of that idol, I felt nothing. No peace, no forgiveness, no divine presence. Just Keal. His face, his voice, his hands. The way he’d kiss that spot under my ear, my moles, the one that made me squirm, the one that made him laugh, soft and warm, like he was seeing the best parts of me. The way he’d hold me, his arms strong and steady, like he could keep the world at bay. The way he’d look at me, like I was his whole world, like I was enough.

When we got back to the house— home, they call it, but it’s a prison, a cage, a grave— I felt the weight of it all again.

My father’s glare could’ve peeled skin.
My mother doesn’t look at me anymore.
Only once, yesterday, she passed by my room.
She paused.
Then walked away.
As if the filth of me might follow her if she lingered too long.
I don’t care. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything but the pain, the guilt, the unbearable weight of what I’ve done. I slip into my room, shutting the door behind me, and the air is thick, heavy, like it’s trying to choke me.
I can’t breathe here.
Every inhale is a struggle, every exhale a reminder of what I’ve lost. My phone is gone, left behind in Keal’s apartment, probably still on his couch, where we laughed, where we loved, where I felt safe for the first time in my life.
I don’t have a way to reach him, to tell him I’m sorry, to beg him to forgive me, to tell him I love him, I love him, I love him.
I don’t even know if he’d listen.
I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me.
I hate myself.

My hands tremble as I move to the cabinet, to the corner where I hid it—  the shirt.
His shirt.
The one I was wearing that morning, the one that still smells faintly of him, of cedarwood, leather, alcohol and something that’s just Keal.
I pull it out, my fingers shaking so badly I nearly drop it, and I clutch it to my chest, burying my face in the fabric.
I inhale, deep and desperate, like I can breathe him back into me, like I can pull him back from the void I pushed him into. It’s faint, so faint, barely there, but it’s enough to break me. Enough to make my chest cave in, my throat burn, my eyes sting with tears that won’t come. I inhale again, and again, and again, trying to hold onto him, trying to keep him with me, but it’s fading.
The smell is fading, and soon it’ll be gone, just like him, just like us.
And I’m not ready.
I’ll never be ready.
I clutch the shirt tighter, my fingers digging into the fabric, and I whisper his name, “Keal,” like a plea, like I'm confessing. “Keal, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much. But I couldn’t say it to you. Not even once. I'm so sorry."

A tear slips out, hot and heavy, falling onto the fabric, soaking into the thread. My body curling in on itself as I press the shirt to my face, trying to breathe him in, trying to hold onto the last piece of him I have. I’m breaking, shattering, falling apart, and it hurts, it hurts so much I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t exist.

A knock at the door, sharp and sudden, and I shove the shirt back into the cabinet, my heart pounding, my hands shaking like I’ve been caught committing a crime. I wipe my face, scrub at the tear tracks, because if they see, if they know, it’ll be worse. It’ll be another reason to call me weak, to call me broken, to call me wrong.

Because men don’t cry, right?
Men don’t love other men.
Men don’t beg.
Don’t crawl.

But I would.
God, I would.

If Keal stood in front of me now—
I would fall to my knees.
Crawl to his feet.
Beg like a pathetic creature.

Just to hear him say my name with love again.

But he won’t.
Because I killed that version of him.
With one nod.

One coward’s choice.

And now I carry it with me.
Every second.
Every breath.

And I don’t know how much longer I can keep breathing.
Not like this.
Not without him.
Not after what I did.

I open the door, and it’s Rohan, his face twisted with that same smug superiority, his eyes raking over me like I’m something to be pitied, something to be fixed.

“Dinner,” he says, his voice cold, like even speaking to me is a burden. “Don’t keep everyone waiting.”

I nod, because what else can I do? I follow him, my body moving on autopilot. My chest aching, and I wonder how I’m supposed to keep living like this, how I’m supposed to keep breathing when every breath is a poisonous dagger, when every moment is a reminder of what I’ve lost.

--------

Notes:

Hello everyone,
I hope you enjoyed the story.

Before anything else, I want to sincerely apologize if any part of the content caused discomfort or came across as disrespectful toward anyone's faith or beliefs. That was never my intention. I am not a religious person myself, nor do I follow the Hindu religion, but I’ve tried to write with as much respect and understanding as possible, based on research.

That said, if I have unintentionally misrepresented or included any incorrect information regarding Lord Hariharaputra, I deeply apologize from the bottom of my heart.

Please keep this in mind while reading, and feel free to let me know if I’ve made any errors, especially concerning religious aspects— I’ll be more than willing to correct them.

Thank you for your understanding.❤️

Chapter 38: Ch 38: Return to "normality"

Notes:

Please leave a COMMENT.
And new readers, leave a KUDO.

(Chapter 38)

Ezran;

The house is a tomb, the air thick with judgment, heavy with the weight of their disgust.
I'm not their son anymore. I'm not their nephew. I'm a stain, a secret, a shame they've buried so deep they won't even speak of it.
They've tried everything up their sleeve to erase Keal from my life, from their world, like he never existed, like what we had was nothing but a sickness to be burned away.

I'm sitting in the living room now, across from my father and uncle, on the same sofa I've been summoned to since I was a child whenever they decided the shape of my future.
Like always, I wasn't invited to speak.
Like always, my life is a decision made without me.
But this time I'm not really here.
Not fully.
My body's in the chair, my eyes staring somewhere past them, but my mind's stuck in another place- another country country, another city, another life, another set of arms I'm never going to feel again.

The room smells like sandalwood. That same suffocating scent of incense my father burns when he wants to "cleanse the atmosphere."
All it does is.... choke me.

My father is sitting across from me, his face the mask of cold resolve, his eyes refusing to meet mine.
My uncle is beside him, his posture stiff, his voice clipped and authoritative, like he's delivering a death sentence.
They're talking about me, around me, through me, as if I'm not here, as if I'm already gone.

My father's voice is cold steel. "We've decided."
No preamble. No explanation. No question.
Just the verdict.

"You'll marry," he says, like he's assigning me a chore like it's the most normal thing to do. "It's time."

The words hit me like a fist to the throat, stealing my breath, my heart lurching in my chest.
My vision blurs, my pulse hammering in my ears, but I keep my face blank, my lips sealed, because I know what happens if I show weakness. I know what happens if I break. My nails dig deeper, the skin splitting, blood pooling in my palms, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but the panic, the terror, the unbearable weight of what they're asking me to do.

My uncle leans forward, his eyes narrowing, his voice dripping with a quiet venom. "There are many good families. Many good girls. Respectable, obedient. The kind of wife who will... straighten you out."

The pause before straighten you out feels like a twist in my gut, sharp and cruel.
They don't say Keal's name. They never do. They've buried him, erased him.
They don't talk about what happened, about the man I loved, about the life I had before they dragged me back here. They've locked it away, a secret too filthy to be spoken, too shameful to be remembered.

"This marriage will fix you," my uncle continues, his voice steady, clinical, like he's prescribing a cure for a disease. "It'll put an end to these... thoughts. These urges. You'll be a man again, Ezran. A proper man. No one will ever know about your... mistakes. We've made sure of that. And you also don't need to."

My father nods, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the table, as if looking at me would taint him. "No one will know," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carries the weight of a command. "Not the families. Not the girls. Not anyone. This stays buried. You'll marry, you'll have children, you'll live the life you were meant to live. And you'll forget this... this animalistic urges."

Animalistic urges.
The word slices through me, deeper than any blade, and I want to scream, to tell them that Keal wasn't any animalistic urge, that his love was the only clean thing I've ever known.
But I don't.
I can't.
My throat is locked, my voice swallowed by years of fear, years of bending, years of trying to be the son they wanted. My hands tremble, the blood dripping faster now, staining my pants, but they don't notice. Or maybe they do, and they don't care. Why would they? I'm not their son anymore. I'm a problem to be solved, a secret to be buried, a disgrace to be erased.

Inside, I'm screaming. My chest is tight, my lungs burning, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps that I fight to keep silent. I'm hyperventilating, my heart racing so fast I think it might burst, but my face stays still, my eyes fixed on the table, because if I let them see, if I let them know how much this hurts, they'll use it against me. They'll call it weakness, proof of my sickness, proof that I need to be fixed.

I think of Keal. His face, his smile, the way his hands felt against my skin, gentle and reverent, like I was something sacred. I think of the mornings we spent tangled in each other, the nights we laughed until our sides ached, the moments when I felt alive, when I felt like I could be myself without shame. I think of the future we never talked about, the one I was too afraid to hope for, the one that's now a gaping wound in my chest, bleeding out with every word they speak.

I can't marry someone else. I can't. The thought of it- standing at an altar, promising myself to a woman I'll never love, living a lie for the rest of my life-feels like a death sentence. It's not just a betrayal of her, of the woman they want to chain me to, but of myself.

And maybe also of... Keal.

I've already betrayed him once, with that nod, with my silence, with the lie that painted him a monster. I can't do it again. I can't live a life that erases him, that erases us.

But they don't ask what I want. They never have. From the moment I was born, I've been shaped to fit their mold, their expectations, their rules. I've done everything they asked- studied what they wanted, spoke how they wanted, lived how they wanted. I've been the perfect son, the perfect Sharma, always meeting their expectations, always carrying their weight. Everything except loving Keal. Everything except finding happiness in his arms. And that's the one thing they can't forgive, the one thing they need to bury.

My uncle clears his throat, his voice steady and absolute, like he's delivering a verdict. "Forget your medical degree. Those foreign countries have already ruined your mind. From now on, you'll handle the family's business. You'll learn- You'll get used to it. Rohan will make sure of it."

I don't answer. I have nothing to answer. My uncle is still talking, his voice a relentless drone, listing names, qualities, as if I'm a product for sale, a broken machine to be repaired. My father interjects occasionally, his voice cold, agreeing with every word, reinforcing the cage they're building around me. They don't mention Keal. They don't mention love. They don't mention me- not the real me, not the person I am, not the heart that's breaking with every word they speak. They're planning my life like it's a transaction, a way to restore their honor, to erase their shame.

And I sit there, silent, trembling, bleeding, because that's what I've always done. That's what they've made me. My nails dig deeper, the pain a faint echo compared to the agony in my chest, the unbearable weight of what they're asking me to do. I want to scream, to tell them I'm not a pawn, not a project, not a fucking thing to be fixed. But I don't. I can't. I'm too weak, too broken, too afraid.

Finally, they're done. My uncle leans back, his expression smug, satisfied, like he's solved a problem. My father looks at me for the first time, his eyes cold, unyielding, filled with a disgust that makes my stomach churn. "Go to your room," he says, his voice sharp, final. "We'll handle the rest."

I nod- always nodding, always agreeing, always breaking- and stand, my legs unsteady, my hands slick with blood. They don't notice. They don't care. I walk away, my chest tight, my vision blurring, my heart screaming with every step. I wonder how much longer I can do this, how much longer I can keep breathing in a world without Keal, in a world where I'm forced to be someone I'm not.

It's been three hours since I stumbled into my room, the door clicking shut behind me like the last nail of a coffin.

I didn't turn on the light. The darkness is kinder, softer, a place where I can hide the pieces of me that are falling apart. Even the dim glow from the streetlamp outside creeps through the window, casting shadows that feel too bright, too exposing, like they're mocking the pain I'm trying to bury.

I haven't cried. Not once. Not in eighteen days.
I want to, God, I want to, but the tears won't come.
I'm too numb, too hollow, like the part of me that could feel anything has been ripped out and burned. My hands still trembling, still bloody from where my nails tore into my skin. The pain is there, faint, distant, but it's not enough to pull me out of this abyss.
Nothing is.

Keal's shirt is in my hands again, clutched to my chest like it's the only thing keeping me alive. The scent is barely there now, just a whisper of cedarwood and him, but I press it to my face anyway, inhaling desperately, trying to hold onto what little is left. I close my eyes, and he's there- his smile, his laugh, the way he'd brush his fingers across my jaw. I see him, and it hurts. It fucking hurts.

I don't know how to live without him. I don't know how to keep going in a world where he's not mine, where I'm not his, where I'm forced to be someone I'm not. The thought of marriage, of a life with someone else, feels like a slow, suffocating death. I can't do it. I can't betray him again. I can't betray myself. But what choice do I have? They've decided my fate, like they've always done, and I'm too weak, too broken, to fight back.

A knock at the door startles me, soft and hesitant, so quiet I almost think it's my imagination. My heart lurches, my hands tightening around Keal's shirt as I shove it under the bed, my movements frantic. I wipe my face, my hands, trying to erase the evidence of my pain, and stumble to the door, my legs heavy, my chest tight.

I open it, and it's Rohan. His face is shadowed, his eyes cold, unreadable. He doesn't say anything at first, just thrusts his phone toward me, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. I stare at it, confused, my mind sluggish, unable to process what's happening.

"There's a call," he says, his voice low, almost annoyed, like speaking to me is a chore. "Finish talking. I'll be back in five minutes for my phone."

I take the phone, my hands trembling, my fingers slick with blood. I look at the screen- a New York number.
My heart stops, then surges, a wild, desperate hope clawing at my chest. I don't know why, but I think of Keal, of the possibility that it's him, that he's reaching out, that he doesn't hate me. I press the phone to my ear, my voice barely a whisper, raw and broken. "He‐hello?"

"Ez?"

It's not Keal. It's Tanya. Her voice is soft, familiar, but it carries a weight that makes my stomach twist, a pain that mirrors my own. I haven't heard from her in months, not since before everything shattered. I don't know how she got Rohan's number, how she convinced him to let me talk, but I don't care.
Her voice is a lifeline. She is my only connection to the world I lost, to the people who knew me when I was whole.

"Tanya," I choke out, my voice cracking, barely audible. I sink to the floor, the phone pressed so tightly to my ear it hurts. "How... how did you-"

She laughs, but it's not her usual bright, carefree laugh. It's broken, heavy, like she's carrying the same pain I am. "I flirted with your cousin," she says, her voice strained. "He's not as tough as he thinks. Wagged his tail like a dog when I batted my eyes. As for the number... well, um... I kinda begged Damien to pull some strings. He knows people, Ez. He got Rohan's number through some connections. Don't ask me how. I don't want to know."

I hear Damien in the background, his voice sharp, cutting through the static like a knife. "Tell that fucking coward that if I ever see him near Keal again, I'll rip his heart out with my bare hands."

There's a scuffle, Tanya's voice muffled as she snaps, "You're forgetting our deal, Damien." I can almost see him rolling his eyes, hear the begrudging silence as he shuts up. My chest tightens at the sound of Keal's name, a fresh wave of pain crashing over me, so intense I can barely breathe. I want to ask about him, need to ask about him, but my throat is too tight, too dry, too fucking painful.

Tanya's voice softens, and I can hear the tears in it, the worry, the love. "Ezran... how are you?"

I don't answer. I can't. The question is like a blade, slicing through the numbness inside me, exposing the raw, bleeding wound beneath.

How am I? I'm not. I'm a ghost, a shell, a shadow of the person I was when I was with Keal. I'm nothing without him, nothing but pain and guilt and the unbearable weight of what I've done. But I can't say that. I can't say anything.

After a moment of silence, I force the words out, my voice hoarse, trembling, barely audible. "How's Keal?"

There's a long pause, and I can feel her hesitation, her uncertainty, like she's weighing whether I deserve to know, whether I've earned the right to hear his name. My heart pounds, my breath catching, my fingers digging into the phone so hard I think it might break.

"Ezran..." she starts, her voice soft, fragile, like she's afraid of breaking me. "Keal... he got... stabbed. In his arm. He was coming home late, little drunk- okay, no, really wasted. He was driving, careful as he could be, but hit-"
Damien's voice cuts through, sharper now,
"He didn't hit anyone. Some idiot kid jumped in front of his car. I saw the footage myself. The brat was trying to extort him. Keal stopped, got out, and the fucker pulled a knife. Deep cut in his arm. Kid's in the ER now- lucky for that bastard, or I'd have put him there myself."

My soul shatters. The world collapses, my vision blurring, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps that burn my lungs. Keal. Stabbed. Bleeding. Hurt. Alone. The image of him, his arm torn open, his face pale, his eyes empty, rips through me, tearing me apart. I see him, and it's not the Keal I knew, not the Keal who smiled at me, who held me, who loved me. It's a Keal I broke, a Keal I abandoned, a Keal I failed. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the phone, my voice breaking as I choke out, "Is he... is he okay?"

"He's not that hurt," Tanya says quickly, her voice soothing, but it doesn't reach me, doesn't calm the panic clawing at my chest, the guilt twisting in my gut. "The cut was pretty deep, but he's okay. Damien's making sure he takes his meds, changes the bandages. He's... he's taking care of him. So Keal's fine. Physically."

The last word is a dagger.

I nod, even though she can't see me, my throat too tight to speak. I want to ask more, want to know everything- how he looks, how he sounds, if he's still the Keal I love, or if I've destroyed him beyond repair. But I can't. The words won't come. All I can see is Keal, bleeding, alone, because of me. Because I wasn't there. Because I betrayed him.

Tanya's silent for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is low, trembling, pleading, like she's reaching through the phone to shake me, to make me feel the weight of what I've done. "I don't know what you're doing. I don't know why you said he forced you. But if you don't fix this, you'll lose him. And when you lose him, you'll lose yourself too. Sometimes love isn't enough, Ezran. Not if you keep it in the dark."

Her words are a knife, twisting in my chest, tearing open the wound I've been trying to ignore. I press my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sob that's building, the scream that's clawing at my throat. I see Keal's face, his eyes empty, his smile gone, the way he looked at me like I was a stranger, like I was nothing.

"Keal's not a dirty secret," she says, her voice breaking, tears spilling through the phone. "He's not something to be ashamed of. He loved you, Ezran. He loved you so much, and you... you broke him. You broke him, and he's not the same. And I don't know if you can fix it, but if you want him, if you want your happiness, you have to do something. You can't just let this be. You can't let them bury you, bury him, bury what you had."

I'm shaking now, my whole body trembling, my breath coming in ragged, choking gasps. I want to tell her she's right, that I know I fucked up, that I hate myself for what I did. But all I can manage is a broken, "I know."

"Ezran..." Her voice cracks, and I can hear her crying now, the sound shattering what's left of my heart. "You're not okay. He's not okay. Neither of you are. And I don't know how to fix it, but... you have to try. For him. For you. Because if you don't, if you let them win, you'll never forgive yourself. You'll never be whole again."

"I love him," I whisper, the words slipping out, raw and desperate, a confession to a God who doesn't listen.
"I love him so much, T. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it. I was scared. I was so fucking scared. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I know," she says, her voice breaking, her tears mirroring the ones I can't shed. "I know, Ezran. But love isn't enough. Not if you don't fight for it. Not if you let them take it away. Not if you let them bury it."

The line goes quiet, and I can hear her breathing, hear the weight of her words crushing me, suffocating me. I want to fight. I want to be brave. I want to be the person Keal thought I was, the person he loved. But I don't know how. I don't know if I'm strong enough. I don't know if I deserve to be.

"I have to go," she says softly, her voice heavy with pain. "Rohan's probably coming back for his phone. Just... think about what I said, Ezran. Don't let this be the end."

The call ends, and the silence is deafening. I sit there, the phone still pressed to my ear, my hands shaking, my chest aching with a pain so deep it feels like it's tearing me apart.
Keal's hurt. He's hurt, and I wasn't there. I couldn't protect him. I couldn't save him. Just like I couldn't save us.

I set the phone down, my hands trembling so badly I can barely move. The darkness presses in, heavy and suffocating, and I curl into myself.
But what I know, with a clarity that cuts deeper than any blade, that I can't do it. I can't betray him again. I can't betray myself. But I don't know how to fight, how to break free, how to be the person I want to be.

All I know is that I love him. I love him, and I've lost him, and I don't know how to live with that. I don't know how to keep breathing in a world where he's not mine, where he's hurt, where he's broken, because of me.

.......

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Chapter 39: Ch 39: Breaking Point.

Summary:

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(Chapter 39)

Keal;

Ezran.
Ezran fucking Sharma.
Heard he dropped out of his med college.
I didn’t ask anyone.
I just... overheard when that Damien’s chick was talking.
She's too loud.

Not that I give a damn.
Fuck him.
He was just a distraction, a warm body that got under my skin for few months.
I tell myself that every morning when I wake up sweating from nightmares that claw their way back into my skull— the ones where shadows swallow me whole, where filthy hands grab and pull and break.

Before, a few shots of whiskey kept them at bay, just enough to blur the edges. Now?
Now I drink just to sleep, not for the buzz. I keep a bottle on the nightstand and another in the living room.
I’m running out faster than I used to.

The apartment reeks of silence, a fucking morgue. Too quiet. Like something’s died here.

Ezran's laughter, soft and real, the kind that made my chest ache in a good way. But that's gone. Shattered. Like everything else he touched.

I don't care.
I repeat it like a mantra as I stumble out of bed, my head pounding from last night's binge.
The sheets are tangled, cold on his side— no, not his side.
Just the empty side. I kick them off, ignoring the way my stomach twists. Hunger? Nah, that's not it. I can't eat worth shit anymore. Even at the five-star spots downtown, where the steaks are seared to perfection and the wine flows like blood money, it all tastes like ash. Ezran ruined that too. His home-cooked meals, simple and warm, turned my place into something that felt like... home. For a blink. An illusion. A card house he knocked down with one nod.
It pisses me off, that anger bubbling up hot and fierce. How dare he make me feel that, then rip it away like it was nothing?

I stalk into the living room, the air thick with that lavender freshener I've always used. It hits me wrong now, cloying and fake, twisting my gut. I yank the plug-in from the wall, staring at it like it's betrayed me.
Why the fuck does it bother me? It's just scent. Air. Nothing. But my mind flashes to Ezran— his skin, his hair, that subtle floral note that clung to him after a shower, like bluebells in warm summer.
Clean. Alive. Mine.

No. Not mine. Never was.

I toss the lavender unit into the trash, the clatter echoing too loud in the empty space. My chest tightens, a stupid, unwelcome pang.
It’s been hanging in the air for days now, faint and cloying, like it’s mocking me.

I’ve used lavender for years. My thing. My smell. But now, every time it hits my nose, it feels wrong. Too sweet. Too soft Like it doesn’t belong here anymore.
So I tell myself I’m changing it because the air needs a change. Not because lavender reminds me of how Ezran used to walk in and breathe it in like it was home. Not because, sometimes, I catch myself expecting to see him barefoot in my clothes, in my kitchen when it lingers too long.

Bullshit.
It’s just air freshener. Just scent. Nothing more.

Still, I spend four whole fucking days hunting down bluebells. Not the fake, synthetic crap— the kind that’s clean, fresh, faintly sweet. On the fourth day, in some overpriced boutique downtown, I find it. The label says "Wild meadow bloom," but when I inhale, it's him.
Soft petals, earthy undertones, a hint of sweetness that wraps around my throat and squeezes. I buy it without smelling it first— three units, just in case.
My air needs a change. Variety. Whatever. Back home, I plug one in the living room, another in the bedroom, the scent blooming slow and I freeze.
It smells like him.

No.
It smells like bluebells. Just bluebells.
I tell myself that again and again as I douse every damn room in it until my lungs sting.

Though it doesn’t make the place feel better.
It just makes it hurt different.

But then again the nightmares don't care about air. They come roaring back that afternoon, twisted visions of hands on me— my aunt's, the blood on my hands, Ezran's family dragging him away while he nods, I wake up gasping, sweat-soaked, the bluebells mocking me from the wall. I down another shot, then two, until the edges blur and sleep claims me again. Rinse, repeat.

The arm wound also doesn’t help.
Some shithead kid decided a knife would make him a man. He barely scratched me, but it stings like hell. Hurts when I lift things, when I shower, when I reach for the bottle. Small things. Stupid things. Feels like a reminder that I’m not untouchable anymore.

Fine.
Whatever.
It's nothing.
Ezran was nothing. Just a phase. Attraction fades. I can fuck him out of my system, right? Like before. Warm holes, no strings. That's who I am— the cocky bastard who takes what he wants and walks away.

So I try. I hit up NDN Sin, my current flagship club, the bass thumping as my second pulse.
The VIP rooms are booked solid, but I keep one locked— the one where I took Ezran that first time, where he moaned and screamed my name like I was his God. No one's allowed in there. Dust it if you have to, but lock it after. Sentimental bullshit? Nah. Just maintenance.

I spot her at the bar. She’s the type I used to like — long legs, tits spilling out of her top, a short skirt that doesn’t bother hiding how she’s not wearing panties. Her perfume is sharp and sugary, all neon sex appeal. She knows why she’s here and doesn’t waste time. Blonde hair cascading down her back, lips painted red like seduction. She's eyeing me, the hunger obvious.
Before Ezran she was the perfect— warm bodies, no names, no strings. Just a few hours of sweat and skin to take the edge off. So I saunter over, flashing that trademark grin, the one that says I'm in control, untouchable.

"Buy you a drink?" I murmur, leaning in close. Her perfume is heavy, floral but wrong— not bluebells.

She turns, her eyes lighting up like she's won the lottery. "Only if you're joining me somewhere private."

Direct. I like that. Or I used to. We head to a different VIP room— not that one. She wastes no time, pressing against me as the door clicks shut, her hands roaming my chest, unbuttoning my shirt with practiced ease.

"You're hotter up close," she purrs, her breath hot on my neck. she’s already pulling her top over her head, tossing it aside. Her bra’s gone too, breasts bare, nipples pebbled in the cool air. She smirks, running her hands over her curves like she’s unwrapping herself for me.

She thinks it’s a game, so she pushes it further— hikes her skirt to her waist and spreads her legs so I can see everything. The glisten between her thighs catches the light. No panties, no pretense.

I watch, or try to. Her fingers slide over her clit, circling slow, then plunging inside with a wet sound that echoes too loud. She moans, arching her back, thrusting her hips up. "See something you like?" she teases, pumping her fingers deeper, her juices coating them, her tits heaving with each breath. She's putting on a show— explicit, raw, the kind that used to get me rock hard in seconds. Her pussy lips part around her digits, slick and inviting, her free hand pinching a nipple until it's red and swollen.

But nothing. My dick doesn't twitch. Doesn't stir. It's like staring at a painting— pretty, but lifeless. Disgust rolls through me, thick and nauseating. This feels wrong. Terribly, gut-wrenchingly wrong. Like betrayal. My mind flashes to Ezran— his shy smiles, the way his body fit against mine, warm and trusting. Not this. Not a hole. Him.

I mumble something — “Not feeling it, sorry” — and stand before she can touch me. Her face falls, offended, angry but I’m already gone. Out of the VIP room. The club's pulse mocks me as I weave through the crowd, my arm throbbing from the stab wound, but that's nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I failed. Again. Ezran's still there, burrowed deep, and I can't dig him out.

I head to the bar, signaling for a whiskey— neat, double. The burn down my throat is a poor substitute for numbness. I don't care about him. He's in India, probably forgetting me already. Good riddance. I repeat it, but the words taste like lies.

That's when I see him walk in.
Vincent motherfucking Hyrjon.
My father.
The bastard who spawned me and spent years reminding me I was a polisher. Suit perfectly pressed, tie immaculate. Who the fuck wears a designer suit to a club? Everything about him is too much. Always has been.

He’s at the bar, ordering a scotch which costs more than most people's monthly income per sip.
I tell myself to leave him there. Don’t start shit. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

But my legs move anyway.
Rage boils up, hot and uncontrollable. I storm over, slamming my glass down hard enough to slosh whiskey over the rim.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I bark, my voice low but edged with venom.

He turns slow, that predatory smirk blooming on his face— the one that says he's already won.
I hate him more in that instant, if that's possible. Hate the silver streaks in his hair that make him look distinguished instead of decayed. Hate the way his eyes, mirror images of mine, dissect me like a bug.

"Can't a father visit his son?" he drawls, sipping the scotch with deliberate slowness. "See how he's using his little... freedom."

“That’s the worst bullshit you’ve said in months." I snarl, leaning in close, my fists clenched at my sides. The stab wound pulls, a sharp reminder, but I ignore it. "Cut it."

His smile widens, mocking, all teeth and no warmth. He sets the glass down, wiping his mouth with a napkin like we're at a board meeting, not a club pulsing with bass and sweat. "You've played around long enough, Keal. I've indulged your rebellion— your clubs, your music, your... distractions. But it's time to grow up. Hyrjon Empire needs its heir."

I grit my teeth, "I'd burn that fucking empire to the ground before I touch it."

He laughs, low and rumbling, a sound that sounds like the demons inside my head. He pats my shoulder— patronizing, possessive— and I  flinch, but don't pull away. Not yet. "You may or may not burn it down, my boy. But I can— and will— burn your little playgrounds to ashes if you don't return by this week. Next week, board meeting. I'll introduce you as the next CEO. If you refuse..." He leans closer, voice soft and lethal. “Last time I only burned the DJ booth and bar of one club. Next time, I’ll turn the whole thing to ash. I'll raze them all. Every club. Every dream you've scraped together."

I can’t answer.
I know he can.
I know he will.
That’s the worst part. He’s done worse for less.

My clubs are my life, the only thing I built without his shadow. Ombrá Hev, NDN Sin, the others— they're my escape, my proof I'm not him.

"Get out," I growl finally, my voice shaking with barely contained fury. "Get the fuck out of my property."

He smirks, taking another slow sip, savoring it like victory. "Rich taste," he comments, as if we're discussing weather. He stands, buttoning his suit jacket, but pauses, turning back with that gleam sharpening. “Oh, and… your little boy toy? He’s getting married.”
My pulse stops.
Vincent leans in, his voice dripping with emphasis. “To a good traditional woman.” He emphasise the word "Woman" more than necessary.

My world stops.
Shatters.
The club fades— the music, the lights, the crowd— all drowned in a roar of white noise.

Married.
Three week and two fucking days, and he's found a wife.
That’s all it took for him to find someone.
To bury me.
Ezran, my Ezran, replacing me with her. With goddamn normalcy.

I don't care. I shouldn't. But the lie crumbles, and pain floods in— raw, excruciating, like my chest is caving. He's gone. Really gone. And I'm left here, breaking, dying inside while I pretend to be the cocky fuck who doesn't feel a thing.

The stab wound throbs, but it's nothing. Nothing compared to this. Ezran's marrying someone else. And I'm alone in the morgue he left behind.

The rest of the night blurs. I drink more— too much— chasing numbness that won't come.
I stumble back at my apartment eventually, the scent hitting me like a wave. Him. Everywhere. I rip one from the wall, hurling it across the room, but plug it back in minutes later, because without it, the emptiness is worse.

I don't sleep. Nightmares or not, the real horror is waking up to a world without him. Married. The word loops, a noose tightening. I punch the wall, knuckles splitting, blood smearing the paint.
Pain. Good. Better than the void.

Why did I buy them? The fucking bluebells smell. Denial cracks. Because they smell like him. Because I miss him. Because he mattered. Matters.

But he's marrying. Gone.

The shatter is complete. I'm dying inside, my too well learned cocky mask crumbling. Fuck and forget? Lies. He was everything. And now, nothing.

Vincent's deadline looms, but that's secondary. The empire? Fuck it. Let him burn my clubs. What's left to save? Ezran took the heart of it all.

I pour another drink. Repeat the mantra, I don't care.

I say it again.
And again.
Then again.
Until it almost sounds true.

But it never is.

......

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Chapter 40: Ch 40: Declaration

Notes:

Sorry, for not uploading for last few days. I've been busy lately. Stil I'll try to post time to time

(Chapter 40)

Ezran;

The late-morning light peeks through the heavy curtains, casting dark shadows on the walls of my room.
Was it always this bright? This harsh? I feel like it's illuminating the edges of this cage I've been trapped in.

They've dressed me up like a doll. A puppet for their performance.

White shirt. Navy blazer. Hair combed back until not a strand dared to breathe wrong. My mother had hovered earlier, her fingers deft as she adjusted the collar, smoothed the sleeves, her touch light but insistent, as if she could iron out the wrinkles in my soul along with the cloth.

"Apply the cologne," she'd said, her voice a whisper of forced normalcy, handing me the bottle. "You need to look presentable. Smell nice." Her eyes had avoided mine.

I spray it now, the mist settling on my neck, my wrists, the scent sharp and artificial- sandalwood mixed with something citrusy, nothing like the warm cedarwood that lingered on Keal's skin. It clings to my skin like hot boiling lava. My fingers feel numb, like they're moving on autopilot, shaping me into the image they want: the dutiful son, the eligible bachelor, the man who's been "fixed."

But as I stare into the mirror, what gazes back isn't me. It's a stranger wearing my skin. His eyes are dead. His mouth a flat line. No trace of the boy I used to be- the one who smiled with genuine warmth, whose cheeks flushed with excitement when getting ready for Keal.

God, how I used to doll up for him. Willingly. Excitedly. It didn't matter if it was a date or just a lazy evening at home; I'd stand in front of the mirror like this, but with a grin pulling at my lips, my heart racing in anticipation. A new cologne? I'd spritz it on, imagining his nose burying into my neck, his low hum of approval would vibrate against my skin. A new t-shirt? I'd smooth it down, turning this way and that, knowing he'd notice the way it hugged my shoulders, his eyes lighting up with that mesmerized look, like I was the center of his universe. Even a simple hairstyle change- parting it differently, letting a curl fall over my forehead- and he'd stop whatever he was doing, his gaze softening, forgetting to talk as he drank me in. That proud glint in his eyes, like I'd hung the moon just for him made my chest feel too small for my heart. He'd smirk like I was his secret, his pride, his victory.

Now? Nothing. The cologne sits on my skin like a acid and my reflection mocks me.

My head throbs. I can feel a migraine building behind my eyes, pulsing with every beat of my heart.
Nausea rising like bile, threatening to spill over.

My heart pounds- not with excitement, but with raw, aching pain. Denial screaming in my chest.
This isn't me. This can't be happening. But it is. They're forcing me into a life that will erase everything- Keal, us, the only happiness I've ever known.

The door bursts open without a knock, jolting me from the haze. Rohan strides in, his brows furrowing as he takes me in, his expression a mix of annoyance and disdain. He steps closer, invading my space, his eyes narrowing. "What with that long face? You're going to see a girl for marriage, not a funeral. Don't be dramatic. Snap out of it."

I don't say anything. Don't feel like. My throat is too tight, jammed with unshed tears and unspoken screams. He grabs the cologne bottle from the dresser, spraying it liberally over my chest, my arms. The scent is overwhelming now, choking me further. I cough weakly, but he ignores it, his fingers raking through my hair, fixing what I'd already done, tugging harder than necessary. Pain pricks at my scalp, but it's nothing compared to the storm inside. "There. Now you look halfway decent. Come on."

He drags me out by the arm, his grip bruising, pulling me into the living room where they're all waiting. My mother stands by the window, her sari neatly draped, her face a mask of quiet resignation. My father sits on the sofa, his posture rigid. My uncle paces slightly, his authoritative presence filling the room, and Rohan releases me with a shove, crossing his arms being the good boy he so much likes to pretend.

No one speaks to me directly. They exchange glances, nods, as if I'm a piece of furniture. My legs feel heavy as we file out to the car. I slide into the back seat, the leather sticking to my sweat-dampened skin. The engine hums to life, and we pull away, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The ride is a blur. My uncle talks the whole time about the girl-traditional, well-brought-up, "familly type." His filling the silence with praise for the girl. "She's from a good family, traditional values. Knows how to manage a household, cook, respect elders. The perfect wife- obedient, modest. She'll make a fine addition to our family."
I don't hear most of it. My ears ring with a high-pitched whine, my body betraying me. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down my temples, soaking into the collar of my suit. It's not the heat; the AC is blasting cold air, but my skin burns. My hands shake in my lap, fingers twisting together, nails digging into palms until I feel the familiar sting of broken skin. Blood wells up, warm and sticky, but I don't stop. It's the only thing grounding me, a sharp counterpoint to the nausea trying to break free, the pounding in my head threatening to split my skull.

By the time we arrive at the girl's house, I'm on the verge of shattering. The car stops, and my heart slams against my ribs, each beat a desperate plea,

No, no, no.

Panic claws at my throat, tightening like a noose. I step out on unsteady legs, the ground tilting beneath me, and follow them inside like a puppet with strings.

The elders talk, laugh, trade pleasantries. I sit there mute. I can't even force my face into a smile. Something heavy sits on my chest- so heavy I can't lift my head. No one notices. Or maybe they do, but pretending not to see is easier. My father's eyes flick to me once, a warning glint, but he says nothing. My uncle laughs at some joke, clapping the girl's father on the back, while my mother sips her tea demurely.

And then the moment came which made me dreaded, "Why don't the young ones talk in private? Get to know each other."

My stomach drops. Everything inside me screams to run, to bolt out the door and never look back.
But I stand, legs numb, and follow the girl- her name is Priya, I think, or maybe Riya; it doesn't matter- into a small room off the hall. The door softly clicks shut behind us.

She's pretty, in a soft, unassuming way, her salwar kameez modest, her eyes downcast at first. She sits across from me, Smiling softly, her voice low and polite as she talks about her hobbies, her expectations. Her mouth moves, but I can't hear her. My ears are full of the sound of my own breathing - too fast, too loud.

A sudden realization crashes over me like a tidal wave; Once this marriage happens, it's over.
Everything ends.
Me. Keal. Us.
The life I didn't dare to dream of, the love I clung to- gone, buried under layers of lies and expectations.
I can't let it happen.
I can't. I can't. I can't.
Oh my god. I can't.

My breathing shallows, coming in quick, ragged gasps that burn my throat. My body trembles violently.
My hands are shaking. Sweat drips down my back. There's a roaring in my ears and something heavy pressing into my chest until I can't draw a full breath.

Keal isn't here to grab my hand, to tell me it's okay. No strong arms to wrap around me, no warm soothing voice whispering, "It's okay, Med-guy. Breathe. I'm here. You're safe with me." Just emptiness. Just panic.

I'm hyperventilating now. My chest heaving, vision spotting with black dots. Sweat pours down my face, mixing with the cologne in a sickening mix.
The girl notices, her eyes widening. "Are you okay? Drink... drink some water." She presses a glass into my hand, her touch gentle, concerned.

But I can't. My nose feels warm, wet- a trickle at first, then a steady flow. I touch it - red. Blood. Dripping down my lip, staining my suit. The hyperventilation, the stress spiking my blood pressure, the pent-up emotions exploding outward in crimson drops of blood. It splatters on the floor, and she gasps.

I whisper, brokenly, the words tearing from my soul,
"I-I can't... I love someone else. I am... I am gay."

The word hangs in the air, heavy and liberating.
Gay.
I've thought it, buried it, feared it- but saying it aloud? To myself, really, in this moment? It's the hardest acceptance.

I'm gay. I'm in love with Keal. A man. And I don't regret it. Happiness surges through the pain, a smile blooms in my lips after a long time. I repeat it, stronger this time, "I am gay."

And for a second - just a second - I feel free.

She stares, her face paling, but I don't care. Her reaction doesn't matter. This is for me. For Keal. For the love that's worth everything.

She stands abruptly, murmuring something about needing her father, and slips out. Moments later, chaos erupts. Her father's voice booms through the house: "A gay? You brought a gay into my home? A shame, a filth! You've made my house impure with this disgust!"

Insults fly- words like "disgrace," "sick," "unnatural"- directed at me, at my family. My uncle tries to placate, my father stands rigid, but they usher us out quickly, the door slamming behind us.

The car ride back is the most haunting silence I've ever endured. No one speaks. The air is thick with fury, disappointment, disgust and hatred.
My father's knuckles whiten on the wheel, my uncle's jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind. Rohan shoots me glares, my mother stares out the window, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Blood still crusts my nose, but I don't care. All I care about is Keal. I love him.
And I will not let anyone change that.

We pull up to the house, and my father storms out first, slamming the car door so hard the vehicle shakes. He barrels inside without a word, fuming. I follow slowly, my legs heavy.

As soon as I cross the threshold, my uncle lunges at me. The slap cracks across my face so hard my vision flashes white. My head snaps to the side. My ears ring. I stumble, the floor tilting beneath me.

"Why?" he roars, his voice echoing off the walls, shaking the foundations of this so-called home. "Why did you do that? Did you enjoy insulting our family? Humiliating us in front of them? Now how will we show our faces in society? You've ruined everything, you filthy fucking animal!"

He hits me again, this time a backhand that splits my lip, blood filling my mouth, metallic and bitter. Pain radiates through my jaw, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
But I don't apologize. Not like last time.
I'm not sorry.
Not for loving Keal.
They call it a mistake? If it's a mistake, If loving Keal a mistake, then may I never learn how to be right. I'd choose him in this life, in the next, and in every life the universe dares to give me.
If this "sin" leads me to hell, as they've screamed at me before, I'd walk into the flames with a smile, because at least there, I'd be free to love him.

My father whirls on me now, his eyes blazing with a fury I've never seen- disgust twisted into something monstrous. "Explain yourself!" he bellows, his voice cracking like thunder. "Why? Why sabotage everything we've built? For what?"

I swallow the blood, my voice weak but steady, the truth spilling out like a confession long overdue. "I love Keal. I won't marry. I want to go back to him."

The words hang there, defiant, and for a split second, silence reigns. Then my father's face contorts, purple with rage, and his hand flies out, slapping me so hard my entire body reels, pain exploding across my face, my neck snapping sideways. The force knocks me to my knees, my head pounding, ears ringing, but he doesn't stop. His fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing with a vise-like grip, choking off my air.

"You love a man?" he snarls, his breath hot against my face, spittle flying. "We raised you better than this sickness! This perversion! You've shamed us- your ancestors, your blood! In this house, you think you can parade your filth? We'll be outcasts because of you! Whispered about, spat on! All because you couldn't control your disgusting sluty needs! You've turned into a whore. A fucking whore who spreads their legs for money is better than you."

My windpipe screams.
My nails dig into my own palms. My lungs scream for air, but nothing comes. My face burns, my eyes bulge, black dots dancing at the edges of my vision.

I gasp futilely, my hands instinctively rising but not fighting- not pushing him away.

Why? Because part of me believes I deserve this. For hiding so long, for bending to their will, for hurting Keal. But deeper, I know,
I won't beg. I won't recant.
Not this time.
Loving Keal isn't wrong. It's the only right thing in my life.

My vision tunnels, spots dancing, my lips tingling as they turn purplish-blue. Oxygen depletes, carbon dioxide building, a toxic fog in my chest. My body weakens, knees buckling further, but my eyes lock on his- defiant, even as darkness creeps in.

My uncle watches, arms crossed, muttering curses: "Ungrateful bastard. After all we've done, you choose this path to disgust? Not even with girls. Or rented whores. A man!"

Finally, with a disgusted shove, he jerks me away, flinging me to the floor like trash.
I collapse, gasping, wheezing, sweet oxygen flooding my lungs in painful bursts. My throat aches, raw and bruised, coughs wracking my throat as I curl into myself, blood from my lip mixing with saliva on the tile.

They loom over me, breathing heavy, but I don't look up. I don't apologize. Because that's not possible. Loving Keal is my truth. And no amount of pain will change it.

The room spins as I lie there, the cold floor pressing against my cheek, a stark contrast to the fire raging in my body. Every inch hurts- my face swollen, throat constricted, chest heaving with aftershocks of the chokehold.

But beneath the physical agony, something shifts.
Something...real.
I've said it. I've owned it.
Gay. In love with a man. And for the first time, in this hellish household, I feel a flicker of freedom.

My mother hovers in the doorway, her eyes wide with horror, but she doesn't intervene. She never does. Tradition binds her tighter than any rope.
Rohan sneers from the corner, shaking his head. "Pathetic. You've destroyed us all."

My uncle isn't done. He grabs my collar, hauling me up halfway, "You think society won't know? They'll call us the family that raised an animal! Our businesses will drown! All because you couldn't be a real man!"

Pain blooms in my head, sharp and unrelenting but I bite back the groan. No weakness. Not now.

"We dragged you back from that foreign filth to save you. And this is how you repay us? By spitting on our name? Boys like you get beaten in the streets, disowned, left to rot. Is that what you want? To be nothing?"

He kicks my side, the boot connecting with ribs that crack audibly. I curl tighter, protecting myself, but the pain is everywhere- bodily, yes, but the emotional wreckage is worse.
This is my family. Blood. The ones who should love unconditionally. Instead, they're breaking me for daring to love.

And still, I'm not sorry.

Not for loving Keal.
Not for saying it out loud.
Not for refusing to bury myself for them.

I don't look at him. I don't speak. I just know-no matter what they do, I'm not letting them rip Keal from me again.

Even if it kills me, I'll die his.

........

[Please leave KUDO and COMMENTS]

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Chapter 41: Ch 41: Path to Home.

Notes:

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(Chapter 41)

Ezran;

The plane wheels screeched against the tarmac, and my stomach clenched. Every vibration of the landing gear, every sudden shudder, felt like it was shaking the last remnants of my control loose. My body ached, bruises from my father and uncle throbbing, ribs tender with every breath, face still swollen.

Yet, yet somehow, despite the pain, despite the terror and the guilt and the shame that still tasted like bleach in my mouth... hope coursed through me.

New York City.
Keal’s city.
His home.
I’m here for the second time.
My body hums, not just from the ache of bruises or the creak of my ribs, but from a desperate, clawing need to see Keal.

To the only man I’ve ever felt whole. Every breath hurts but none of it compares to the terror in my chest, the fear that Keal will look at me and see nothing but the coward who broke him.

Just the thought of him— his scent, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was everything he needed— made my entire body vibrate, alive in ways it hadn’t been for nearly a month. And now, just knowing that somewhere, across the streets and the same skyline of this city, he existed, waiting— or maybe not— was enough to push me forward.

My face is a map of pain— swollen cheeks, split lip, a crust of blood under my nose. My throat burns, raw from the memory of my father’s fingers squeezing the life out of me. My ribs throb with every movement, a dull, constant reminder of the price I paid to be here.
But I don’t care. I’d take a thousand beatings if it meant Keal would look at me again, his eyes soft and proud, like I was his moon, his stars, his everything.
I don’t know if he will.
I don’t know if he can.
I broke him. I lied. I let my family drag me away, let them try to erase him from my life. If he hates me, I deserve it.

They had told me to leave. My uncle had spat it like venom. My father had glared like he wanted to tear me limb from limb. My mother had trembled so hard I thought she’d pass out from fear. And yet, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t bending. I wasn’t apologizing. I wasn’t the scared, broken boy they could shape, mold, or control. This time, I was choosing me. Choosing what made me alive. Choosing Keal.

I moved silently through the house that had tried to suffocate me. I grabbed my important documents, my passport, my own money, anything I might need. My movements were quiet, methodical, fueled by a single, desperate purpose. Rohan froze in the doorway, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe I actually had the audacity to defy them. They didn’t believe I’d do it. I barely believed it myself. But I walked out, the door slamming behind me.

It hurt.
God, it did hurt. They’re my family. My blood. The people I loved, despite the pain they caused. Leaving them felt like tearing my heart out, leaving it bleeding at their feet. But staying? Staying would’ve killed the desperate part of me that loves Keal, the part that dares to dream for once.

A dream where I’m happy.
Where I’m his.
Not in just my mind.
In real.
In public.
In proud.

Now, in the chaos of JFK Airport, hope rises in my chest. A pathetic, tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, he would see me the way he used to do.
My legs trembling, my hands shake as I clutch my duffle bag tighter. My head pounding with a migraine that’s been building since the flight. I scan the crowd for Tanya. My heart’s racing, a frantic rhythm that screams, "What if he doesn’t want you? What if he can’t forgive you? "

I see him in my mind, that last memory— his those brown eyes hollow.
I did that.
Me.
The fucking coward who couldn’t stand up, who made him a rapist.

There she is. Tanya. Her eyes wide with worry as she spots me. Damien’s with her, his broad frame towering, his face twisting into a scowl the second he sees me. I didn’t even notice him at first. Relief flooded me, only to be punched square in my already-swollen face.

“Damien, stop!” Tanya shouts, but it’s too late. His fist slams into my jaw, a white-hot explosion that sends me stumbling back. My face screams in agony, fresh blood trickling from my lip. I taste metal, my vision blurring.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Damien snarls, his voice loud and sharp, “Next time I see you, you’re fucking dead, you little piece of shit.”

I don’t fight back. I don’t even raise my hands. I deserve this. I betrayed Keal, broke his heart, left him to drown in the mess I made. If Damien wants to beat me senseless, I’ll let him. It’s nothing compared to the guilt clawing at my insides, the knowledge that I destroyed the only person who ever loved me. He raises his fist again, but Tanya’s faster, stepping in and delivering a sharp kick to his groin. Damien doubles over, gasping, his face contorted in pain.

“Principessa, what the—?” he said,  clutching himself. “Why me? This little fucker’s the one who—”

“Shut up!” Tanya snaps, “You’re making a scene.”

The airport crowd slows, eyes darting toward us, whispers rippling. Damien straightens, still wincing, still sulking, but the fight in him paused.
I wipe the blood from my lip, my hand trembling. Tanya carefully applied ointment to my battered face, cleaning up blood and sweat.

“Come on,” she says softly, guiding me toward the exit. Damien follows, muttering curses under his breath, but there’s something else in his tone— something softer, buried deep. He’s furious, but maybe, just maybe, he wants this to work. For Keal.

In the car, Damien drives, his knuckles white on the wheel, his jaw tight. Tanya sits beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm, like she’s afraid I’ll shatter. Damien’s grumbling fills the silence. “Keal’s been a fucking disaster. A royal pain in the ass, snapping at everyone, tanking deals because he’s too busy moping. All because of you, you little shit.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes hard but not entirely cruel. “You better fix this. And also if your man doesn’t welcome you properly, I’m sending you to the morgue myself,” he muttered, half-joking, half-threatening.

I swallow, my throat raw, the words I want to say stuck. “How’s... he doing?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the engine.

Silence.
Tanya looks out the window, her lips pressed tight. Damien’s eyes flick back to the road, his jaw clenching. Their silence is an answer, and it cuts deeper than last 26 days.

Keal’s not okay.
Because of me.

We reached his apartment, Tanya’s worried eyes meeting mine. “If he gets too mad… call me or Damien immediately,” she whispered softly. Damien snorted. “Yeah, for free ICU or morgue services,” he added.

I nodded silently, my throat tight. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that. I know Keal. I know the man I love. The man who had never, not even once, raised his voice against me in the 11 months we’d shared this apartment.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, wincing as the strap digs into my bruised ribs, and head inside.

Questions are choking me. Cutting off my air like I don't deserve it.
What if he slams the door in my face? What if he looks at me with nothing but hate?

I stand in front of Keal’s door, my fingers trembling over the keypad.
I punch in the old password, expecting it to fail, but the lock clicks. Unchanged. My heart lurches, a painful mix of hope and dread. He didn’t change it. Does that mean he still cares?
Or is it just... neglect, nonchalance, indifference?

 

The apartment greeted me like a corpse. It was still messy, but… different. Not the comfortable, lived-in chaos of when he was here, but cold. Dead. And then the smell hit me— Bluebells. My scent. Not Lavender.
My chest tightens, a sob clawing at my throat.
He missed me. He had to. Why else would he do this? Why else would the air smell like me?

I dropped my duffle bag, silent in the dim light streaming from the balcony. My heart hammered in my chest.
I know this place by heart— every corner, every creak. I move to Keal’s room, my body aching but driven by something stronger.
His bed’s a mess, sheets twisted, the air thick with cedarwood and leather— his scent— but laced with too much alcohol, sharp and wrong. Bottles are everywhere, some empty, some spilling onto the floor.

I clean. I don’t know why, but I do. I gather the bottles, stack them in the kitchen, wipe down surfaces, fold his clothes. My ribs scream, my face throbs, but I keep going. It’s penance. It’s desperation.
Hoping maybe, just maybe, it would feel like home again when he returned.
Maybe he’ll see me.
Maybe he’ll forgive me.

I sit on the couch, knees to my chest, and wait. The clock ticks past midnight, then one, then two.
Waiting. Waiting.
My heart refused to slow. My eyes burn, but I don’t close them. I need to see him. Need to beg him to forgive me, to love me again, to look at me like I’m his everything.

Around 3AM, I heard the click of the door. A figure staggered in, his broad frame swaying, his steps sloppy. He’s drunk— drunker than I’ve ever seen him. Keal’s always handled his liquor, could drink half a bar and still charm a room. But now? He’s a wreck, his eyes bloodshot, his hair a mess, his jacket... zipped.
My heart shatters, guilt and love twisting together until I can’t breathe.

He freezes when he sees me, his eyes narrowing to see better, then widening. A laugh rips out of him, cruel and hollow. “Well, fuck me,” he slurs, his voice thick. “Now I get why people get wasted. If this shit’s making me see 'you', I need to buy a fucking truckload of it.” He laughs again, a jagged sound that slices through me. “Gotta ask for more of that weed. Damn good hallucination.”

I stand, my legs shaking, and move toward him. He sways, nearly collapsing, and I catch him, my hands gripping his arms. His warmth, his weight— it’s everything I’ve craved. “Keal,” I whisper, my voice breaking, and I wrap my arms around him, hugging him so tight it hurts my ribs. His scent— cedarwood, leather, alcohol, and that faint trace of bluebells— overwhelms me. Home. He’s home.

But he doesn’t hug me back. His body is stiff, a wall of muscle and anger. “What the fuck?” he mutters, his voice slurring but sharp. “Why’s my imagination so fucking 'real'?” He pulls back, his eyes focusing.  His brow furrowed. His eyes searched my face, scanning, analyzing, and I clung to him tighter, more desperate. The moment he realizes I’m not a hallucination, his face changes. His eyes go cold, dark, like a storm preparing to destroy everything. It shattered me. That distance. That disdain in his eyes.
I cling to him tighter, my fingers digging into his shirt, tears burning my eyes. “Keal, please, I—”

He shoves me, hard, his hands slamming into my chest. I stumble back, my ass hitting the floor, pain exploding through my ribs. He looms over me, his face twisted with disgust, his voice dripping with venom. “Get the fuck out of my sight, Ezran. You make me sick. I was out celebrating your fucking wedding.”

I’m sobbing now, the kind of raw, ugly crying that comes from a place so deep it feels like my soul is bleeding. “Keal, I didn’t—I didn’t... I’m so sorry, I—”

“Shut up!” he roars, his voice shaking the walls, his eyes blazing with a hate I’ve never seen. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand there and cry like you’re the fucking victim. Oh, wait. You are. Because I'm the villain here. I'm the rapist, right? I'm the disgusting filthy creature that forced himself on their innocent angel like son.”

I crawl to him like a pathetic animal, reaching for him, desperate to touch him, to make him see me. “I was wrong,” I choke out, tears streaming down my face. “I was a coward. I let them— I let them control me. I'm... I'm so sorry. You... you said your chest hurts without me. Look. Please look at me, my... my breathing hurting without you. So badly. Please, Keal.”

He laughs again, a cruel, mocking sound that rips my heart out. “That’s fucking rich. You're hurting so much for your rapist? What an odd thing to say, angel. You're hurting so much that you are marrying someone,  or maybe married already.”

I sob, my voice barely a whisper. “I know I did. I hate myself for it. I’d do anything to take it back. Please, Keal, look at me. Please see me.”

He steps closer, his face inches from mine, his breath hot with whiskey. “Look at you?", his voice low and vicious. “Why would I want to look at you? You’re nothing to me. Just a warm hole. Why are you back? Hadn't you ran back to your perfect little life?"

My sobs filled the room, raw, uncontrolled. I hadn’t cried for my father, for the beatings, for the pain— they never hurt like this.
Not like his eyes. Not like the truth that my mere presence was hurting the man I love so much it was almost physical.

I stand, my legs trembling, my hands reaching for him. “Hit me,” I beg, my voice cracking. “Yell at me. Curse at me. Hate me all you want. Do whatever you want, just don’t— don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Please. I can’t lose you.”

The apartment felt colder. The smell of his skin, the faint whiskey on his breath, the faint hope of home— I had it, and he rejected it.

I sank to the floor, broken. Shivering, aching, dying little by little.
My body hurt, yes. My bruises stung. My lips bled. But none of it mattered. Not one bit. The deeper agony was the distance between us. The shattered bridge that was my fault.
I had lied. I had destroyed the safety we had built together. I had betrayed him.

And yet, even as he looked at me with cold fury, even as he pushed me away, even as he whispered threats I could barely hear over the roaring in my chest… I still loved him. I still needed him. I still hoped he would look at me again— not with anger, not with disgust, not with pain, but like I still am someone he loves the most.

I wept, soaked in shame and love and longing. And even in that unbearable moment, I whispered through broken gasps, “Keal… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was scared. I was weak. A fucking coward. But I’m here now. I chose you. I need you. Please, Keal, give me one chance, just one chance to make it right.”

He laughs again, a sound so cold it freezes my blood. “Get out of my house, Ezran. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see your face, hear your voice or.. or, or anything. Your presence makes me sick."

I collapse to the floor, my knees giving out, my sobs shaking my whole body. I don’t care about the pain in my body. All I feel is the ache in my chest, the knowledge that I’ve lost him. “Please,” I beg again, my voice raw, desperate. “Please, Keal. I’ll do anything. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Just look at me. Just once. Please, look at me like you used to.”

He crouches down, his face level with mine, his eyes soulless and empty. “You want me to look at you?” he says, “Fine.” He grabs my chin, forcing my face up, “I see you, Ezran. I see a coward. A liar. A fucking disgusting piece of nothing.”

I’m shaking— shaking like I’m unravelling. My chest is heavy. My throat is full. My voice… I don’t even know if I have a voice left.

But I have to. I have to say it. I have to let him know.

“Keal…” My whisper trembles, a thread of sound, weak, breaking, raw. I feel him look at me, and for a second, my heart catches. A single flicker of hope.

I swallow. My tongue is heavy. My heart is hammering, threatening to tear itself from my chest. I have only one shot. I can’t fail.

“I… I love you.”

The words crack out of me, jagged, bitter, soaked in everything I’ve buried inside for years. I can feel them leaving me, spilling out, raw and trembling, and for a heartbeat… I think he might hear me. I think he might care.

He’s frozen. Just frozen. My chest tightens, my stomach twists, my entire body trembles, waiting for his reply. Waiting for something. Anything.

And then… he laughs.

The sound slices through me. Sharp, cold, cruel. It’s the kind of laugh that doesn’t belong to anyone—it’s hollow, echoing, and it turns my hope into dust. I choke, my throat tight, but I can’t look away. I can’t.

“I always dreamed you’d say that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His voice… soft, tender almost gentle, but empty. “I always wished you would love me too. And won't be ashamed.”

My chest seizes. My heart shatters into a thousand pieces I can’t gather. My throat burns. My limbs feel like they belong to someone else, a version of me that doesn’t matter anymore, "I-I was never ashamed of you. Of... of loving you, Keal. I was just a coward. Too scared to admit it to even myself."

I’m still on my knees, still gasping, still trying to reach a part of him I killed with my one fucking nod.
I’m sobbing so hard I can’t breathe, my chest heaving, my heart shattering. “I... love you,” I whisper again, over and over,  like if I say it enough, he’ll hear me. “I love you, Keal. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” he snaps, standing, his voice shaking with rage, "Get out. Right now. Or so God help me, I can't guarantee your bodily safety anymore.”

I don’t move. I can’t. I sit there, on the cold floor, my body shaking, my face wet with tears. I hate myself. I hate the coward I was, the lie I told, the pain I caused. I’d give anything to go back, to fight harder, to never leave his side. But all I have is this moment, this pathetic, desperate hope that he’ll see me, really see me, and remember who we were.

He turns away, his shoulders rigid, his fists clenched so tight. The door to his room slams shut. I’m alone, curled on the floor. My sobs fill the silence, raw and broken, as I cling to the hope that somehow, someday, he’ll look at me again. Like I’m his Med-guy, His everything.

...........

Please leave COMMENTS and KUDO.♡

Notes:

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Chapter 42: Ch 42:

Notes:

Guys, So Q&A.

What do you think, will this story get a sad ending or a happy ending?

(Chapter 42)

Keal;

The world spins like a goddamn carousel, my head pounding with the kind of hangover that feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to my skull. I groan, rolling over on the cold hardwood floor, my cheek pressed against the cold surface.

Why the fuck am I on the floor?

Last night crashes back in fragments—  Ezran's face, his tears, his desperate whispers. "I love you." Fuck. I slammed the door to my room so hard it rattled the walls, like that door was the enemy, like shutting it would lock out the memories of every time I'd stumbled through it with him in my arms, laughing, kissing, whole.

But this time? This time when I shut the door on Ezran, it felt like slamming it on my own chest.
I hate that.
I hate that even after everything, some pathetic part of me wanted to yank it open and pull him inside, hold him until the world stopped hurting us both.

But fuck that. He lied. He nodded when they called me a rapist.
He labeled me a rapist.
He left.
Forgiveness? Not for him. Not now. Not ever.

I push myself up, my muscles screaming from the awkward position, the room tilting. Half-asleep. Half-drunk. Half-hungover. Whatever the fuck that meant.

The air smells... different. Not the stale booze that's been my companion for the last month.
No, it's warm, spicy, familiar. Curry. Soft Indian curry. My stomach twists— not from hunger, but from memory. Ezran used to make this before he end everything, humming under his breath, wearing my clothes, his hair messy from sleep, his smile shy when I'd sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.

For a moment—one pathetic, tiny, gut-wrenching moment—it felt normal. Beautiful, even. Like home.
Like the last month was a nightmare I can shake off. Like he's here because he never left, because he never broke me.

I round the corner, and there he is. Ezran. Standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, his back to me. His shoulders are tense, but the way he moves— precise, careful— it's him. All him. My heart stutters, a traitorous beat of longing that I squash down hard. This isn't home. This is invasion. He's not supposed to be here.

Then he turned.

Our eyes met.
And the illusion shattered.

His face… Christ. His fucking face.
A map of bruises. Purple and yellow blooming across his cheekbones, some half-healed like they've been there a while, others fresh, angry red. His lip is split and there's a shadow under his eye that looks like it hurts just to blink.

My fists… they were already calling out violence. I counted silently, teeth gritted, trying to control the rising storm inside me.

one...two...three...
I shouldn't care. He betrayed me. He doesn't get my protection.

Four...five...six...

I want to storm over, grab his chin, inspect every mark, and then hunt down the bastards who—

Seven...

“Who the fuck used you as a punching bag?” I snapped, the words bursting out before I could clamp them down.

I wanted to rip someone’s throat out. My blood boiled white-hot, a violence itching under my skin that I hadn’t felt in years. Whoever the fuck dared to touch him—

No. No. Shut it down. He’s not yours. Never was. You don’t get to care.

He flinches, his eyes dropping to the floor. He mumbles something, so quite that I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t listening like a hawk. But I heard it, "Family."

Family.
Those bastards.

My knuckles whitened, my jaw clenched so tight I could hear the grind of my teeth. A hot, white fury surged through me. I wanted to kill them. Skin them alive. Burn their fucking pride to ash. I know I shouldn't feel anything

But the rage doesn't care about logic. It screams for vengeance, for breaking every bone in their bodies. I force a shrug, make it casual, like it doesn't matter. "Serves you right." The words taste like ash, bitter and wrong, but I spit them out anyway.

Before I did something I couldn’t take back, I stormed off to the bathroom.

Under the shower, hot water pounding my skin, I try to wash it away. The hangover, the fury, him. But my mind won't shut up. I want to kill them. Every single bastard who laid a finger on him. Smash their faces until they beg for mercy, make them feel the fear they instilled in him.

"He's not yours." I remind myself, lathering soap over my chest like I can scrub out the possessiveness. "He chose them. He left you. Made you a rapist in front of them. This isn't about protecting him; it's about... what? Pride?"

A fucking disgusting gross of a demon whispered from inside my head, "Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that."

I step out, water dripping from my body, butt naked as usual. The cool air hits my skin, and I frown at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
Ezran used to love this— me walking around naked around him, my body on display for him. He'd pretend to be annoyed, rolling his eyes, but I'd catch him staring, his cheeks flushing, his pants tenting. Fuck, it turned me on every time.

But... why would I give him that now? He's a lying piece of shit who doesn't deserve this God sculpted body.

I grab a towel, wrap it around my waist, another over my shoulders and chest. Hmph. Covered up like a victorian nun.

But as I step into the door, I pause. Why the fuck am I covering my godly body for him? My goddamn body deserved worship. Not covering.

He's nothing. A warm hole, like I told him last night. I yank the towels off, letting them drop to the floor.
Naked and unashamed, I stride toward the kitchen, side-eyeing him the whole way. Is he looking? Does he still want this?

But his back is on me. My teeth ground together. That little shit.
I make noise— clear my throat, let my footsteps thud louder— but he doesn't turn.
Anger flares, irrational and hot. He's not even noticing? After barging back into my life? The fact that it pisses me off that he's not looking pisses me off more.

That was it. My temper snapped. “Why the fuck are you still here? Haven’t you packed your shit and left yet?”

He turns then, slowly, his eyes flicking up to meet mine before drifting down. They travel over my chest, my abs, lower— hungry, gleaming, yet shy, shining with something that made my dick betray me instantly.

Little fucking traitor.
Didn’t twitch for half the live fuck-shows I’ve shoved myself into, but one glance from Ezran? Standing at salute like the loyal little shit it is.

Heat floods my face— anger, embarrassment, desire I don't want. I storm into my room, slamming yet another door, and throw on whatever's in front of me—jeans, a black tee that clings too tight. Fuck him. Fuck this.

I grab my jacket, heading out. Didn’t even look at him when I threw the words over my shoulder: “Be gone by the time I return.”

The dining table is set with food, steaming and inviting, but I don't glance at them. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a second, breathing hard. I can't forgive him.
But hating him? Hurting him? God, I can't even do that right.

Ombrá Hev pulses with midday energy when I arrive— staff prepping for the night, bass thumping from test runs.
I spotted Damien the second I walked in. He took one look at me, his brows cocked. “You look kinda less of an asshole than last month.”

I smiled. Too sweet. Almost diabetic. Then I kicked him square in the balls.
He doubles over, groaning, clutching himself like his life's ending. "What the fuck with you guys with my family jewels? Yesterday Principessa, and now even you, fucker."

I smirk, leaning on the bar. "So your chick kicked your dick too? Maybe she figured whether you had it or not makes no difference with a two-inch problem.”

He straightens, still wincing, but grins through the pain. "Oh, love, that obsessed with my dick? Find a better hobby. I'm not into you."

"Why'd Tanya kick you?" I ask, signaling the bartender for a shot.

He shrugs, casual as hell. "Because I hit Ezran."

Everything in me halted. The air turned razor-sharp.

“What?” My voice was quiet, too quiet.

Damien shrugged, casual. “Because I kinda was punching your—” He doesn't finish. My fist crashes into his ribs, the crack satisfying. He groans, staggering back.
I smile— the one that says he's done, finished, end of his story.
“Oops. Accident.” Then I punched him again, square in the face.

“Not my face, fucker!” Damien yelled, staggering.

“Sorry. Accidents happen,” I said, before landing another and then we're at it— wrestling, trading blows like cats and dogs, rolling across the bar floor. Staff rushes in, pulling us apart, cursing under their breath.

We end up sitting side by side, ice bags pressed to our faces. My knuckles throb, my cheek swelling, but who fucking cares? Damien's got a black eye blooming, blood on his shirt. And that's enough satisfying.

"Fucking Romeo," he mutters, smirking. "You were gonna kill your best buddy for your little boyfie, man."

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped instantly. Too fast. “And I didn’t beat your ass because of him. You just looked… punchable.”

Lie. Total lie. But admitting that someone hurting Ezran makes me see red? No. Not happening.

We get back to work like nothing happened— reviewing inventory, barking orders at staff.
It's regular for us; beating each other is our comfort language.
But this time? I meant to hurt.
And I hate it. Hate that the thought of Damien's fist on Ezran's already bruised face made me lose it. Hate that I'm plotting the Sharmas' downfall in my head— not bodily, not yet, but financially? Pride-wise? Oh, yeah. Break their damn fucking pride until they choke on it.

It's not for Ezran, I tell myself. I don't care who beats him. This is because they dared raise a hand to me that day, messing with Keal. Not wise. Not at all.

A demon in my head giggles. "Hehe, it's so because of Ezran."

Fuck off, limp dick.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts. There— "Illie❤️💦". Heart? Splash? Like, seriously? I make a puking gesture, remembering her: met at my strip club, fucked once or twice. She's a stunner, every man's wet dream— curves, confidence, works in my strip club because she loves it, no judgment.

But no one stars in my wet dreams but that damn med nerd.

The demon giggles again. Little bitch.

I text:

"Need you to get someone laid."

She replies instantly:

"Who and when, baby?"

Instead of texting back, I call. She picks up on the first ring, her voice sultry. "Keal, darlin', long time."

"Cut the shit. I need you to do something. Consider it me taking my favor back." I tell her everything. Once I'm done with my not so moral plan, she laughs, low and eager. "Consider it done. Send his details."

The day drags— meetings, deals, the usual grind. I stick to cocktails, light and fizzy, like cold drinks. No hard stuff. Hate to admit it, but I'm afraid. Afraid if I get drunk, I'll snap like last night, hurt him more. Push him away harder. Or worse— pull him close.

By evening, I'm sober-ish, heading home. The apartment door looms, and I brace myself. He's gone, right? Followed my order.

Wrong. He's on the couch, curled up, the dining table still set with food. Covered but untouched.
The stubborn little shit hadn’t eaten all day. Maybe hadn’t eaten yesterday either.

"Why the fuck haven't you fucked off yet?" I bark.

He stands, wobbling, almost falling. Pale as a ghost, trembling. I catch him instinctively, my arms around his waist. And instead of pushing himself up, Ezran… just rested his head on my chest. Closed his eyes. Inhaled me like I was oxygen.
His breath hitches, like he's home.

For a second, I freeze. His warmth seeps through my shirt, familiar, addictive. I want to hold him, bury my face in his hair, whisper that it's okay. But it's not. I shove him back onto the couch, hard enough to make him gasp. "Eat something. I’m not carrying your sick ass if you faint like a kid.”

He looks up, eyes pleading. "Eat with me?"

I scoff, crossing my arms. "I don't have an appetite to eat with my already-dumped fuckhole."

Hurt flickers across his face— raw, deep, like a knife twist.
Good. He deserves it. But fuck, it stings me too. "I'm not hungry then," he whispers, voice small but stubborn.

"Eat," I growl, stepping closer.

"No."

I groan, my jaw ticked, frustration boiling, “Since when the fuck did you get this annoyingly stubborn?”

His eyes meet mine, steady despite the pallor. "Since you started pretending I don't exist."

And I wanted to scream. To hit something. To punch the air. To rip someone’s throat out. To make him eat. To make him see I hadn’t stopped giving a damn. To punish him for making me care too much.

I wanted to shake him and say that I can't forgive, but hating him feels like hating my already pitiful existence. Instead, I turn away, storming to the kitchen. "Fine. Starve to death. See if I care."

........

(Thank you for reading)
[COMMENTS]

Notes:

Leave KUDO and COMMENTS

Chapter 43: Ch 43: Where is he?

Notes:

Guys, Hello. So after we're done with Sin to Priest, a new story is going to come. I'm already working on it. I wanted to make it a straight romance. But my BL heart poking me to make it a BL romance.
It's going to be a Enemies to Lovers romance with... craziness, which will make you question should you be scared or... find it hot.

So, guys I want your opinion on it. Will y'all want it as Straight Romance or BL romance?
Comment down.

(Chapter 43)

Keal;

The silence in my apartment is fucking unbearable. Too quiet, like the walls themselves are reminding me that maybe, just maybe, I went too fucking far.

I spin on my heel, storming back to my room before I can see the hurt carve deeper into his face. I lean against it, chest heaving, fists clenched at my sides. I toss my jacket on the floor, curse under my breath pretending like I don't care if he's out there or not.
Pretending like I didn't just shove him away when he leaned on me like I was something worth leaning on.
Yet why the fuck does this feel like I'm the one starving?
Like every barbed word I throw at him is slicing me open too?

I pace the room, the carpet muffling my footsteps, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.

I should let him suffer. He deserves it for what he did. For nodding along with those bastards, for labeling me, for leaving me like I was nothing.
A rapist.
A monster.
Fuck him.
Fuck me for still wanting to embrace him.

But the minutes drag into hours, and the silence from the living room gnaws at me. No clatter of dishes, no soft footsteps, nothing. It's too quiet. Too empty. I tell myself I don't give a shit, but my body betrays me-heart pounding a little faster, that demon in my head whispering shits. I slam my palm against the dresser, muttering, "Why the fuck did I say that? Why the fuck did I tell him to leave?"

It's past midnight. Too late for anyone decent to still be here. My gut twists. What if he listened? What if he walked out into the night, bruised and weak, gone for good?

Fuck that noise. I flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to drown it out with memories of last month- the haze of booze, the parade of bodies that meant nothing, the numb oblivion. But even that feels tainted now. Ezran's back, invading my space, my thoughts, my goddamn sanity.

But minutes tick by, and my chest won't fucking settle. The unease creeps in like smoke under the door.
The apartment feels like a tomb. I sit up, rubbing my temples. Just check. Peek out. Make sure the little shit hasn't done something stupid. Not because I care. Because if he passes out or some shit, I'll have to deal with the mess.

I crack the door open silently, peering into the dim light creeping from the balcony. But there's no sign of him. My stomach drops like a stone. Gone.

He left. That stubborn dumb fuck actually left. In the middle of the night. After fainting on me. After refusing to eat. After- fuck.

Panic surges hot and unbidden, flooding my veins. Why the fuck did I say that? Why did I tell him to starve, to fuck off? Stupid, reckless idiot- him or me, I don't know anymore.

I burst out of the room, grabbing my car keys from the side table, heart hammering. I'll drive around, find him, drag his ass back- wait, no. What the hell am I thinking? Let him go. But the image of him out there, alone, vulnerable, twists something fucking ugly in that stupid organ which was supposed to pump blood. Only pump blood but does batshit like making me feel.

"Ezran?" My voice comes out rough, edged with something I shouldn't anymore- worry.

My legs ready to bolt out the door, when I notice it.
A figure on the couch, unmoving, curled up in the shadows. Relief crashes over me like a wave, leaving me dizzy.
He's sleeping. Just sleeping. I let out a shaky breath, leaning against the wall for support. Fuck, that scared me to death. More than any rational person would.

I should go back to my room, leave him there. But my feet move on their own, carrying me closer. He's so still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. "Ezran?" I whisper, soft as hell, like I'm afraid to break the quiet. No response. I crouch down in front of the couch, hesitating. Why am I doing this? To gloat? To make sure he's okay? I don't know. I don't fucking know.

"Ezran." Louder this time, my hand hovering over his shoulder. I shake him gently, and his arm slips off the edge, falling limp to the floor. My blood runs cold. "Ezran? Wake up." No movement. Panic claws up my throat. "Fuck." My voice cracks, panic clawing its way out of me. I shake him harder. "Ezran. Wake the fuck up! Don't do this. Don't fucking pull this shit on me!" I shake him harder, cupping his face- his skin clammy, pale under the bruises. His eyes flutter open, just a slit, hazy and unfocused.

"... Keal" he murmurs, barely audible. He sounds like the word is taking everything he has.

"Hold on." I bolt to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, my hands shaking. Back at his side, I prop him up against the cushions, tipping the glass to his lips. "Drink. Slowly."

He sips, his hand coming up to cover mine on the glass. The touch is light, but it burns- his fingers lingering, tracing the back of my hand like he's savoring it. He closes his eyes, leaning into the contact, his breath warm against my skin like he's savoring the goddamn touch, not the water.

My breath stutters. For a second I forget what air feels like. The world narrows to that point of connection, electric, pulling at something deep inside me. My pulse thundering in my ears. This shouldn't feel like this. Like home. Like I want to pull him closer, not push him away.

I yank my hand back, the glass sloshing a little. "Here, take it." I shove it into his grip, standing up too fast. "I'm... getting you food. Don't move."

As I turn, I catch it- his fingers lingering on the glass, right where mine were, pressing there like he's holding onto the ghost of my touch. Like he's holding on to me even when I'm gone.

Fucking hell.

I force myself to the kitchen, slamming cabinets to drown out the thoughts. Food. Focus on food.

The curry he made earlier sits on the stove, covered. I lift the lid- sour, spoiled from sitting out all day.
Great.
Fridge it is. I yank it open, staring at the sad assortment: cereal boxes, juice cartons, beers stacked like soldiers, raw veggies wilting in the drawer, loaves of bread going stale, a rainbow of spices and sauces that could stock a restaurant, fruits. And milk. Yeah, that'll do. Simple. Safe.

I pour milk into a pot, heat it on the stove, my mind racing. Why am I doing this? He betrayed me. He doesn't deserve my care. But the image of him collapsed... God, it terrifies me. I grab my phone, ordering from the nearest 24-hour spot- pizza, pasta, whatever's quick. Midnight munchies for the win.

Milk warmed, I snag a bowl of cut fruits from the counter- prepped earlier, I guess-and rush back. He's sitting up a bit more, eyes tracking me with that dumbfounded look, like he can't believe I'm here.

"Here." I thrust the bowl and mug at him, scratching the back of my neck. "What the fuck was I supposed to find in the middle of the night? You collapsed because you're a stubborn shit, you know that?"

His lips twitch, failing to hide a small smile. It lights up his face, softening the bruises, and my chest tightens. "This is... sweet. But honey would be better now. Will provide enough body sugar."

Medical student, for sure.
I roll my eyes, but I'm already moving, raiding the pantry. Jar in hand, I nearly stumble over my own feet rushing back- clumsy as a teenager, what the hell? I plop down in front of him again, twisting off the cap. No spoon. Fuck it. I dip my index and middle fingers into the sticky sweetness, bringing them to his mouth without thinking.

He looks at me. But doesn't hesitate. His lips part, taking my fingers in, sucking the honey clean. Slow. Deliberate. His tongue swirls around them, warm and wet, eyes locking onto mine. Heat explodes through me, straight to my dick. I gulp, my Adam's apple bobbing hard, throat dry as Sahara Desert.
The way he sucks- sensual, teasing, like he's remembering every filthy thing we've done- it's choking.
When did he became this bold?
The air thickens, tension coiling tight between us, undeniable. My dick stirs, traitor that it is, and I fight the urge to pull him closer, to replace my fingers with my mouth. With my—

"Ezran..." My voice is rough, a warning, but it comes out more like a plea.

God, I should rip my hand away. I should throw him off, call him a whore, anything. But I just… freeze. Letting him suck me down like I’m the one starving.  Because do I want to rip my fingers out of his mouth or shove them deeper— I can’t decide.

He hums around my fingers, the vibration shooting straight through me. "Tastes good," he whispers when he finally releases them, licking the remaining from his lips.

Fuck.
I want to hate him.
I do hate him. For lying, for leaving, for making me feel like this- like I can't breathe without him. But this pull... it's magnetic, toxic, and I can't deny it pulses through every vein. "Don't," I mutter, but my eyes drop to his mouth, imagining honey drizzled over his skin, licking it off until he's writhing.

"Please, Keal. Kiss me." He begs softly. But God, God how much plead that one sentence holds.

I almost groan. Almost drag him into me and taste that sweetness off his lips. Almost.

"No," my voice comes out harsher. The word tastes like blood in my mouth—because I mean yes, yes, yes.

I jerk my fingers back just as the doorbell rings, shattering the moment. I spring up, mumbling, "Food delivery." Anything to escape that gaze, that tension wrapping around my throat like a noose.

We eat in silence. Pizza slices, pasta twirled on forks- mechanical, no words. I shove food in my mouth to avoid looking at him, but every glance steals my breath. The way he eats slowly, savoring, like he's drawing it out to stay in this moment. I hate it. Hate how it feels almost normal. Almost right.

When the plates are cleared, I stand abruptly. "Done." I head to my room, closing the door with a soft click this time-no slam. But inside, I lean against it, heart racing. I hate him. I'll get over this. This feeling- it's just residue, a funk I'll shake off.
Tomorrow. Or the next day. Yeah.

I don't come out of my room before midday. I fucking sneaked lout of my house like a goddamn thief.

Business hour. Work. No distraction. My club is buzzing with prep for a big meeting- Some rich prick wants a VIP detail party for his high-end allies. Suits, schmoozing, the works. Damien and I sit in the conference room, him paying full attention to the bullshit, me zoning out as the designer drones on about themes, guest lists, exclusivity.

But my mind? It's elsewhere. Replaying last night. The way Ezran sucked my fingers, slow and filthy, fucking bold.
How badly I wanted to yank them out and crash my lips against his, pour that damn honey over his body- chest, abs, lower- and taste every inch until he's begging, moaning, crying in desperation for me to fuck him.
For me.
The thought has me shifting in my seat, heat building despite myself. I hate that I want it. Hate that after everything, my body still craves him like a drug.

Fuck, I should be listening to this suit blabber. Instead, I’m hard over the memory of him sucking me off my own fucking fingers. Pathetic.

A sharp stab in my thigh jolts me back. Damien's pen, jabbed under the table. "Fuck!" I yelp, jerking. Damien grins beside me, pulling his pen out of my thigh.

"Pussy," he mutters under his breath.

"Fuck you," I hiss back, but then my phone vibrates on the table. Again. Ignored messages from Ezran stack up- dozens, probably apologies, pleas I don't want to read but can't stop thinking about. I silenced them earlier, but the calls... wait, not from him. From the manager of my other club. Missed calls, one after another. What the fuck?

"Excuse me," I mutter to the room, standing. "Urgent call." I step out into the hallway, dialing back. The line connects, and the manager's voice rushes out, frantic.

"Keal, thank God. You need to get here now. There's... Someone fucked up. There's are cops."

"What the!"

"Just come. It's about... I don't even know the reason. Please hurry."

The line goes dead. My gut twists- tension hanging like a blade. What could be so urgent? A fire like that time?

Or... something worse— my name, splattered in headlines. My past, dragged into the light.

And the funniest part? I can’t tell if I care about any of it anymore.

......

[Please leave KUDO & COMMENTS]

 

NOTICE:

Guys, Hello. So after we're done with Sin to Priest, a new story is going to come. I'm already working on it. I wanted to make it a straight romance. But my BL heart poking me to make it a BL romance.
It's going to be a Enemies to Lovers romance with... craziness, which will make you question should you be scared or... find it hot.

So, guys I want your opinion on it. Will y'all want it as Straight Romance or BL romance?
Comment down.

Notes:

NEW STORY COMING... (And does AO3 features allow adding images in the story??)

Chapter 44: Ch 44: Sealed... luck?

Notes:

Please guys, leave a Comment.

(Chapter 44)

Keal;

The flashing red-blue lights are the first thing I see when I pull up.

My club—one of my best, cleanest— well, as clean as they get in this game— is swarmed by cops like it’s a fucking crime scene.

Fire? Raid? Some drunk asshole causing a scene? But cops sealing shit? Nah, that's fucking ridiculous.

Cop cars line the curb, officers milling around with clipboards and that smug, authoritative swagger. The entrance is taped off with yellow caution strips which screams DO NOT ENTER and my manager— Javier — looks like he's about to puke, pacing by the door.

"The fuck is this?" I bark, slamming the car door and storming up. Heads turn, a couple of uniforms eyeing me like I'm the criminal. Javier rushes over, face pale as a ghost.

"Keal, thank God. They showed up an hour ago, no warning. Saying we're done— sealing the place. License revoked on the spot."

"Sealed? For fucking what?" My voice is low, dangerous, but my heart's hammering.

One of the cops steps forward, a burly sergeant with a mustache that looks like it belongs in a 70s porn flick.
"Inspector David. Are you the owner, Sir?"

“Try again. I’m the one who pays taxes that keep your shoes tied. What is this?” Damien’s not here yet.
Good.
One of us should still have normal blood pressure.

"Back off, Sir. Club's sealed."

“Like fuck it is.” I grab his badge, shove it back at his chest. “This is my property. You want to tell me why the hell I can’t step inside?”

Inspector David doesn’t blink. “Anonymous complaints corroborated by on-site observations. Your club knowingly allows underage entry. Alcohol served to minors. Possible drug distribution. Multiple sexual harassment complaints under investigation. This club’s license is suspended. Effective immediately.”

I stare at him, the words hitting like punches. "Bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit." My pulse hammering in my ears. “All of it. IDs are scanned. Two-stage. Our door policy is tighter than your fucking asshole. Wristbands. UV stamps. And no drugs— not for kids, not for adults, not for even freaking God. We toss people for even smelling wrong. Pull the cameras. I’ll show you.”

My head of security, Kellan, shoves the tablet into my hands like a lifeline. I scrub through— timestamps, door feed, bar feed, VIP corridor. It’s clean. It’s always clean. I hold it out. “Take a look.”

David doesn’t. His eyes slide past like I offered him a crossword. “We’ve got statements. Evidence. That’s enough for now. We’ll review official recordings during the investigation. In the meantime, your license is suspended. Premises sealed.”

I laugh. A sharp, ugly sound. “Evidence? Show me. Footage, IDs, names. Let me see your so-called victims.”

He crosses his arms, unmoved. "We've got witness statements, undercover reports. This club's been flagged for months. We're shutting it down immediately. License suspended pending investigation."

A younger cop lifts an evidence bag at me, a little theatrical flourish. Tiny packets inside, brand I’ve never seen on my floors. “Found in a VIP cabin's ashtray.”

“You planted grocery-store glitter in my champagne room and want fucking applause? We do physical bag checks on every VIP entry. Open your ears— we also wand the staff. Nobody’s risking knees for coins.”

“That’s a lovely speech,” David says. “Save it for the board.”

I whirl on Kellan, “Show them.” He nods, shoving the phone in the cop’s face once again. Every entry cam, every bar counter— clean. No kids. No shady handoffs. Nothing.

But the cop doesn’t even look. Doesn’t flinch. Just repeats, “Not interested.”

Not interested? My blood boils. "This is my livelihood, you prick. You're telling me you're sealing a multi-million operation on 'reports' without even glancing at proof?"

He darts inside, but David blocks the door. "Place is sealed. No entry."

"Fuck that." I shove past, but two office grab my arms, holding me back. "Get your hands off me."

"Easy, Mr. Hyrjon. Assaulting an officer won't help."

Something curdles in my chest. Oh. I get it. They’re not here for the law. They’re here for a job. Someone’s pulling the strings.

“Listen,” I switch gears, voice low. I step close enough that he can smell the restraint burning off me. “You don’t want a circus. I don’t want a circus. Business season. VIP contracts. This gets messy, your inbox dies. Let me make it… less messy.” I slide a neatly folded check from my inner pocket. Not my first language, but I’m fluent.
David doesn’t even look down. His mouth thins like he tasted something sour. “Are you attempting to bribe a law enforcement officer, Mr. Hyrjon?”

I smile. “I’m attempting to be an adult.”

“Attempt denied. Step back.”

His refusal isn’t even pure. It’s… lacquered. He’s not refusing because he’s clean; he’s refusing because someone already washed him. Something big hums behind this— a hand on his spine that isn’t mine, turning his head to “moral.”

I try all of it anyway, because I am not moral or wise — I am desperate.

I go lighter. Heavier. Call the lawyer. Call two. Offer to shut down voluntarily for forty-eight hours, audit them myself, open books, hand over DVRs, names, logs, whatever flavor they want. I offer to let their own people sit in my security room for a week. Nothing. They’re deaf to reason, blind to footage, dumb to numbers.

Cops in the NYC? They've turned blind eyes for less. My head throbs, frustration clawing up my throat.
It’s not about truth; it’s about theater. Since when did they decide to make morality shine from their ass?

That’s it. Every angle, blocked. Legal, illegal, doesn’t matter. Someone higher up’s got their dick in this whole operation.
My temple throbs.

I can feel the vein pulsing as they slap the “SEIZED” sign across the doors. My club— my work, my goddamn reputation— chained up like a whorehouse.

My license gone. Business season? Fucked.
Headlines tomorrow will tank my reputation— minors, drugs, harassment. Even if false, mud will stick.

Javier stands there, shell-shocked. "What now, boss?"

“Lock staff pay. No employee should face problem for this shitshow.j” I rasp. "Call Damien. Tell him to lawyer up. Dig into who filed those reports." My voice is flat, but inside, I'm raging. Head pounding like a war drum. Unsolved shit piling up— Ezran, the club, now this. I need a drink, or a fight, something to vent.

I'm about to head to my car when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
Private.
I know. Before I even answer, I fucking know.

I swipe accept, pressing it to my ear. "What the fuck do you want?"

A chuckle slithers through the line, smooth as oil. Vincent Hyrjon. My so-called father. "Keal, my boy. Always so direct. I see you've had an eventful afternoon."

"You motherfucker," I snarl, blood roaring in my ears. "This is you, isn't it? The cops, the seal— your doing."

Another laugh, light, like we're chatting about the weather. "Now, now. Don't jump to conclusions. Though, I must say, it's entertaining watching you scramble. Reminds me of when you were a kid, trying to fight for being good to the hostel."

I snarl. “You bored, old man? Decided to play cops and ruin my night?”

“Bored?” Vincent says, amused. “No. I can’t let my son wander into traffic forever. And it’s been seven days.”

“Seven days since what— your tantrum?” I pace, breath sharpening. Streetlight glare cuts my eyes. “Seven days since you sent your dogs inspectors sniffing around because you can’t stand that I built something without you?”

“It's been seven days since our little chat. I gave you time to think.” he says, voice cooling. “My patience has limits before it snaps. I am still being nice. I really don't want to… demolish my son's hobby.”

“My ‘hobby’ kept people fed who didn’t marry you for money,” I spit. "And Think? About what— taking over your empire? I'd rather be bankrupt than take over the business that killed my mother and ate my childhood.”

His voice darkens, a edge creeping in like a blade. "Emotions, son. They cloud judgment. Your mother's death was... unfortunate. But business is business. Money doesn't care about tears. It flows, regardless."

"Unfortunate? You pushed her to it— your deals, your enemies, the constant shows. She was pushed to severe depression because of you! I am not fucking twelve anymore.”
My voice shakes with how much I want to put my fist through his teeth. “You won’t touch my staff. Not one of my people.”

“You remain sentimental,” he says, almost fond. “I admire your energy. Aim it better. You will call your manager tomorrow. You will announce your sabbatical and join me by Monday. Or—”

“Or you finish what you started when you married my mother’s sister? When you sent me to that torture house?” It rips out of me before I can cage it.
Silence, brief.

A hum, like he’s considering a menu. "Such drama. You sound like one of those cheap  film heroes, spouting lines for an audience.  That line plays very well in movies. Perhaps in your little bars, too. Not in life. Money is money, my boy. Doesn’t matter which road it takes to arrive.”

"I'm not you. Never will be."

His tone shifts, cold as ice, threatening "Come to your senses. Or I’ll stop being nice. I’ll demolish every little toy you’ve built. Club by club, brick by brick. Until you have nothing left to crawl back to but me.”

The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone, rage boiling over. He doesn't bluff.
Vincent Hyrjon—kingpin, untouchable.
He'd raze my world without a blink, son or fucking not.

I slam the phone against the dashboard so hard the screen splinters, then hurl it into the wall of the alley, watching it shatter into worthless shards. My breath comes ragged, fury clawing at my insides.

Vincent doesn’t bluff. If he says he’ll burn my world, he’ll do it. And I— fuck— I have no shield in front of him.

Fuck.
Fuck everything.
My head throbbing, issues unsolved. The day's a mirror of that nightmare month ago. The thought of going home makes bile rise. Last time I walked into that apartment broken, I confessed things swore I’d bury, and within hours everything crumbled. Ezran’s one nod, Ezran’s betrayal— like the universe mocking me for opening my chest.

Breathing had hurt since age twelve but that day it learned new tricks. I survived once. Barely. I don’t have a second skin to shed.

What if it happens again?
What if I let myself breathe around him, and he leaves again?
What if he lies?
What if his family’s chains drag him back? What if—
... What if I can’t survive it this time?

But that stubborn idiot is in my apartment. He’ll sit there, not eating, like hunger is fucking optional. And I… I can’t leave him to starve.
My anger is loud.
My care is louder.
I hate both.

I drag myself into the car, drive slow, delaying. And Ezran... God, I want to hold him. Tight. Never let go. But fear whispers: Don't. He'll break you.

By the time I reach my door, it’s late enough that the city has forgotten me. I unlock, step into the dim, and there he is—  curled on the chiar, head resting in the dining table, half-upright, an untouched plate on the table. He’s sleeping like a baby.

And despite myself, despite everything—my lips curve. Tired, bitter, but warm. A smile I wish I could kill.

I move closer. He looks so damn peaceful I want to kiss him, taste that calm. But then my gaze drops to the pages. I lean in. Magazine articles highlighted with his pink highlighter.

Part-time gigs circled. Tutors wanted. Café shifts. Courier. A note scrawled in his cramped hand, night-friendly / flexible.

My mouth twists before I can stop it. Of course he’s looking. His family cut him off completely. Didn't contact him after that day.
He won’t ask me. Pride and guilt make a poisonous mixture.
I know it. I recognize the knot; I was born with one.

Yet, my chest… eases. Just seeing him, breathing in my space, softens something mean in me.
It’s disgusting.
It’s relief.

I toss my jacket down, louder than necessary, stomp to the kitchen, yank cabinets open, slam the fridge door shut. Anything to wake him.
I'm noise, noise is me.

He stirs, blinking awake. Sits up, rubbing eyes. "Keal? You're back. I... I made dinner."

"Yeah," I mutter. Grab plates, serve whatever he cooked— looks like stir-fry, veggies, rice. Smells good, but I don't comment. Sit across, fork in hand.

He says, small smile trying and failing. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I made rice earlier… it got cold. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to carbohydrates,” I say flatly. “They don’t care.”

He huffs a tiny laugh— hopeful thing— and picks up his spoon. “How was your day? You look tired."

"Fine." Short. Closed.

Internally? Day was hell. Father, cops, threats. But you? Waiting like this? Melts the ice a bit.

Don't say it. Keal fucking Hyrjon don't say it.

"I, uh… I’m going back,” he says after a moment, voice finding ground.

The fuck ! Going back to where! India? I'm going to fucking lock him up.

“To college. I spoke to the attendance office earlier. Because it’s been… only a month, I won’t need to re-enroll. I’ll probably miss some clinical numbers. I can make it up with theory if I work harder.”

Ohh... Good for him.

"Mm." Fork to mouth.

Inside, though? I’m answering every word

Good. You’re going back. You should. You’re brilliant. You’ll manage. You always do.

He keeps going, nervously. “It’ll be a lot. But I’ll manage. Maybe… maybe I’ll even do better this time.”

Closed-off, I nod once. “Sure.”

Of course you will, little shit. You’ve survived worse.

Ezran keeps talking, filling the quiet I leave like he’s plugging leaks. “I need to organize my notes. I saved some PDFs— I’ll reprint. I, um— I should probably cut down on distractions. Sleep early, wake at five. You know. Structure.”

Good. Do it. I like you disciplined. I like you steady. I like you alive.
Fuck me. I don't like him. I don't.

“Sounds like a plan.” My voice is a locked door. I keep it that way. I could call in a favor. I could get the professors onto an extra lab list, push his schedule, fix the world a little.

Instead I shovel rice. “Don't faint when left alone. It's annoying.”

He smiles, fragile. “I deserved that.”

You didn’t deserve what you got. You deserved a spine sooner and a family that didn’t use you like an object. “Eat.”

He eats. He keeps trying to talk, like if he lines up enough words, they’ll build a bridge I’ll cross. He tells me about the registrar’s email. About a friend who sent him last week’s notes. About how he’ll have to make up the sterile dressing practical because he missed the demo.

I answer in monosyllables. “Mm.” “Fine.” “Do it.” “Don’t care.” I keep my eyes on the food, on the clock, on anywhere that isn’t him.
But his sentences crawl under my skin anyway, settle in my ribs.  I find solution for his every problem I could solve.

He glances at the magazines. I do not. He doesn’t mention them. Of course he doesn’t. Pride, guilt, poison rope. My jaw ticks.

He finally puts his spoon down, voice barely above a breath. “I’m trying, Keal.”

I swallow glass. “Try quieter.”

He flinches, nods. “Okay.”

We clear the plates. He reaches to take mine. Our fingers brush.
My body wants.
My head screams. My heart is an damn idiot.
I rinse the plate like it hurt me. “Don’t wait next time. Eat.”

He doesn't say anything. He’s looking at me the way people look at temples. “Good night.”

I turn away so he can’t see it— the microsecond where my face softens, where the sight of him in my kitchen settles something feral in me. “Night."
I walk to my room. The door closes with a soft click. I lean my forehead against it and breathe.

In the hush, the city is far; the problems are far, my father is far. Ezran’s fork in the sink is the loudest sound in the world.

I want to go back out there, hook a finger under his chin, ask about the highlighted ads like I’m not dying to fund his life and bolt the door to anyone who ever hurt him. I want to tell him my club was sealed, that a man with my face’s bones just promised to drown me, that I am more scared than angry, and I am very, very angry.

Instead I slide the lock. I sit on the edge of the bed. I stare at the torn ghost of my room.

If Vincent comes for everything I built, I will bleed for it. If Ezran leaves again, I don’t know what I become. The math doesn’t work.

On the other side of the wall, I hear a soft rustle. He’s making his couch nest again. He has refused to sleep in his room.
I close my eyes.
Breathing hurts less with him here.
But I will not admit it.
I will not admit it.
I will... not admit it.

.......

[KUDO & COMMENT]

Notes:

Comment, please.