The car ride was silent. Not the awkward kind—just still. As if even the sound of breath dared not disturb the air between them.
Yuuto sat curled up in the backseat of the sleek black car, Aiden's coat wrapped around him like armor. He kept sneaking glances at the man beside him. The CEO stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
Was he angry? Regretting his decision?
Why had he helped Yuuto at all?
The car finally pulled through large iron gates and into a private driveway. Yuuto's eyes widened. The mansion looked like something from a drama—tall, dark, and elegant with warm lights glowing from the windows.
"This is your house?" he blurted, before he could stop himself.
Aiden didn't answer. He stepped out, and Yuuto hurried after him, bare feet hitting the cold stone steps. A butler opened the door with a nod.
"Mr. Park."
"I need clothes, a warm meal, and a guest room. Now."
"Yes, sir."
Yuuto looked around in awe. The inside was just as stunning—high ceilings, spotless floors, and everything looked… expensive.
He suddenly felt very small. Out of place.
"You," Aiden turned to him, "take a shower. Eat. Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Yuuto hesitated. "Why are you… doing this?"
Aiden's eyes locked with his. "Don't ask questions tonight."
Yuuto opened his mouth to argue, but something about Aiden's expression stopped him.
Maybe it was the exhaustion hiding behind that cold gaze.
Maybe it was something deeper.
He saved me… and still looks like he's the one falling apart, Yuuto thought.
—
The warm bath felt like heaven. He scrubbed until his skin stung, trying to erase the fear, the shame, the memory of that hotel. Fresh clothes awaited him outside—simple, soft, and somehow perfectly his size.
He walked into the guest room and gasped. It was bigger than his entire house. The bed looked like it could swallow him.
He sat, then laid back.
Silence.
Clean sheets.
Safe.
His eyes blurred with tears. The first real safety he had felt in years… and it came from a stranger.
—
Meanwhile, Aiden sat in his study, staring at an old medical file on his desk.
Ten years.
At most.
His doctors had sugar-coated it, but he wasn't stupid.
He placed a hand over his chest, where the dull ache never fully disappeared.
Then he thought of the boy.
Wet, scared, trembling—but still fighting to live.
Why had he helped him?
He didn't know.
But for the first time in years, he hadn't felt completely numb.
Just tired. And maybe… strangely alive.