It’s warm.

That golden kind of warmth. Afternoon light pours in through thin, lace curtains. Soft. Hushed. The kind that lulls everything into stillness.

A hand moves through his hair, slow and gentle. Fingertips brush behind his ear, then over the crown of his head in slow, familiar loops.

He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to.

She’s here.

She smells like spring. Jasmine, lemon tea, and Egyptian cotton. Her arms are wrapped around him, his face tucked somewhere safe. Her breath against his hair, warm and sweet.

She’s humming.

No words. Just the sound. He knows it. Not the song, but the feeling.

A weight lifts from his chest. He doesn’t know it was there until it’s gone. Her thumb sweeps under his eye. His limbs go weak. He could sleep here forever.

The warmth doesn’t fade.

It thickens. Too much. Too heavy. The air presses against his lungs and the hand stills. He tries to turn. His body won’t move. His eyes are closed. He can’t open them. The light behind them turns orange. Dense. Close. It’s not soft anymore. It’s warmer. Uncomfortably so. 

Her voice hums again, but this time it strains. Like a record slowing, just slightly warped. Still gentle. But, wrong. 

The shape of the room changes. He’s not in her arms anymore. Or maybe she’s still there, but he can’t sense her. He tries to hold onto her, the scent, the touch, but it slips away like smoke.

The light presses into his skin like it wants to take something. It hurts. His entire body feels damp. Too hot. There’s a sound. Is it glass? Maybe metal. 

There’s a name in his throat. It wants out, but he can’t say it. Can’t find it. Can’t remember why it matters. But it needs to matter.

A shape passes behind his eyes. Not a face. A silhouette. Broad shoulders. Stillness. It doesn’t touch him. It just watches. He knows it.

He’s afraid. 

It’s dark now and he’s alone. So incredibly alone. Everything is gone. The light. The warmth. The breath. Her. The hand in his hair. The fabric under his cheek. It’s all gone.

As if it had never been there.

***

Tears trickled silently down his cheeks before Jasper even realized he was awake.

His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, breath held too long in his chest. Sheets tangled loosely at his waist. He didn’t move. The tears just kept coming. Slow, steady, like they’d started somewhere far away and only now found their way out.

He didn’t know why.

Whatever he had been dreaming was already dissolving. No clear images. No coherent scenes. Just flashes, soft and scattered impressions, and a feeling. Warm and heavy, like arms wrapped around him. Like a presence that should have been there but wasn’t. A voice he couldn’t hold onto.

He blinked, and the ceiling came into focus a second too late. The space around him unfamiliar, until it wasn’t.

His throat tightened.

Slowly, he rolled onto his side, curling slightly as if bracing for something. The heat of the dream still clung to his skin, but it was fading now, replaced by an emptiness that felt too much like grief. Or guilt. Or both.

But the ache, that deep, lingering ache, remained.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, hard, like he could push it away. There had been a woman. Or the idea of one. And something else. Something just beneath the surface of knowing. The more he tried to hold onto it, the more it slipped away, like water through closed fists.

He sat up, moving slowly, letting the cool concrete under his feet steady him. Pulling off his damp shirt, he crossed into the small adjoining bathroom, not bothering with the light.

The steam found him first, then the water, scalding and unrelenting. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t adjust it. The heat felt familiar. Almost right. It rolled over him, too quickly, but it didn’t burn. It reminded him of her. That warmth. That stillness. He tilted his face into the stream, hoping the pressure might chase it away. But every time he closed his eyes, he remembered.

A hand in his hair. A weight beside him. That low, quiet hum tugging at something deep in his chest.

And then nothing.

The absence of it gutted him. He didn’t know what he was mourning. Only that it felt real. And old. And entirely unreachable.

He pressed his hands flat to the tile, breathing deep. He scrubbed harder than necessary. Not to get clean, but to erase something. A feeling. A memory. A ghost still touching him beneath the skin.

Eventually, when his fingers went numb and the steam coated the mirror too thick to see through, he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist. The air outside the shower felt colder than it should’ve. Like ice trying to bring down a fever.

The folded clothes were still stacked neatly on the edge of the bed. He crossed the room slowly, his muscles aching in strange places. It wasn’t pain exactly. Just… residue. Like his body remembered something his mind didn’t.

He pulled the black shirt from the stack. It felt strange in his hands. Light, but the fabric had a sturdiness he wasn’t used to. No logos, no embellishments, just clean stitching and a slight stretch at the shoulders that made it easier to move. The pants were the same. Black again, soft on the inside, fitted but with more give than anything he owned. Even the boots felt different. Lightweight, matte leather, plain on the surface but built with structure.

It wasn’t fashion. It was function. The kind of outfit made for movement, for slipping away quickly if needed.

Not his style. Not even close.

Jasper stared at them for a long moment, towel clutched at his waist. Then, slowly, he dressed. 

The fit was… perfect. Not just close. Exact. The way the fabric slid across his skin, no bunching at the waist or drag at the ankles. The boots molded to the shape of his foot like they’d already been broken in, like they’d already been his. He tried not to think about what that meant.

Damien knew his size. Not a guess. Not an estimate. Down to the inch, down to the taper of his legs and the width of his shoulders.

Creep.

He stood in the middle of the room, fully dressed, but still feeling exposed. The room felt smaller now. His gaze dragged across the walls, then to the corner where his towel lay crumpled and forgotten. The air was still damp from the shower, heavy with the scent of soap and the last traces of the dream. That woman’s voice. That warmth. That loss. The ache hadn’t gone. Just retreated, tucked behind his ribs where it pulsed quietly.

He glanced at the door. It wasn’t locked. He could leave, “roam,” if he wanted. Maybe find a hallway he hadn’t walked yet. Maybe let his legs move until something in his mind quieted.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes drifted to the tablet on the desk. Still dark. Still waiting. It hadn’t lit up, hadn’t made a sound, but he knew it was meant for him. Knew Damien had left it there with intent. The kind of intent coiled like a snake that wasn’t venomous, just cruel enough to bite anyway. Maybe this was Damien’s version of permission, twisted, indirect, but dangerous all the same.

He hadn’t touched it. Honestly, it made his skin itch just looking at it. And yet, he didn’t sit down either. Didn’t leave the room. He just stood there.

Between things.

He thought about the way Damien had looked at him, like he’d already decided everything. Like Jasper was just a step in a plan that had been written long before he ever opened his eyes and found himself here. Like he was a question Damien had already memorized the answer to. Like this wasn’t the beginning. Just the middle of something Jasper had never agreed to.

Then there was the way Damien spoke afterward, almost indifferent, not caring that he was forcing the truth in like a blade to the heart, shoved in sideways. Clean. Efficient. Meant to hurt.

His fists clenched at the memory.

And his father. No, Vincent. Vincent was a murderer. And worse, the kind who called it protection. The kind who filed his own son under something classified, labeled him a protected asset under something called Project Argus.

Jasper hadn’t even known what that meant, only that it sounded like a designation you gave a weapon you didn’t want falling into the wrong hands. His father hadn’t protected him because he cared. He’d protected an asset.

That word stuck. Asset. Not his son. Not a person. Just something useful. Not because he mattered, but because he could matter. To someone. To something.

And now Damien had him. Because someone had decided he was important. Just not in the way Jasper used to believe.

But the worst part? He was still here. No chains. No locked doors. No one holding him down. Just choice. He could have demanded to leave. But he hadn’t. He’d agreed to stay.

Not because he trusted Damien. Not because he understood any of this. But because he had looked at the lie he had been living and stepped willingly into this one. And now the weight of that decision was starting to settle. Not all at once. Not like regret. More like certainty.

Jasper walked over to the desk slowly, the tablet sitting there like a sealed confession. He pulled the chair back slightly with two fingers, the scrape of metal legs on concrete, making him wince. He stared down at the screen, watching his own reflection in the black glass. Not a stranger exactly. Not familiar either. His finger hovered above the corner. But he didn’t press it.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted answers. Or silence. Or to simply fold into himself and disappear.