Cercis

It’s been a couple of days since that disaster of a party, and the “bathroom incident” with Jerry. Yeah, let’s not talk about that.

Shun hasn’t messaged me since. Not even a “hey.” Probably because of what he saw. And honestly? I can’t even blame him. If I were him, I’d ghost me too.

Still, I can’t just let him go. I need him... for my plans, for Iris, for… reasons I don’t really want to think about. But every time I try to figure out if it’s just for Iris or for something more selfish, my brain short-circuits. So I just don’t think about it.

Then, of course, Jerry had to stick his nose in my life again.

He called earlier this morning, voice annoyingly smug:

“There’s another party tonight. Birthday of a business partner. You’re coming.”

I groaned so loud I think I scared my neighbor’s cat.

“Pass. I’m still hungover from the last ego fest you dragged me to.”

“Not a request,” he said. “Wear the gold dress I bought you.”

That’s when I nearly threw my phone. “If you think I’m wearing that overpriced mistake again—”

“If you don’t,” he interrupted smoothly, “I’ll just deduct the cost from your salary.”

Five. Months. Worth. Of. Salary.

So yeah, I went. Because apparently, rent is more important than pride.

At the party, Jerry hovered over me like an overprotective hawk with control issues. I couldn’t even sneak near the alcohol table without him giving me that look. So I smiled, nodded, pretended to care about rich people’s conversations, all while fantasizing about keying his car later.

By the time the party ended, I’d had enough.

“Just drop me at a convenience store,” I told him, waving him off.

Jerry smirked. “Stocking up again, Cercis? Try not to embarrass my company logo while drinking this time.”

“Don’t worry,” I shot back. “I only embarrass the people who deserve it.”

He laughed as he drove off, and I flipped him off before heading inside the store.

A few minutes later, I walked out with a cold bottle of beer, cracked it open, and drank as I walked. It’s called coping. Therapeutic even.

That’s when I saw it... his face.

A huge ad poster of Shun, smiling, radiant, perfect. His new campaign. My steps faltered. I just stood there like an idiot, staring.

“Of course,” I muttered. “Even billboards get to see him more than I do.”

I sighed, debating if I should text him. But pride’s a stubborn thing, so instead of messaging him like a normal person, I decided to do something insane... go to his agency.

Inside, I was greeted by Amara, who looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion spread herself.

“Oh my god, Cercis!” she gasped. “That dress looks amazing on you!”

I forced a smile. “Thanks. It’s actually the embodiment of my suffering.”

She laughed, but her smile softened. “Shun’s not here, though. He left early.”

Of course he did.

Then she leaned closer and whispered, “If you’re looking for him, I can give you his address.”

I hesitated. “That’s… stalker-level behavior.”

Amara shrugged. “Then call it concern.”

So yeah, I took it. Because maybe I am that desperate.

Now, here I am, standing in front of his penthouse door... penthouse.

“Wow,” I mutter. “From sleeping on the floor of his and our mother’s decrepit apartment, glow-up of the century.”

I stare at the door, debating whether to ring the bell or just leave the food and run. But let’s be real... I came this far.

So I knock. “Shun? It’s me.”

Silence.

I knock again, louder this time. “Open up, pretty boy. I brought peace offerings; food and alcohol. Don’t make me drink it all alone.”

Still nothing.

I sigh, leaning against the door. “You’re either not home, or you’re ignoring me. Both are understandable.”

Then, faintly, I hear footsteps from inside. My heart does this stupid little flip it shouldn’t do.

“Shun?” I call softly.

The lock clicks.

And just like that... everything I’ve been trying not to think about is standing right on the other side of the door.

Shun

Work feels heavier these days.

The cameras, the flashes, the people telling me I look perfect, it’s all noise again. Empty. Meaningless.

Ever since that night at the party, I can’t shake the image out of my head... Cercis and him. Her lips on Jerry’s. The sound of it. The look on her face.

Same scene.

Same damn bathroom door.

Like high school all over again.

Back then, I couldn’t do anything. I had no right to. Cercis wasn’t mine.

And now, years later… nothing’s changed. She’s still not mine.

I sit on the couch, staring at the city from my penthouse window. The place is quiet... too quiet. Everything’s clean, perfect, lifeless. The kind of perfection that makes you realize how alone you actually are.

I take a long sip of whiskey. It burns. I hate it.

But for some reason, it reminds me of her, Cercis and her stupid beer bottles, the way she drinks like the world owes her something. The way she laughs it off like nothing hurts her, even when it clearly does.

“You’re rubbing off on me, Cercis,” I mumble, setting the glass down. My reflection stares back from the window... eyes half-lidded, dark circles, messy hair. Pathetic.

I can’t stop thinking about Cercis’s strange behavior ever since we met each other again at the city library. The moment I saw her, something in me knew she remembered... her eyes said it, even if her mouth didn’t. Yet she acted like I was just another stranger, like our history was nothing more than a forgotten dream.

But I know Cercis better than that. She’s too observant, too sharp to forget someone completely. Especially me. There’s a certain hesitation in her movements when I’m around, a flicker in her gaze that betrays her calm exterior. She remembers everything; she’s just pretending not to.

I didn’t want to believe it at first, but then I saw proof. The day I went to her apartment to deliver the dress, I caught a glimpse of her room through the slightly open door. Drawings... dozens of them... covered her wall. My face stared back at me from those sketches, each one different: some soft, some dark, some almost painful to look at.

It wasn’t just admiration or nostalgia... it felt like obsession. Like she’d been trying to remember every detail of me, even while convincing herself she’d forgotten.

I stared there longer than I should’ve, trying to make sense of it. Maybe she kept drawing me because she couldn’t move on. Or maybe she just wanted to punish herself for remembering someone she shouldn’t. Either way, I can’t stop thinking about those sketches. About how she lied to my face, pretending I was no one, when her walls said otherwise. Don’t even get me started with her novel.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see them again... the lines, the shading, the way she captured my expression like she was trying to understand me all over again. And maybe that’s the worst part. Because I still don’t understand her either.

My mind then drifted back to the past. The way Cercis used to defend me without realizing she was saving me. Back then, I was just some broke kid with a face that drew the wrong kind of attention. Men, women, it didn’t matter, they all looked at me like I was something to take.

And when they tried, when they crossed that line, something in me always snapped.

My mother said I had my father’s temper.

She wasn’t wrong.

Sinclair Kornblume. The name means nothing to me. He’s powerful, rich, untouchable. I’m just his bastard son... the one he never claimed, the one my mother raised with pride and calloused hands. I don’t hate him. I don’t love him either. I just don’t care.

Another drink. The burn feels softer this time. Maybe I’m getting used to it. Or maybe I’m just drunk enough not to care.

“This is what drunk feels like, huh?” I mutter, leaning back on the couch. “Weird.”

That’s when I hear it, a faint knocking.

I ignore it at first, thinking it’s just the whiskey talking. Then a voice follows. Muffled. Familiar.

I sit up, squinting toward the door.

No… that’s not the alcohol.

That voice—

“Cercis?”

What the hell is she doing here?

At this hour?