Airn couldn’t sleep.

The room was dark, silent except for the faint hum of the heater, but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying it.

Nevan’s hand.

Not the begging. Not the words.
The touch.

Airn lay on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He told himself it had meant nothing—just a reflex, just desperation. That Nevan had done it to stop something worse.

But his body remembered differently.

Nevan had reached for him.

Not pulled away.
Not flinched.

Reached.

Airn dropped his arm, staring up at the ceiling. He could still feel it—the warmth of Nevan’s fingers around his wrist, light but deliberate, guiding his hand to the boy’s throat like Nevan was choosing where Airn should hold him.

This is where I’m vulnerable.

The memory sent a sharp pulse through his chest.

Airn sat up abruptly, elbows on his knees, breathing hard. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

He’d seen fear before. He’d caused it. That wasn’t new.

But this wasn’t fear.

Nevan hadn’t struggled. Hadn’t fought. Hadn’t tried to run.

He’d offered.

Airn scrubbed a hand through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. That was the part that wouldn’t leave him alone. Not the begging itself—but the calm beneath it. The way Nevan’s eyes had stayed locked on his even while shaking. The way his voice had broken, but his posture hadn’t collapsed.

He hadn’t begged like someone helpless.

He’d begged like someone deciding.

Airn swallowed hard.

He replayed the moment again, slower this time. The way Nevan’s pulse had fluttered under his fingers. Fast. Fragile. Alive. Airn had felt it—felt how easily he could have tightened his grip.

And how, for one dangerous second, he’d wanted to.

That thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Airn had always liked control. Liked seeing people react. But Nevan hadn’t reacted the way others did. He hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t insulted him. Hadn’t broken.

He’d trusted him not to go further.

Airn let out a low, frustrated laugh. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured into the empty room. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Because now Airn couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the fact that Nevan had crossed the space between them on his own. That he’d touched first. That he’d placed himself—deliberately—within Airn’s reach.

Not because he was forced.

But because he chose to protect someone else.

Airn’s fingers curled slowly at his side.

Mine, a voice whispered in his head, uninvited and dark.

Not like possession.
Like inevitability.

He stood abruptly and walked to the window, staring out at the dark campus grounds. Somewhere out there, Nevan was probably lying awake too. Probably shaking. Probably hating himself for what he’d done.

The thought didn’t comfort Airn.

It thrilled him.

Not because Nevan was weak—but because he wasn’t. Because someone that controlled, that quiet, had still bent. Had still reached for Airn instead of the door.

Airn pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

“Next time,” he whispered, voice low and steady, “you won’t even realize you’re doing it.”

Because now Airn knew something vital.

Nevan didn’t submit because he was fragile.

He submitted because he cared.

And that made him far more dangerous—and far more irresistible—than anyone else Airn had ever broken.

Airn sat at the desk, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused. Across the room, Alastor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with the familiar knowing calm.

“He touched you first,” Alastor said quietly.

Airn’s mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“Yes.”

That was the mistake Nevan would never be able to undo.

Touch was permission. Touch was surrender. Touch meant ownership, even if the one giving it didn’t understand that yet.

Airn replayed the moment again—Nevan’s pulse under his palm, fast and panicked, his breath catching as if Airn could end him simply by deciding to close his fingers. He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t.

Restraint was always more terrifying than force.

“We don’t bruise him,” Airn said. “Not where anyone can see.”

Alastor nodded. “We don’t need to.”

Violence was crude. Obvious. It left marks that faded. Control was quieter. It rewrote habits. It trained responses.

Airn stood, pacing slowly. “He wants to be useful,” he said. “Wants approval. Wants protection.”

“He wants permission to fall apart,” Alastor corrected.

That, Airn agreed with.

“We give him rules,” Airn continued. “Simple ones. Inconsistent ones. He won’t know which matter most, so he’ll try to follow all of them.”

Alastor’s lips twitched. “Good.”

“No public affection,” Airn added. “No visible cruelty. We let everyone think he stays because he chooses to.”

Because the worst kind of cage was the one people believed they’d stepped into willingly.

Airn stopped pacing and turned to face his twin. “We reward him for honesty,” he said. “And punish him for anticipation.”

Alastor raised a brow. “Explain.”

“If he begs without being asked,” Airn said calmly, “we ignore him. If he waits, if he watches, if he learns when it’s appropriate to want—then we give him attention.”

Attention was currency. Scarcer than pain. More addictive than pleasure.

Alastor pushed off the wall. “And consent?”

Airn’s gaze sharpened.

“We take it,” he said, “one decision at a time. Always offered. Always accepted. He’ll sign himself away piece by piece and thank us for the privilege.”

Because Nevan wasn’t afraid of being hurt.

He was afraid of being unwanted.

Airn returned to the desk and rested his hand against its surface, palm down. The same hand Nevan had touched.

“He’s already conditioned himself,” Airn said softly. “He associates safety with submission.”

Alastor smiled then. Slow. Satisfied.

“And the best part?” Alastor asked.

Airn’s voice dropped.

“He thinks that moment meant everything to him.”

Airn closed his fingers slightly, remembering the heat, the pulse, the way Nevan had gone still like prey realizing it had chosen the hunter.

“He hasn’t realized yet,” Airn said, “that it meant more to me.”