"Onyx?"

My father's voice came from behind me.

I jolted.

My hand snapped back instantly, retreating as if I'd been caught crossing a line I couldn't explain. I straightened, heart pounding far louder than it should have.

"Yes, Pa?" I replied—too fast.

He stepped into the room carrying the extra mattress and a bundle of pillows, his gaze flicking briefly to Jace sprawled across my bed like he owned the place.

"He's really out," Pa said.

"Y-Yeah," I said, clearing my throat.

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and bent down to set the mattress neatly on the floor.

I turned back to Jace.

His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, unbothered, unashamed—deeply asleep.

The broken compass tattoo lingered at the edge of my vision, quiet and unmoving. As if it had been waiting for someone to notice it.

I looked away.

Whatever it meant, it wasn't my business.

When Pa finished arranging the mattress, he straightened, sighed, and rested his hands on his waist as he studied Jace.

"He has a lot of tattoos," my dad said.

"Yeah. It's his body," I replied. "He can do whatever he wants with it."

Pa suddenly frowned at me.

"What now?" I asked.

Without warning, he grabbed the front of my shirt and tugged my collar down, peering as if he expected to find something hidden underneath.

"Pa!" I hissed, immediately swatting his hand away.

"Just checking," he said calmly, "in case you secretly got one on your chest."

"I don't have any. And I'm not planning to," I said flatly.

He nodded, reassured.

"I'm not stopping you," he said. "I just want to remind you—it's permanent. You might like it today, but someday you might not."

"I don't make decisions like that impulsively," I said.

"Alright," he said, smiling. "If you ever want one, tell me. I'll help you pick a good design."

"Pa. Please go to sleep," I said.

He laughed, clearly amused. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

Just before he reached the door, I spoke again.

"Thanks, Pa, for helping."

"No worries, son," he said, glancing back at me. "I'll make a nice breakfast tomorrow for your friend."

"Don't bother," I said evenly. "I'll see to it that he leaves first thing in the morning."

"Good night," he said with a chuckle, then softly closed the door behind him.

And just like that, it was only me and Jace.

I never thought this would happen.

"This is just for tonight," I muttered under my breath as I turned back to him. "An exception. You're not sleeping here again. This is the first and last time."

I started changing him, carefully, efficiently—strictly practical and professional.

That, apparently, was a mistake.

I closed my eyes and let out an irritated breath at what I'd just seen. He was definitely unconscious. Completely. Unfortunately, something else clearly was not.

It was the only part of his body that seemed to be awake. 

Yes, his ‘Source of life’.

I refused to let the thought linger.

I slipped fresh clothes onto him, adjusting the fabric until it fit—too neat, too small-looking for someone his size. When I finished, I straightened, switched off the light, and lay down on the mattress on the floor.

Then I glanced back at my bed.

Only his hand was visible now, hanging over the edge, fingers loose and relaxed, as if reaching for nothing at all.

"Boss..." I whispered, letting out a quiet, helpless chuckle.

I turned onto my side, facing the opposite direction, and stared into the dark—very aware that sleep was suddenly going to be much harder to find.

* * *

Morning arrived quietly.

I knew it not by an alarm or the pressure of responsibility, but by birdsong—soft, unhurried chirps drifting in through the open window. It was strangely calming. For once, I didn't have to think about preparing for university. No rushing. No deadlines breathing down my neck. I had time. Too much of it.

My eyes remained closed as consciousness slowly surfaced. I focused on my breathing, trying to steady my thoughts, letting myself wake naturally.

Then I realized something was wrong.

My body felt... restrained.

Not painfully—just firmly. As if invisible chains held me in place. I was lying straight on my back, yet I couldn't move. Something heavy pressed against me, warm and solid, anchoring me to the mattress.

For a brief, irrational second, I wondered if I was still dreaming.

And then—

Warm breath brushed against my cheek.

Barely there. Soft. Intimate.

My eyes flew open.

My heart slammed violently against my ribs as I slowly turned my gaze to the right.

Jace.

His face was inches away from mine.

Close enough that I could count his lashes. Close enough that I could feel the rhythm of his breathing, warm and steady, ghosting across my skin.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

One of his arms was draped across my chest, loose but possessive, like it had always belonged there. His leg was thrown over mine, heavy and unapologetic. We were tangled together—on the floor—on the small mattress.

My brain short-circuited.

I shoved him hard.

He jolted awake with a startled grunt, blinking rapidly as I scrambled backward and shot to my feet.

"What the hell!" I snapped, already halfway across the room.

In seconds, I was pressed against the far wall, while he sat there on the mattress, eyes unfocused, clearly trying to piece together reality.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking around. "This isn't my room."

"Obviously," I hissed. "This is my room, you drunkard."

"Your room?" He said, rubbing his face. "What even happened?"

I let out a long, tired sigh and explained everything—from picking him up to my father’s interrogation, to the very deliberate decision to sleep on the floor.

I expected shock.

Instead, he stretched out on the mattress like he owned it again, one arm tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if he were back in his own room.

"These clothes are kind of tight," he said casually. "Don't you have anything bigger?"

I stared at him, incredulous.

"You seriously have the nerve to complain?" I said. "You're crashing in my house. My room. Wearing my clothes."

He hummed thoughtfully, completely unbothered, gaze still fixed on the ceiling like time itself had paused for him.

Then he smiled.

That was when I frowned.

"Thanks, Boss," he said lightly. "I thought you ditched me."

"I wanted to," I replied. "But it's my responsibility to look out for you. Professionally. I repeat—professionally."

His eyes shifted toward me. He inhaled quietly.

"Smells good," he said, voice teasing, "what's for breakfast?"

"No," I said flatly. "Go home. Eat there."

"How can you be so cold to me?" he asked, wounded in a way that was entirely performative.

I stared at him, unimpressed.

"What time are you leaving?" I said. "I have a lot to do today. And I can't do any of it while you're here."

He closed his eyes, relaxed beyond reason.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Saturday."

He exhaled slowly, satisfied.

"Good," he murmured. "I'll stay for the weekend."

"What?" I exclaimed.

I stared at him. He wasn’t joking.

End of Chapter 10