Julian sank back into the mattress. Samuelhad slept here. The thought sent a low, humming vibration through his chest, like a wire being plucked.

The scent still lingered in the sheets—the sandalwood Julian had gifted him for Christmas. It was faint now, a ghost of a memory. Julian pulled the duvet over his head and inhaled, rolling across the expanse of the king-sized bed.

His back hit something massive. It was soft, springy, and far too large to be a pillow.

Julian froze. His breathing went shallow. A stray, irrational thought flashed through his mind: Is Samuel still in the bed?

He threw back the covers and ripped open the blackout curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, revealing a gargantuan stuffed orca. the plushie was longer than Julian was tall, its fabric impossibly soft to the touch.

He didn't remember seeing it when he was packing the night before. He poked it once, then twice, before pulling out his phone to snap a photo for Samuel.

Julian: Did you leave this behind?

Samuel: It's for you.

Julian: Thank you, sir. But why…?

Samuel: You said big beds made you feel unsafe. Think of it as a comfort object.

Julian stared at the screen. A comfort object.

He looked at the giant whale. It had a ferocious sort of cuteness—a tiny scowl on a rounded, plush face. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and dragged the whale into a hug.

It was a strange sensation. Growing up in the countryside, Julian had never owned something so frivolous. By the time he'd started earning his own money, he was supposed to be past the age of needing to be comforted.

But Samuel had given it to him anyway.

This was a physical manifestation of warmth and safety—things Julian's parents were supposed to provide in his infancy, offered now by a man years later.

Julian squeezed the whale tight. It felt good, though it wasn't the same as a real pair of arms.

Without warning, his mind flashed to the kitchen shoot—the weight of @Orca against his back, the heat of his breath. Julian's face burned. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He wanted nothing to do with the influencer, yet here he was, relishing the memory of that hold.

He shoved the plushie to the foot of the bed and stood up, agitated.

He checked his phone again, logging into his main account. The news was better than he'd hoped. Because the leak had been caught early, the damage was contained. Orca's team had scrubbed the dobbing threads from the platform. Aside from his general neighborhood, his name, school, and position at Apex Capital remained private.

The police investigation was public now. Lennox's department had issued a notice: the individual who bought Julian's data from his roommate was a rival influencer known as "Little Penguin."

Julian wasn't going to play the victim this time. He was ready to file a formal suit, but he found that Orca had already beaten him to it. Orca hadn't just filed—he'd released a statement that was currently burning through the trends.

@Orca: Let me be clear: No one harasses others in my name. Anyone who tries will face the same legal consequences as @LittlePenguin. @WorkIsKillingMe was targeted by my following. This is my responsibility. As a public figure, I failed to set a standard for this community.

As a penalty, every cent of revenue generated by this account to date will be donated to charity. Furthermore, I am officially banning all "parasocial" fans. I am not your boyfriend. I am not your husband. If you have an issue with this, unfollow.

The internet was in a state of total collapse.

Orca's massive fanbase of "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" fans was shrieking. Some called him ungrateful; others accused him of baiting them. But for every extremist, ten more casual users were swooning.

[Did Daddy just scold us? I think I like it.]

[The dominance in this statement is insane. Love a man with a backbone.]

[Finally. Those toxic solo-stans were making the tag unusable. If he has a partner, good for him. It only makes it hotter.]

Orca lost a few thousand followers and gained twenty thousand more. The heat was so focused on his statement that no one was even talking about Julian's leaked data anymore.

Julian felt a flicker of envy. He wanted that kind of strength—that absolute, unshakeable courage. Orca had been the source of the trouble, but he had handled it with a ruthless sense of duty.

Julian opened a DM. Thank you, he typed.

He didn't expect a reply. It came within seconds.

@Orca: Does this mean I can book you for another video?

Julian: ?

@Orca: Is that a no?

Julian: I'm busy. No time.

@Orca: I'll wait until you are.

Julian didn't respond. He needed distance from the man, and with the end of the year approaching, his schedule was a nightmare anyway. His parents would be arriving in NYC soon, and he needed to carve out time to play tour guide.

He set his phone on the marble counter, eyeing the high-end cookware in the kitchen. He decided to clear his head by making a real meal.

He was halfway to the fridge when the doorbell rang.

Julian stiffened. His gaze snapped to the door. Samuel wouldn't ring—he had the code.

Who is it? A cold dread washed over him. Did the address leak after all?

The doorbell rang three times and then stopped. Julian held his breath, assuming the visitor had left, only for the electronic trill of the keypad to echo through the hall.

Samuel? Uncertainty flared in Julian's chest. He scrambled into the bedroom, pulling the door shut until only a sliver of light remained.

"Hello? Anyone home? It's Luke, Mr. Frost's assistant. I've got some supplies."

Julian let out a long, shaky exhale. He reached for the handle to greet him, but his fingers froze on the metal. Does Luke know I'm the one living here? If he didn't, the explanation would be a rabbit hole Julian wasn't ready to navigate. Explaining why he was renting from his boss at

Apex Capital

would only invite questions he didn't have the answers to.

He stayed in the shadows, listening to the heavy thud of footsteps, the hum of the refrigerator opening and closing, and finally, the heavy thud of the front door locking.

Julian stepped out two minutes later. The storage room was overflowing. Toiletries, cleaning supplies—everything he hadn't even realized he needed. The fridge was a treasure trove of fresh produce, marbled meats, milk, and quick meals. On the dining table sat a takeout container. Julian touched the lid. It was still hot.

What kind of landlord is he?

Julian had searched the comps for this high-rise. Similar units in this

NYC

neighborhood went for over twelve thousand dollars. Samuel was charging him five thousand, utilities included. It wasn't a lease; it was a subsidy for his dignity, and the weight of the kindness made Julian's chest ache with gratitude.