Julian pulled on his down jacket and stepped onto the balcony. The house was silent.

Outside, New York City was a sprawling map of neon and cold shadows. He exhaled a long plume of white mist, and his mind immediately went to Samuel.

He wanted to tell him that everything was handled. The mission was complete.

He grabbed his phone but hesitated at the call button. It was the dead of night. Samuel was likely asleep. He was about to put the phone away when his own words to Jason echoed in his head: Be brave. Express yourself.

He opened the chat.

Julian: Good evening. Are you still awake?

No reply.

Ten minutes passed. Julian shivered as the wind cut through his jacket. He was about to retreat inside when the phone buzzed against his palm.

Samuel: Just finished a shower. What is it?

Julian's heart hammered against his ribs. He carefully typed a response.

Julian: The family situation is resolved. Can I call you?

The phone rang before he could even lock the screen.

"Julian, good evening." The man's deep, resonant voice vibrated against Julian's ear.

He was using his name. A reward. Julian couldn't hide the smile tugging at his lips.

"Hello, sir. I hope I'm not bothering you."

"You aren't," Samuel said. "So, the crisis is over. Tell me how you did it."

They talked for a long time. At first, Julian detailed the fallout with his parents and the training of his brother. But the conversation drifted, turning into a scattered sharing of mundane details.

Julian felt light. Weightless. As if his body had turned to glass, ready to float over the city skyline.

The cold finally forced a sneeze out of him. Samuel told him to go inside. Julian obeyed but didn't hang up, settling onto the living room sofa instead.

Afraid of waking his family, he spoke in a low, husky murmur. The phone turned his voice into a soft, intimate secret—like a lover's pillow talk.

Samuel went quiet on the other end, but he didn't end the call.

"Why aren't you in bed yet? Do you really only need four hours?" Julian whispered. "I'm jealous. I'm always tired lately."

"Thank you, sir. Truly." He lost count of how many times he'd said it. "I want to take you to dinner... for drinks... to sleep..."

His consciousness was slipping. He remembered he was on the phone, but the word "sleep" was a leaden weight, dragging him under.

Samuel listened to the delirious rambling, answering each point with a steady patience.

"Six hours is standard. It drops to three when work peaks."

"Don't be jealous. Everyone's constitution is different. For your age, you're already exceptional."

"Dinner is fine. Drinks, too. As for sleeping with me..."

Samuel paused, his voice dropping into the darkness. "Not yet, I'm afraid."

The line went silent, save for the steady, rhythmic sound of Julian's breathing.

Samuel stayed on the line for another ten minutes. "Goodnight, Julian," he whispered, knowing the boy couldn't hear him.

His voice was impossibly tender. "Sweet dreams."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Julian watched them leave. The look in his parents' eyes had shifted. They were stiff, moving with a cautious, almost fearful edge—as if one wrong word would shatter the peace Julian had finally enforced.

Only with Jason did they show a flicker of their old, easy affection. Julian closed his eyes. It was the best ending he could hope for.

Before the train arrived, his mother asked when he'd be home for the holidays. Julian's answer was immediate. "I'm staying in the city."

After the explosion in the living room, he wasn't ready to navigate a house full of relatives and the exhausting weight of expectations. He had done his duty for now.

Once they were gone, Julian scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom. As he looked at the empty, silent living room, a long-buried sense of peace finally settled over him. He owed this quiet to Samuel.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.

Julian: Can I take you to lunch? I'd like to thank you properly.

Samuel: I'm free Sunday.

Julian: Sunday dinner?

Samuel: Is lunch okay?

Julian: That works. I've put together a list of places. See which one you prefer.

Samuel: You decide. I'm in your hands.

Julian booked a high-end French bistro. It was expensive, but for the first time in his life, he didn't feel the phantom weight of a debt.

After securing the reservation, Julian caught a glimpse of his reflection. His bangs were too long. He headed to a salon.

"Want to go blonde?" the stylist asked, running a comb through Julian's damp hair.

"You have the face for something bold. We could do a platinum flaxen, make you look like a little star."

Julian looked at his reflection. The wet strands clung to his forehead, making his features look sharper, more delicate. He imagined himself as a doll and shook his head.

"Just a trim," he said. He didn't want a performance. He just wanted to look like a man going to lunch.

On the way back, he stopped at a department store. He needed a scent. He'd been using the sandalwood he bought for Samuel, but he wanted something of his own for the world outside. He settled on Habit Rouge.

The citrus opening was crisp, the floral heart perfectly balanced—classical, elite, and perhaps a bit too mature for an intern, but Julian wanted to feel like a professional.

He carried the shopping bag to the counter, and the associate smiled. "Anything else today?"

Julian hesitated. He wanted to buy something for Samuel. He bypassed the ties and scarves—they felt too intimate, too much like a confession.

He ended up at the Montblanc counter. He swiped his card for a limited-edition fountain pen, the price tag a sharp sting to his savings. He thought of the subsidized rent and the charcoal suit and didn't look back.

By 6:00 PM, he was back in the duplex. Restlessness was a hum under his skin. To burn it off, he went for a run, then showered. He stepped into the walk-in closet, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting a body that was growing leaner, with faint, hard lines appearing across his stomach.

Julian opened the locked cabinet and pulled out a JK uniform.

It was an expensive set, the fabric far finer than his usual videos. He tied the ribbon, added the lace petticoat, and stepped into a pair of black Mary Janes. He spent an hour on the details.

He didn't intend to wear it to the bistro, but the anticipation for tomorrow was a fever. He needed a distraction. He set up his tripod and filmed a short clip.

@WorkIsKillingMe: I want to see him in this. #Crossdressing

The comments flooded in within seconds.

[Welcome back, baby! We've missed you!!]

[This is so pure. I can smell the flowers from here.]

[Wait—who is 'him'?? I won't allow this!]

@Orca liked the video.

Julian's pulse skipped. The users went into a frenzy.

[What does the 'like' mean??]

[Are they canon? Jules, blink twice!]

Julian typed a rare reply.

@WorkIsKillingMe: Don't overthink it. It's for someone in the real world.

The fans were disappointed, but Julian didn't see the rest. He retreated to the bed, the image of Samuel's face flashing behind his lids until he drifted off.

Sunday arrived with a clear sky and a stubborn cowlick. No matter how much Julian dampened the hair, two strands of hair remained defiantly upright.

"Dammit," Julian hissed at the mirror. He gave up, pulling on the charcoal suit Samuel had bought him. It didn't feel like a costume anymore. It felt right.

He arrived at the bistro thirty minutes early, expecting to wait. Samuel was already there.

Samuel sat by the window, the winter sun catching the sharp, perfect lines of his suit and the tailored set of his hair. He looked like a fashion editorial come to life. Half the restaurant was already staring.

Julian froze in the doorway, his rehearsed greeting vanishing. Samuel had dressed up. More than usual.

Julian handed his overcoat to the host and approached the table, feeling a sudden, sharp shyness. Samuel spoke first. "How did you get here?"

"I walked," Julian said, checking his watch. "You're very early, sir."

"It's my day off," Samuel said. "I have time."

Julian suppressed a smile. Time. Did that mean they could do something after lunch? He remembered his gift and held out the box.

"For me?" Samuel looked surprised.

Julian nodded, trying to look casual. "I saw it yesterday. Thought of you."

Samuel opened the box. He went silent as he saw the Montblanc. He knew exactly what this expenditure meant for Julian.

"This was too much," he said softly.

Julian stepped in before Samuel could suggest a return. "You helped me with my family. You saved me a fortune in rent. You bought me this suit. This is nothing."

Samuel had received gifts worth millions, but none had left a mark quite like this. Julian hadn't even cleared his own financial hurdles, yet he was trying to pay Samuel back tenfold.

It was foolish. It was too good.

Samuel closed the box, his gaze on Julian turning dark and heavy with a concern he couldn't quite stifle. He realized then: if he was too kind to this boy, Julian would give him everything he had. And that was a debt Samuel wasn't sure he could carry.

"Thank you, Julian," Samuel said, his voice a low vibration. "I like it. But no more extravagance. Understood?"

Julian nodded, his eyes bright. "Understood."