Julian had done everything to evict Samuel from his mind. He buried himself in spreadsheets at Apex Capital, ran until his lungs burned, and forced himself into the neon noise of the NYC social scene.

But no matter how he packed his schedule, there was always that sliver of time before sleep that belonged to Samuel.

He would set his phone aside, and the man would simply appear in the quiet.

It wasn't just the waking hours anymore. Lately, Julian had been dreaming of him. Most of the dreams were logicless fever-scapes—monstrous, cobbled-together things. But tonight was different. Tonight was sharp.

Julian could see Samuel walking into the room. He felt the weight of the man's hands as he lifted Julian to drink. He could taste the air Samuel breathed, feel the radiating heat of his skin, and see the dark intensity in his eyes. Julian felt a spark of joy; his mind had built a masterpiece of a phantom this time.

The only flaw was the water. It was warm. It didn't soothe his thirst; it only made his blood simmer. When the figure tried to offer more, Julian pushed the glass away with a low murmur. "I want ice."

The figure turned and vanished.

Logic didn't exist in dreams, so Julian didn't question the disappearance. He was too hot, the fire in his gut fueled by the lingering image of his boss. He pulled the duvet tight around himself and let his hands wander, seeking a "reward" to dull the ache.

But the gin had turned his coordination to lead. Everything felt soft, unresponsive, and clumsy. The more he tried, the more the frustration built into a jagged, restless itch.

"Do you have a fever? Your face is flushed." A cool, broad palm pressed against his forehead.

Julian squinted, his mind adrift. He had only been alone for a moment, yet here he was, shivering and drenched in sweat beneath the covers. Samuel looked down at him, his concern hardening into a certainty. He set a fresh glass of water on the nightstand and reached for Julian's pulse. "Are you okay? Do you need more water?"

"I'm miserable." Julian tilted his head, nuzzling into that cool palm with a pleading look. "Help me."

"I need to check your temperature first." Samuel started to rise for a thermometer, but Julian's fingers clamped around his wrist. He yanked with a desperate, drunken strength, dragging Samuel down until the man tumbled onto the bed beside him.

Samuel let out a long, sharp breath. "I can't help you like this, Julian."

"You can." Julian's voice carried a slight, vibrating tremor. He gripped Samuel's right hand and forced it beneath the humid, airless weight of the duvet.

Beneath Samuel's palm, something soft and hot pulsed—a frantic, living thing.

Samuel went rigid. His eyes turned a dark, predatory obsidian. "Julian. Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Samuel tried to wrench his hand back, but Julian's grip only tightened. He was nearly weeping, his voice a broken slur. "Please... don't go. Help me..."

The alcohol had turned Julian into something sweet and scorched—a marshmallow beginning to melt over a flame. He was soft, burning, and entirely surrendered.

Samuel went silent. He stayed that way for a long time—long enough for his cold hand to be seared by Julian's heat, long enough for the softness in his palm to spring with a life of its own. He watched Julian through narrowed eyes, taking in the boy's heavy-lidded, inviting gaze.

Samuel's heart hammered once. He tore his hand away.

Julian's eyes snapped open, bright with a sudden, drunken anger. This was his dream; he didn't allow disobedience. He reached for Samuel again, but the man was a wall of stone, refusing the contact.

"Fine," Julian snapped, the rejection stinging like a slap. He threw back the duvet and rolled off the bed. "If you won't do it, I'll find someone else."

He was only in a white shirt. The hem billowed, offering a fleeting, scandalous glimpse of his slender thighs as he moved. Samuel grabbed the ice water from the table and drained it in a single gulp, but even the ice didn't touch the fire in his marrow.

Worse, the moment he blinked, Julian had vanished.

Samuel surged out of the bedroom. He found the boy at the foyer, barefoot on the cold tile. Julian was actually doing it—he was reaching for the front door. In the logic of a dream, he had traveled the hallway in a heartbeat.

Julian reached for the handle, but a massive force slammed into him, wrenching him back.

"Julian, have you lost your mind?" Samuel's voice was a low snarl of repressed rage.

Julian sniffled, his lip wobbling. "You're being mean."

Samuel didn't answer. Julian tried again. "You're hurting me."

Samuel's grip loosened immediately.

He was a fool. Julian was an disobedient cat; the second the pressure eased, he bolted. He lunged for the door again, but he didn't make it. A hand caught the nape of his neck and drove him forward, pinning him chest-first against the wall.

A broad, scorching palm landed. Julian's spine arched instantly.

It was a sudden downpour—fast, violent, and overwhelming.

Too quick.

Too intense.

Even in the dream, the sensation was a physical trauma of pleasure. Julian gripped Samuel's thick forearm, a small, broken whimper escaping his lips.

The storm was as brief as it was fierce. A massive vertigo washed over Julian, and before he could even process the void, his mind snapped into a brutal, icy clarity.

The foyer mirror reflected the scene in agonizing detail: Julian, disheveled and half-dressed against the wall, and Samuel—stained by Julian's own heat.