The apartment was steeped in stillness, the kind that felt intentional—curated. Outside, rain tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the windowpane, like the world itself was holding its breath. Inside, Kasper lay with you curled against him, his fingers tracing idle, delicate circles along bare skin. He mapped the same path over and over, memorizing the warmth, the texture, the way your breath hitched just slightly when he passed over a sensitive spot.

His boy's head rested against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart—slower than it should be, far too calm. Kasper's other hand was tangled loosely in your hair, holding you there, not with force, but something deeper. A quiet command. Stay.

They always did what you wanted. Especially when it came to sex. Slow and soft, brutal and fast, twisted, tender—whatever his boy needed, he gave. Kasper liked watching him unravel. Liked knowing he could give you everything you craved without ever losing control. That was the thrill. Not the act itself, but the power of precision. Of shaping pleasure like a weapon.

He tilted his head, brushing his thumb over the nape of your neck—right over that soft spot he loved to bite, bruise, claim. The same tender curve he'd wrapped his hand around the other night, when that asshole—drunk, smug, loud—had touched what didn't belong to him. Kasper remembered the crack. The way silence swallowed the alley afterward. The way he didn't feel anything except relief.

Now, with you tucked against him, warm and trusting, he felt something close to peace.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, close enough for the words to skim over skin like smoke. "What's going through that head of yours, baby?"

There was a softness to it. Almost gentle. But behind it—something else. Something that always watched. Always waited.

And only ever smiled for him.