Onyx's POV
"I'm going to pick up my friend, Pa," I said carefully. "He's already drunk, and no one's answering him. There's no one to help."
My father's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but confusion. He glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock, then looked back at me.
"At this hour, Onyx?" he said. "I know you're a grown man, but isn't it already too late for you to be going out?"
I exhaled slowly and lowered my gaze. I already knew this part. My father worried quietly, thoroughly—like a habit he never tried to break.
"But you seem concerned for this friend," he said, his tone shifting. When I looked up, his expression had softened, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You've never really told me about your friends. I thought you didn't have any, since you said you didn't want them."
"Well..." I began.
He cut me off gently. "Where is he right now?"
I unlocked my phone and showed him Jace's shared location.
My father studied the screen, brow furrowing slightly—not annoyed, not upset. Curious. Thoughtful.
He sighed once, then nodded. "Alright. I'll get dressed."
I blinked. "Wait—you're coming?"
"Yes," he said calmly. "That place is too far for you to go alone, especially if you're bringing someone back in that state. We'll pick him up together. I'll just call a taxi."
Relief washed through me before I could stop it.
"Thanks, Pa," I said.
The moment I returned to my room to change my clothes, I messaged Jace.
Me:
Don't leave wherever you are.
We're coming now. I'm with my Pa.
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
The reply came almost instantly—like he'd been staring at his screen, waiting.
Jace:
okay. ill behave here.
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
Me:
Good.
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
I hesitated, then typed again.
Me:
Where's your girlfriend?
Is she with you right now?
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
Jace:
left already.
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
Me:
What? She left you like that?
Sent: 12:30 a.m.
I shook my head, irritation mixing with disbelief. What kind of person leaves their lover alone when they're drunk out of their mind?
Before I could spiral any further, Pa's voice came from outside my room. I changed quickly, moving on instinct, and minutes later, we were already on our way.
* * *
Outside the bar, the noise had dulled. The music still bled through the walls—muffled bass and distant laughter—but the chaos stayed inside, where I had no intention of going. It was late enough that the air carried the sour scent of spilled alcohol and something worse—regret.
I called Jace.
He answered immediately.
"Hello? Jace, where are you? Are you inside the bar? We're here," I said.
"Yo..." he laughed softly. Lazily. "Hehe. Thought you wouldn't come, Boss."
"This isn't the time for that," I said. "Where are you? The taxi's waiting."
"Let the taxi go," he said. "Use my car. You know how to drive?"
"No."
"I'll teach you," he added, his voice loose and careless with alcohol.
I scoffed. "You're ridiculous. You can't even think properly, and you want to teach me how to drive on the spot? We'll end up in an accident before we even leave the parking lot."
"I'll teach you next time, then," he said. "So you can pick me up when I'm already wasted."
"Stop," I replied flatly. "There is no next time."
I turned to my dad. "You brought your license, right?"
"I always do," he said. "Why?"
"He said we can use his car instead."
Pa nodded and spoke with the taxi driver. I turned back to my phone.
"Now where are you?" I said. "Stop making me worry."
Jace laughed again—this time unmistakably drunk.
"Boss is worried," he teased. "Boss is sad?"
"No," I snapped. "Boss will be angry if you don't tell where you are. And stop playing around. My dad's waiting."
"Parking lot," he said.
Finally.
"I'm ending the call," I said, and did just that.
We headed toward the parking lot, and I spotted him instantly. There were only a few cars left.
"Is that your friend?" Pa asked. "The one sitting on the ground, leaning against the car?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "Too drunk to function."
We hurried over. Jace was slumped against the back door of his car, eyes closed, head lolling slightly—barely holding himself together.
"Jace," I said.
His eyes fluttered open. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Boss, you came." he said, smirking faintly. Then his gaze drifted sideways. "Oh. Hello, Boss's dad."
My father nodded once. "He's definitely drunk."
I didn't reply. I was annoyed—and worried.
"Let's get him inside the car," Pa said.
We each took one arm, steadying Jace as we lifted him. Pa was right. It would've been impossible alone. He wasn't just heavy—he was solid. Muscle beneath careless confidence.
Once we managed to settle him in the back seat, he immediately went limp, breathing evening out. He even snored.
Maybe knowing someone had come for him was enough to let him rest.
"What's your friend's name?" Pa asked as he started the engine.
"Jace," I said.
"Is he older than you?"
"Yeah. He's one year ahead of me. He had to retake a unit because something delayed his graduation."
I left out the part where it had been my fault.
"Oh. So he's your classmate?"
"Yes. We're partners for the project in that same unit."
Pa glanced at Jace through the rearview mirror. "Not to judge by appearance, but he doesn't look like the type of friend you'd hangout with."
"Why do you say that?"
"He's covered in tattoos," my dad said. "Looks rough. A little unruly."
I sighed, eyes drifting to the back seat. Jace was sleeping peacefully now, completely unaware of the conversation happening around him.
"He just looks like that," I said quietly. "He's not that bad."
Pa nodded. "If you chose to be friends with him—and he made you go out this late—I trust you. He must be a good person."
I huffed a small laugh. "A good person with a bad attitude."
I turned toward the window, the city lights sliding past, while behind me, Jace slept peacefully—too peacefully for someone who had caused this much trouble.
"This car looks expensive," Pa said, glancing at the sleek interior as the engine hummed beneath us. "Luxury brand. Is he rich?"
"Yeah," I replied. "Very." I let out a short, humorless laugh. "He has all the money in the world, and yet—no one came to help him. Tragic, really."
"Well," Pa teased, eyes still on the road, "looks like he found help anyway." He smiled sideways. "Did he try to pay you to come get him?"
"No!" I blurted out, scandalized.
My father laughed, the sound warm and amused.
"I just don't want to feel guilty if something bad happens to him," I said, exhaling. "If anything went wrong, they'd check his phone. And the last person he messaged would be me. Then what? They'd find out I ignored him. I'd look terrible."
That was the easiest explanation.
Pa shook his head slowly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he focused on driving.
"He calls you 'Boss,' huh?" he asked suddenly.
"Yeah. He insisted I be the leader for our project." I scoffed. "But trust me—he's way bossier than I am."
"Sounds like you're enjoying being friends with him,"
"Enjoying?" I snorted. "More like extremely annoyed."
"If you were really annoyed," Pa replied lightly, "you wouldn't come up to my room in the middle of the night just to pick him up."
I leaned my head against the window, staring out into the blur of streetlights. "Just drive, Pa."
I didn't want to argue.
* * *
By the time we got home, it was already past 1:30 a.m. We each took one of his arms, half-dragging, half-carrying him inside. He was dead weight—warm, heavy, and utterly useless.
We brought him straight to my room and laid him on my bed.
He immediately sprawled out, unconscious, limbs spread wide—like a starfish that had claimed the entire mattress without shame.
"I'll sleep on the couch outside," I said flatly. "Let this drunk lunatic take my bed."
"You can sleep here in your room. I've got an extra mattress," Pa replied. "I'll grab it. You can take off his clothes for now."
I froze.
"Take off his clothes?" I echoed, mortified.
"Yes," he said calmly. "Unless you want your bed to smell like alcohol."
I sighed, utterly defeated.
"Fine," I muttered, nodding once. "I'll do it."
Pa left to get the mattress, and there I was—standing beside my bed, staring down at Jace, who was sleeping peacefully as if he hadn't just derailed my entire night.
"Look at this," I murmured to myself, shaking my head. "I told myself not to get involved with you at all. And now you're asleep in my house. In my bed. Incredible."
I opened my wardrobe and grabbed a spare shirt and a pair of lounge pants. They weren't small—but considering his build, they'd probably fit snugly.
I sat beside him and started unbuttoning his shirt, frowning the entire time.
"Look what you've made me do, Jace," I said quietly. "You're unbearable."
The buttons finally gave way.
I eased the fabric apart just enough to slide it off him, careful not to wake him. He didn't stir—just breathed slowly, deeply, like someone who had already surrendered the night.
That was when I saw it.
A tattoo on his chest.
Dark against his skin. Subtle. Controlled.
A compass.
It sat just below his collarbone, angled slightly toward his heart, etched in clean black lines—precise, almost minimalist. At first glance, it looked ordinary. Decorative.
Then I noticed the needle.
It wasn't pointing north.
It wasn't pointing anywhere.
The tip was cracked straight down the middle, as if it had been broken deliberately—like a promise abandoned long ago.
I froze.
For someone who walked around like he had everything figured out—like the world bent easily around him—the tattoo felt wrong.
Unsettling.
My fingers hovered before I realized what I was doing.
I hesitated.
Then, without thinking, I let my hand fall—just once.
My fingertips brushed the ink lightly, tracing the edge of the compass with a slow, tentative touch, as if pressing harder might reveal an answer I wasn't ready to face.
His skin was warm.
Too warm.
I swallowed.
"Are you feeling lost, Jace?" I whispered under my breath before I could stop myself.
It didn't feel like an insult.
It felt like the truth.
"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