The Things We Left Behind

by Anonymous

Summary:

Laurent stood up with great effort, and took a slow step forward. “Listen, Damen, I’m engaged—”

“Oh yeah? Your brother found a new puppetmaster for you? your little wine stunt made headlines, by the way. Classy move. Now suddenly you're hiding out near the one person you didn’t want to see, and all you care about is cleaning up the mess?”

“This isn’t a mess, Damen. It’s my life.”

“You should’ve thought about that before walking out without a word.”

The silence that followed was thick. Laurent’s throat worked, but no words came out.

Eventually, Damen exhaled and stepped back. “You want a divorce? Go to court.”

Chapter 1

The chandelier above him looked like a crystallised migraine.

Laurent stood by the floral arch, a flute of something golden and eye-wateringly expensive balanced between his fingers, his other hand was tucked neatly into the crook of Charles’s arm. He was dressed like a dream—black velvet tuxedo, collar sharp, cuffs studded with subtle gold—but every inch of him itched with static boredom.

People kept saying his name, though rarely just his name.

“That’s Charles Orsan’s fiancé.”

“Auguste DeVere’s brother. The useless one.”

“No, I think he’s the younger one—yes, that one.”

Laurent had perfected the art of smiling through conversations he wasn’t part of. He nodded when appropriate. Tilted his head just slightly when someone referenced a project he hadn’t worked on in months. He said “thank you” and “yes, Paris was exhausting” and “we’re very excited,” though the words meant nothing anymore.

Across the ballroom, photographers hovered like hungry wasps, flashes flaring every few seconds. The event was all over social media already—#OrsanDeVere, #FuturePowerCouple, CharLau (a monstrosity Laurent refused to acknowledge).

Charles looked perfect. Naturally. His suit was midnight blue, tailored within an inch of its life. His smile was polished, practiced, high-wattage political charm. The type that made donors open wallets and grandmothers swoon. Laurent glanced up at him, trying to remember the last time he’d been kissed like a person, not a brand extension.

“Try to look like you’re not planning your escape,” Charles murmured, still smiling for the cameras.

Laurent blinked. “Am I failing at that?”

“You’re vibrating with ennui.”

“Well, I’m engaged to a man who uses the word ennui without irony.”

Charles’s hand tightened on his arm—not enough to bruise, but enough to get the point across. “Your brother’s watching, behave yourself.”

Of course he was. Laurent didn’t need to look to know exactly where Auguste was stationed, right by the champagne tower, flanked by two major donors and a cabinet minister. Auguste DeVere—impeccable, powerful, terrifying in a very polite way.

Laurent lifted his glass in a vague toast. Auguste didn’t smile back, just raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow like a warning.

The pianist shifted into something elegant and non-invasive. People clapped. Someone gave a short speech. Charles was thanked for his service to public education reform. Laurent was thanked for—well, existing, presumably.

He tuned most of it out.

His reflection caught in the mirrored wall behind the stage. For a moment, he looked like someone else. Someone older. Someone tired. Someone trapped in a picture frame.

He turned back to Charles.

“How long do we have to stay?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. He was shaking hands with someone from the Home Office. When the man left, Charles leaned in just enough to say:

“Until the cameras leave. Then you can go back to being wherever you were before this.”

Laurent laughed, too loud, too sharp. “How generous.”

And then he smiled. Because the cameras were still watching.

-

The speeches were over. The cameras had relaxed, slightly. Enough for people to loosen their ties, refill their glasses, and start drifting into their preferred corners: the donors, the strategists, the socialites, the opportunists. Laurent stood somewhere in between all of them, invisible and sparkling.

He hated this part most—the blur of cocktail hour when the real powerbrokers got to gossip under the cover of flattery and aged wine. He was approached a dozen times in fifteen minutes, none of it memorable.

“Loved your fall line. Very dangerous.”

“Do you design full-time or just when the mood strikes?”

“I didn’t realise you and Charles were still together! We never see you anywhere.”

Laurent smiled. He lied. He laughed at jokes made at his own expense. He posed for two photos he didn’t remember agreeing to.

And then—like a pimple on the day of a photoshoot—Aimeric slithered into view.

Of course it was Aimeric.

He was Charles’s oldest university friend, if you could call that bloodless dynamic a friendship. He worked in policy consulting—whatever that meant—and had the bland, inbred good looks of a man who’d never once been told no.

Laurent clocked him from across the room. The posture. The confidence. The subtle scorn already curling his lip.

Charles lit up when he saw him. “Aimeric! You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Aimeric said, clasping his hand. “Future Prime Minister and his—well, future.”

His eyes slid to Laurent like an afterthought.

“Laurent,” he said, voice flat. “Still wearing black to happy occasions?”

“Still making observational jokes to fill the silence?” Laurent returned, smiling without warmth.

Aimeric laughed, but not because he was amused. He looked at Charles. “Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve always had a thing for rescuing strays, but I never thought you’d actually commit to one.”

Laurent blinked once. Slowly.

Charles said nothing.

Aimeric sipped his wine and shrugged. “I mean, it's bold. A designer. Or—whatever it is you’re doing these days. Keeps the tabloids interested, at least.”

Charles put a hand on Laurent’s back, lightly. A silent don’t.

But it was too late.

Laurent took the nearest glass of wine—deep red, thick, expensive—and threw it straight into Aimeric’s face. It hit with a wet, glorious splatter. The room gasped.

A silence followed. Then chaos.

Aimeric reeled back, eyes wide, red dripping down his jaw like blood. He sputtered something, but Laurent didn’t hear it. All he could hear was the camera shutter. Just one. Then another. Then a dozen.

Across the room, Auguste’s face had gone corpse-white.

Charles let out a quiet exhale through his nose, the kind that said I knew you’d do something like this.

Laurent handed off the empty glass to a stunned waiter. “Now gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”

He walked out before anyone could stop him.

-

He made it as far as the private lounge before Charles caught up with him.

The door slammed behind them. The lighting was lower here, less forgiving. Charles’s face was tight with rage, the polite mask long gone.

“What the hell was that?”

Laurent dropped into a velvet chair, legs crossed, and began peeling off his cufflinks with exaggerated care. “I think it was called a boundary.”

“You humiliated Aimeric.”

“Aimeric humiliated himself. I just accessorised.”

Charles was pacing now, back straight, jaw clenched. The picture of restraint on the edge of collapse.

“You don’t get to blow up my career every time you get bored.”

Laurent looked up. “Your career?”

Charles froze.

“And what exactly,” Laurent continued softly, “am I in this equation? A pet? A headline? A trophy with slightly too much personality?”

Charles didn’t answer. Which said enough.

The door opened again. No knock. Just a sudden burst of cold political fury in a custom navy suit.

Auguste.

His brother was composed, as always, but the way he looked at Laurent could have shattered glass.

“You’re leaving,” Auguste said flatly.

Laurent gave a tight smile. “Don’t I even get a good evening?”

“No. You don’t. You just sabotaged a room full of donors, ministers, and photographers.” He turned to Charles. “Damage control’s already underway. I’ve issued a statement. Aimeric’s being paid off.”

Charles nodded grimly.

“And you,” Auguste said, fixing his gaze on Laurent again, “are going far away until this dies down. You’ve embarrassed me enough for one lifetime.”

Laurent stood, slow and theatrical. “I’ve embarrassed you?”

“Yes. Me. And Charles. And yourself, though I doubt that matters much.”

Charles rubbed his temples. “Just go, Laurent. Please. We’ll figure this out after the press cycle cools.”

“Where exactly am I meant to disappear to?” Laurent asked, already dreading the answer.

Auguste’s phone buzzed. He checked it. “You’ve got a rental booked under a private alias. Cottage in Loch Lomond. It’s remote. And you’ve been there before. Won’t be new.”

Laurent froze. His throat went dry. Loch Lomond. Laurent had been there alright.

Charles didn’t notice. “It’s for the best. One week. Two, at most. Just get your name out of the headlines.”

Laurent didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, slow and unreadable.

Then, with that signature DeVere smile—the one that never quite reached his eyes—he said, “Lovely. I’ve always enjoyed unplanned holidays.”

-

The train wound north through hills that looked almost unreal—too green, too wide, too still. Laurent stared out the window like someone being ferried to exile, which, in fairness, wasn’t far from the truth.

He hated how quiet it all was.

No paparazzi. No phones buzzing. No Charles, no Auguste, no endless swirl of engagements and curated images. Just foggy hills and the occasional sheep, judging him from a distance.

When he stepped off the train at the tiny station, a single elderly porter gave him a nod. No one asked for a signature or a selfie. No one seemed to care who he was.

Because, here, he wasn’t Laurent DeVere.

He was Thomas Blake, according to the fake booking Auguste’s office had arranged. The name sounded like a failed novelist or a man who sold antique clocks, but Laurent didn’t protest it. It was fine. Boring. Anonymous. He could work with that.

The air smelled like pine and damp earth and something faintly nostalgic. It was annoying.

He found the key under the flowerpot exactly where the rental agency said it would be, and let himself into the cottage. It was picturesque, in a rustic, too-many-textures kind of way. Worn armchair. Old kettle. Window boxes with flowers that were probably dying of neglect. There were books on the shelf. A fireplace. A walking stick by the door, as if the previous guest had wandered out and never come back.

Laurent dropped his suitcase and flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

“Loch Lomond,” he muttered, staring at the wooden ceiling. “Where scandals go to drown.”

He wasn’t thinking about Damen.

He absolutely wasn’t.

Just because every inch of this place echoed with memories—of laughter in the rain, stolen kisses near the water, the wild, dangerous spark that had ended with midnight bad decisions and a morning hangover—didn’t mean he was thinking about him.

It had been seven years. That was ancient history, practically prehistoric.

He sat up, yanked the curtains closed like a man barricading himself against ghosts, and made a silent vow:

He would lie low. Stay out of trouble. Not think about Damen.

By sunset, he’d broken all three.

-

Laurent had been walking for nearly two hours before he realised he was completely lost.

Not just in the poetic, soul-searching in the mist kind of way. He was physically, stupidly, geographically lost. Somewhere on the wrong side of the loch, no signal, no map, no sense of direction, and zero useful survival instincts.

The boots weren’t helping. They were fashionable hiking boots, not functional ones. Designer. Suede. Practically allergic to mud.

The wind whipped through the trees, tossing his hair into his eyes. His coat, all aesthetic and no insulation, was soaked through at the collar. His thighs were already beginning to tremble from a mix of cold and pride.

He hadn’t meant to hike. He’d meant to walk off the nerves. Clear his head. Maybe brood a little. But the path kept going, and he kept walking, and the further he got from the cottage, the more stubborn he became about not turning back.

By the time the fog rolled in, Laurent could barely see ten feet ahead.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, voice echoing off the wet silence. “This is how it ends. Mauled by a bad decision and a woodland creature.”

A low branch slapped him across the face as if in agreement.

He didn’t hear the loch until he was almost on top of it—the stillness of the water, a smooth silver sheet between the trees. He stopped at the edge, breathing hard, chest tight. His skin buzzed. His head spun.

The world tilted slightly to the left.

Then everything went dark.

-

He came to slowly, with sharp scent of antiseptic assaulting his senses. Lights above him, bright, too fucking bright, a blanket over his chest, and something beeping nearby.

For a wild moment, Laurent thought he’d woken up in some sterile London clinic and imagined the whole thing. The engagement. The wine toss. The hike. Damen.

Then someone walked into view. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Scruffy. And with such eerie calm, it nearly melted Laurent’s insides, said—

“Well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

The world tilted slightly. Laurent knew that voice. Knew it almost as well as his own.

There was silence. An awful, never-ending silence. And then a cocky, “welcome back, husband.”

And then everything went black again.

-

Next time Laurent woke, he felt like death incarnate. There was a buzzing in his head, and the ache there lingered. Everything felt too much, Laurent didn’t know where he was. He tried to get up—

“Easy.”

Laurent blinked. 

The face hovering above him was not a hallucination, though he almost wished it were.

Damianos Akielos. In the flesh. Older. Sharper. Broader in the shoulders. Same jawline you could cut glass on, same brows pulled together in that eternally disappointed expression Laurent used to find unfairly attractive.

He hadn’t changed much—just grown into himself. Still grumpy. Still solid. Still not smiling.

Laurent opened his mouth. No words came out.

Damen stood at the foot of the narrow clinic bed, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in scrubs and irritation.

“How are you feeling, princess. Or should I say husband?”

The word hit like cold water.

Laurent sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. His head swam. The room dipped sideways.

Damen didn’t flinch. Just handed him a glass of water and watched him fumble with it like he was fifteen seconds from dramatic collapse (again).

“What—” Laurent croaked. “What did you just call me?”

“Princess? Husband?” Damen said like it was a joke.

“No, I—no. That’s not—we—” Laurent rubbed his forehead. “That got annulled. Ages ago.”

Damen raised an eyebrow, slow and brutal.

“Did it?”

Laurent stared at him.

Damen walked over to a little counter, picked up a clipboard, and flipped through a few sheets with clinical detachment. “You collapsed near the old south trail. Two hikers found you. Hypothermic. Dehydrated. Looked like a kicked puppy in thousand-pound boots.”

Laurent didn’t know what to say.

“You’re lucky someone saw you. You would’ve passed out into the loch and drowned under the weight of your own ridiculous coat.”

Damen set the clipboard down and leaned against the wall, finally looking at him. Not with concern. Not with curiosity. With a sort of low-simmering exasperation that felt… weirdly intimate.

“I’d ask what you’re doing back here, but I don’t particularly care. Just don’t die on my shift. Paperwork’s bad enough without the corpse of my husband in the hallway.”

Laurent gripped the water glass tighter. “Okay, seriously, can you stop calling me that?”

Damen gave him the faintest shrug. “Legally, still accurate.”

There was silence. Thick, awful, heavy silence. Laurent cleared his throat, his voice still came out scratchy. “I thought the annulment—”

“You thought wrong.”

It was followed by another pause. Laurent tried to find something smart to say. Or cutting. Or self-defensive. But all that came out was, “oh.”

Damen pushed off the wall, turned towards the door. “You have to stay under observation for a while. I’ll give you more painkillers in an hour. Rest for now.”

He was almost gone when Laurent said, too softly, “you could’ve told me.”

Damen didn’t look back. Just said—

“I tried.”

And then he was gone.

Door shut. Room cold. Heart pounding.

Laurent closed his eyes.

What the actual fuck?

-

True to his word, Damen came back an hour later.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked in with a clipboard and a cuff, like this was any ordinary check-in, like he wasn’t currently upending the entirety of Laurent’s already shaky reality. He stopped at the side of the bed. “Need to take your vitals.”

“I don’t need—” Laurent started.

Damen sat anyway. Took Laurent’s wrist in his hand like it was nothing. Warm skin, steady fingers. Efficient as always. It was the first time they’d touched in seven years. Laurent hated that his pulse spiked. Hated that Damen’s brow ticked upward like he’d noticed.

“Still dramatic,” Damen muttered, cuffing Laurent’s arm and inflating it with methodical precision.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Laurent countered, scratchy and half-hearted.

“Not even a little.”

He wrote something on the chart, silent again. The cuff deflated. The touch left Laurent’s arm, and he found himself stupidly, disproportionately aware of it.

“Any nausea? Dizziness?”

Laurent blinked. “Are you being professional right now?”

Damen looked up, all blank patience. “I’ve treated worse patients.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s not.”

Another silence passed. The stethoscope came out next. Cold metal met Laurent’s chest through the thin fabric of the hospital gown.

“Breathe in,” Damen said.

Laurent didn’t. Just to spite him.

“I don’t have time for your nonsense, Laurent. Breathe.”

Laurent obeyed.

“Again.”

He did it again, slower this time.

There was something disarming about how quiet it all was. How close Damen was. The faint smell of clean soap, antiseptic, something vaguely herbal. Maybe mint. Maybe memory. Damen pulled back, finally. Jotted down more notes.

Laurent felt something crack in his chest. “You look tired,” he said before he could stop himself.

Damen paused mid-note, flicked his eyes upward. “You’ve been awake eight minutes. Don’t start psychoanalysing me.”

Laurent leaned back against the pillows. “I wasn’t. Just—observing.”

“Then observe quietly.”

He moved to stand. Laurent sat up a little straighter, stubborn despite the nausea still churning in his stomach. “Are you going to tell me I hallucinated our last conversation, or is this some sort of rural Scottish humour?”

Damen didn’t smile. “You’re not hallucinating.”

Laurent blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re still married,” Damen said simply. “To me.”

There was a pause.

Then Laurent laughed. Sharp, incredulous. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I—” Laurent stood too fast, felt the world tilting again. Sat back down.

“settle down or I will give you a sedative.”

“That’s impossible. We annulled it. I signed the papers. You signed the papers.”

“You did,” Damen said. “Except the witness didn’t.”

Laurent blinked again, as if his brain was buffering.

“The what didn’t?”

“The witness. You need a signature. We had one, but—” Damen exhaled. “It was invalid. Wrong form. Not legally binding.”

Laurent stared at him. “So what, I’ve been—what—married this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“To you?”

A hint of something passed through Damen’s expression. Irritation. Bitterness. Maybe something else. “Yes.”

“No,” Laurent said flatly. “No. That’s not—that’s not how this works.”

“I tried to tell you,” Damen said, voice low but firm. “I left messages. Emails. I even sent a letter to that ridiculous address you had in Paris.”

Laurent frowned. “I never got anything.”

“You changed your number. You didn’t want to hear it Laurent.”

Laurent crossed his arms tighter, like he could physically hold himself together.

“Well, forgive me if I assumed our drunken disaster of a midnight marriage had been quietly buried like it should have been.”

Damen didn’t rise to the bait. “I was going to file the paperwork myself,” he said. “But I didn’t have your updated information. The court needed both of us. So it stayed. In limbo.”

Laurent let out a slow breath. It felt like watching a house slowly burn down. His own house. From the inside. “So,” he said finally. “Let me guess. I call a solicitor, we’ll sign the correct forms, and it’ll be over by Tuesday.”

Damen shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not signing anything.”

Laurent’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I’m not signing the papers.” Damen said like he was talking to an imbecile. “I’ve been stuck with it for seven years. You don’t get to come back and make demands.”

Laurent stood up with great effort, and took a slow step forward. “Listen, Damen, I’m engaged—”

“Oh yeah? Your brother found a new puppet master for you? your little wine stunt made headlines, by the way. Classy move. Now suddenly you're hiding out near the one person you didn’t want to see, and all you care about is cleaning up the mess?”

“This isn’t a mess, Damen. It’s my life.”

“You should’ve thought about that before walking out without a word.”

The silence that followed was thick. Laurent’s throat worked, but no words came out.

Eventually, Damen exhaled and stepped back. “You want a divorce? Go to court.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

Damen raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Yes.” Laurent folded his arms again, tightly enough to press the tremble out of his hands. “This was supposed to be a formality. A stupid technicality. We were drunk. We were twenty.”

“You were twenty,” Damen said. “I was twenty-five. Old enough to mean it.”

Laurent scoffed. “Don’t be sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”

Damen didn’t flinch. Just leaned back slightly against the counter, arms crossed. There was that maddening calm again, like this was just another patient consult, another routine exam. Laurent wanted to throw something at him. A clipboard. A lamp. The last seven years.

“You’re seriously not going to sign?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

“You vanished. I didn’t even get a conversation. Not a text. Not a post-it. And now, seven years later, you show up on my doorstep and expect me to play along while you pretend it never happened?”

Laurent’s throat felt dry.

“I’m not pretending it never happened.”

“You are. You think you can just clean your record, move on with your shiny new life? Political fiancé. Picture-perfect marriage. Great. You want that life? File a petition. Drag it into the public record. But if you go to court, know that your brother will find out. So will your fiancé.”

Laurent’s stomach turned.

“You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’d actually force this into a legal proceeding.”

Damen’s voice was even, unshaken. “Yes.”

-

Laurent found himself pacing in the narrow living room of the cottage, damp hair sticking to his forehead, hoodie clinging to his back. The wood stove crackled half-heartedly in the corner. His brain was running a million miles a minute.

Married.

Still married.

To Damen.

Court.

The word was a punch. Not metaphorical. Actual, physical nausea curled in his stomach at the thought.

Auguste would tip over.

Charles would call it “unfathomably embarrassing” in that pinched voice he used when someone failed to use the correct dessert fork.

Their PR team would implode.

His career, his image, gone in an instant.

All because of a technicality. A missing witness. A signature lost to time and bad stationery. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a noise halfway between a sigh and a scream.

This was supposed to be a sabbatical. A quiet little exile in the countryside where he could lick his wounds and wait for the press to move on.

Not... this.

Not Damen. Not the past. Not the way Damen had looked at him—calm and steady, like nothing Laurent said could shake him anymore. Like he’d already grieved it.

Laurent hadn't grieved anything. He’d just left.

And now, seven years later, the mess was still here, sitting neatly folded like a shirt in a drawer he’d never opened again.

He knew Damen wasn’t bluffing.

And court meant exposure.

And exposure meant Auguste. And Charles. And the engagement. And the press.

He had no quiet way out.

Laurent was completely, spectacularly trapped.

Chapter 2

It was late, and Damen was tired. The kind of exhaustion that clung to the bones. He had just finished his shift—a twelve-hour slog through flu season, one minor concussion, and a child with a swallowed marble. He was halfway through microwaving leftover stew when the knock came.

Not loud. Not frantic. But persistent.

He wasn’t expecting anyone, and Nikandros had already gone back to Edinburgh. And that meant it was—

Fuck.

Damen didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, back to the counter, stew forgotten. The second knock was softer. He crossed the room slowly, no haste, no rushing. If Laurent was capable of patience, Damen could damn well meet him there.

He eventually did open the door, and sure enough, there he was.

Laurent DeVere. Looking like something out of a fever dream. Rain-damp, swaying faintly on his feet, wrapped in a coat that looked far too thin for the weather and far too expensive for the loch.

There was none of his usual polish or poise. Not the Laurent who turned heads in photo spreads and press junkets. This version looked… unwell. Pale under the porch light. Hollow-eyed. His coat collar didn’t sit right, like he’d put it on in the dark. His hands were tucked into his sleeves, and his breath misted in the cold.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Like he hadn’t eaten, either.

Something in Damen’s chest twisted, lit up, slow and unwelcome. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, let the silence stretch. Longer and longer, to the point where it became almost uncomfortable.

Laurent didn’t flinch. But he didn’t meet Damen’s eyes, either.

“You were supposed to check in,” Damen said finally, trying not to sound too harsh.

Laurent had left the clinic without notice, sometime in the early hours. No note, no call. Damen had almost called the local constable. Almost. Before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to care.

“I know,” Laurent said, voice frayed, and then, like he couldn’t hold it in, “I’ve talked to Ancel, he says if we turn in the paperwork, the whole mess will be sorted within a week.”

Here we go again.

“What are you getting at?” That did come out harsh.

Laurent lifted his chin then, met his gaze. “Sign the papers, Damen.” He waited a moment, and there it was, the struggle in his eyes that was still the easiest thing for Damen to spot, like nothing had changed at all, “please”

Please.

Damen’s jaw ticked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Laurent say that word. Not like this. Not so raw. Not so achy. It should’ve softened something in him. But he didn’t know how to soften anymore. Not where Laurent was concerned.

“Which part of ‘I’m not going to sign any papers’ escaped your understanding, Laurent?”

Laurent swayed then, just a fraction. But it was enough for Damen to notice. His hand shot out instinctively—a hopeless attempt to steady him—but Laurent jerked away like he’d been burned, stumbled sideways, and caught himself against the doorframe.

Damen’s expression didn’t change, but he stepped back. Opened the door wider, didn’t say anything else.

Laurent hesitated for a second. Then stepped inside like a man walking into enemy territory—deliberate, proud, but shaking just enough to betray it. He was drenched. Exhausted. Holding himself together with nothing but teeth and pride. Typical Laurent.

The silence returned as soon as Damen shut the door behind him. But this time, it felt like it belonged to them both.

Damen didn’t ask questions. Instead, he crossed the room, grabbed a folded towel from the radiator, and tossed it towards Laurent’s chest. “Sit.”

Not a question. Not quite a command.

Laurent caught the towel on reflex, then blinked down at it like he wasn’t sure what it was for.

“You’re dripping on the floor,” Damen said, already moving into the next room. “Coat off. Sofa. Now. I’m not going to say it twice.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Do you boss all your patients around like this?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Flattering.”

Damen decided not to grace that with a response. He just walked past, dropping his keys on the table, and flicked on the small lamp near the sofa. The light was low. Not enough to be harsh. Just enough to see by.

Laurent still hadn’t moved.

“Laurent, for the last time. Sit. Down.”

Laurent rolled his eyes but complied, moving slowly like every joint ached. The kind of slow that said I haven’t eaten, I haven’t slept, and I don’t want to need help.

From this close, Damen could see it—how his skin stretched too tight across sharp cheekbones, how his posture curled inward like someone bracing for impact. Damen didn’t comment. He walked to the hallway closet, retrieved a battered medical bag, and dropped it unceremoniously on the coffee table. Then disappeared into the kitchen.

When he came back, he handed Laurent a glass of water.

Laurent stared at it.

“Drink,” Damen said.

“I’m not—”

“I didn’t ask if you were thirsty.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. But he took the glass. Sipped. Slowly, reluctantly. His hands shook just enough to make the water ripple.

Damen crouched in front of him and pulled out the thermometer. “Open your mouth.”

Laurent gave him a look. “At least buy me dinner first.”

Damen didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow in a way that said, I’m in no mood.

Laurent relented. The thermometer beeped a moment later. High.

Damen swore under his breath, then reached for Laurent’s wrist. Warm skin. Cold fingers.

“Your pulse is too fast,” Damen muttered, frowning. “Why did you leave the clinic? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“You know I am a little.” Laurent said dryly. “You always said I was deranged.”

“Just shut up.” Damen took the wrist again.

Laurent’s lips curled into a faintest ghost of a smile—lazy, tired, and yet carrying a certain fire. Not quite defiant, but just stubborn enough to pretend he hadn’t nearly collapsed in Damen’s footsteps for the second time in three days.

“Careful, Damianos. I’m an engaged man. You keep touching me like that, someone’s bound to get the wrong idea.”

Damen didn’t look up. “You’re a fucking married man,” he said evenly. “So shut up.”

The words landed, just like Damen had intended, sharp and jagged—a knife he could still twist in Laurent’s heart. One that had been twisting in his own for seven years.

Laurent flinched. Not much. But enough that Damen saw it. Felt it in the barest twitch beneath his fingers, the tension bleeding back into his arm. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it. Just looked away, like he couldn’t bear to meet Damen’s eyes.

Damen let go of his wrist, stood, and turned to the kitchen. “Don’t move,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re dehydrated, you have a fever, and you can barely stand upright. Don’t do anything idiotic for the rest of the night please.”

Laurent didn’t reply. But he didn’t move either.

Damen took that as a win.

He returned a moment later with a cuff and stethoscope, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The kind of focus he reserved for triage units and stubborn patients—people who thought pride outranked pulse rate. Laurent watched him with narrowed eyes, already annoyed.

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” Damen said, cutting him off.

Laurent made a faint noise of protest, already pulling back. Damen ignored it. Sat beside him and took his arm.

“I walked here,” Laurent offered. “In case you were wondering how I ended up looking like a vagrant.”

“You collapsed two days ago and left without clearance,” Damen said flatly, fitting the cuff into place. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up back on the clinic floor.”

Laurent gave him a look as the cuff inflated. “So stern, Doctor Akielos.”

Damen’s only response was to tighten the cuff half a notch more than necessary.

Laurent hissed through his teeth. “Be gentle.”

“Lie back,” Damen said.

“I am lying back.”

“Laurent.”

Laurent groaned and shifted further down the sofa, until his head rested against the armrest.

Damen pressed the stethoscope to the inside of his elbow. Listened.

The numbers were… not good. Low pressure. Erratic rhythm. A body trying to compensate for too little rest, too little food, and too much adrenaline.

Laurent sagged further into the cushions. His eyelids were already half-lowered, lashes fanning against pale skin. He was drifting, and Damen could see it happening in real-time—the crash after the freefall.

“Don’t sleep yet,” he said, adjusting the dial.

Laurent didn’t answer.

“Laurent.”

Still no response. His head lolled slightly.

Damen reached out and shook his shoulder, not hard, just enough to bring him back.

Laurent blinked blearily at him. “What.”

“Your blood pressure’s low,” Damen said. “You need to eat something, then you can sleep.”

Laurent let out a weak sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “Not hungry.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Damen didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t plead or push. Just sat there, prepared to do whatever was needed. The same way he had in that emergency room seven years ago, when Laurent had first come to him, battered and bruised, and yet looking so composed it had unnerved him.

He’d seen people like Laurent before. People who broke and smiled through it. Who joked instead of asking for help. Who thought exhaustion was a personality trait and collapse something to schedule around. He knew the signs, knew this terrain.

Laurent was breaking down right in front of his eyes. So Damen did what he always did. He kept the pieces from falling.

-

The kitchen was small. But it was lived-in and warm. Damen moved through it without thinking—pulling out ingredients, setting water to boil, slicing vegetables. It was the kind of task that required no thought. Muscle memory. Steady hands. Clean knife. Clean lines.

Behind him, Laurent had gone quiet.

When Damen glanced back, he was curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked under him, swamped in one of Damen’s old hoodies. It was too big by at least two sizes—the sleeves falling past his wrists, the collar stretched and soft with age. He looked smaller like that. Younger. Out of place and yet… not.

He was rough around the edges. A little older, a little broken, and yet beautiful. Still so fucking beautiful.

Laurent caught him looking. “You never cooked for me before,” he said, slightly more awake now.

So the sarcasm was apparently back. Damen turned to the stove. “You never stayed long enough to let me.”

It landed like a soft thud. And predictably, what followed was silence. The soup simmered, and so did everything between them—words unsaid, years unlived, that stupid, fragile thread that never seemed to snap no matter how far they stretched it.

Laurent didn’t speak again. Just watched him.

Damen could feel the weight of it across the room, that gaze like a touch—quiet, contemplative. Like Laurent wasn’t just watching the soup or the movements of Damen’s hands, but the life Damen had made here. This house. This kitchen. These small, necessary rituals that said: I’m here.

And somewhere in all of that stillness, somewhere between the scent of garlic and the bubbling broth, Laurent let himself think—

What if this was it?

What if he’d never left?

What if he belonged to someone who didn’t care about his headlines or his scandals, who didn’t keep score in dinner parties and donor lists? Someone who would cook for him, even while furious. Someone who knew how to steady a pulse.

Someone who would love him in silence.

Someone like Damen.

But he didn’t say it. Of course not. Because Damen wasn’t his. And he never would be. Laurent had him for a few moments—a few golden, fortunate ones—and then he’d lost him. Let him slip out of his fingers like grains of sand.

So he stayed quiet. Wrapped in the soft armour of borrowed comfort, and the sharp ache of almost.

-

The soup was simple. Broth, vegetables, a little shredded chicken. Nothing special. Nothing remarkable. But Laurent ate it like it was the first thing he’d tasted in weeks.

He held the bowl carefully, almost reverently. The first few spoonfuls were tentative, like his body had forgotten how to eat. Then a pause. Then another bite, slower. He chewed like it hurt to use his jaw. Or like he was trying not to look like someone who’d gone hungry.

Damen didn’t comment. He leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. Not hovering. Not coddling. Just watching. Trying to be present. Trying to be what Laurent needed.

Laurent noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He glanced up between spoonfuls, lips pulling into a tired, slanted smile. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Damen raised a brow.

Laurent lifted the spoon again, made a loose hand gesture. “Playing nurse.”

Damen let the moment settle, before be corrected, flatly. “Doctor.”

Laurent laughed under his breath. It wasn’t a happy sound, too sharp, too thin around the edges. “Is that a correction or a kink?”

Damen didn’t smile. “You’re exhausted,” he said instead. “Try less hard to be charming.”

Laurent made a soft noise in the back of his throat—half-amused, half-drawn-out frustration. “You say that like you’ve never fallen for it before.”

“I didn’t fall. I got pushed.”

Laurent raised both brows, all mock innocence. “Oh, I pushed you?”

“Off a cliff,” Damen said. “And smiled while you did it.”

Laurent blinked once. And for a moment, something cracked through the performance. The weariness behind his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. His grip on the spoon faltered slightly, like his hands were starting to betray him again. He went quiet.

Damen noticed that too. He straightened off the counter, gentler now. “Slow down.”

“I am going slow.”

“Your heart rate’s high. Blood pressure’s low. If you crash too fast, your system’s going to fight you on it.”

“I’m not crashing.”

Damen didn’t even glance up.

“You’re a walking cortisol spike. You’ve barely eaten. You haven’t slept. Your body’s in panic mode.”

“I’m used to it.”

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

Laurent apparently didn’t have an answer for that. That was new.

Damen watched him take another spoonful—smaller this time, more cautious. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” he said finally.

Laurent didn’t answer. Just kept eating. Slow. Quiet. Like if he made himself small enough, the conversation would pass him by. It didn’t. Because Damen really wasn’t in a mood.

“Laurent.”

Laurent sighed, spoon clinking gently against the edge of the bowl as he lowered it. “What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Not sleeping. Not eating. Running yourself into the ground because it keeps you from thinking too much.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud.”

Damen didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“When was the last time you had a real meal before this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Laurent looked down at the bowl. Studied the spoon. “I don’t remember,” he said quietly.

That hurt, for some reason. Not the words themselves. But the way he said them. Like it wasn’t tragic. Like it wasn’t unusual. Like he hadn’t just trained himself to forget hunger the same way he’d trained himself not to flinch when things got bad.

Damen walked over. Laurent stiffened slightly when he got close, but didn’t pull away.

Damen crouched in front of him, knees bent so they were eye-level. Close enough to see every pale flicker in Laurent’s expression. “Is it so hard to admit you need help?”

Laurent huffed out a breath—small, incredulous. “What do you think I’m doing here, Damen? I came to you because I needed your help.”

“You came to get something signed. You didn’t come for help.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Damen said. “And neither is you dragging yourself to my door half-dead and pretending it’s just about paperwork.”

Laurent set the bowl down slowly. His hands were trembling again. “It is about the paperwork.”

“It’s not and you fucking know it.”

“Will you just sign?”

That was act one, and Damen knew it. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. “No.”

Laurent shook his head. Not in surprise—he’d expected the answer. Still he went on, colder than before. “It’s a formality. A cleanup job. That’s all this is.”

Damen didn’t answer.

“And not even legally complicated. I’ve already had it reviewed.”

“I believe me not signing will complicate a lot for you, Laurent.”

“You won’t even have to see me again. Once it’s filed, that’s it. Over.”

“And you’re just going to assume I want that.”

Laurent’s expression didn’t change, but the rhythm of his speech did. It stuttered, just a bit. Then he shifted tactics.

Act two.

He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. His voice went velvet-soft, eyes hooded in a way Damen knew too well. “Come on,” he said, and there was the smile—wry and tilted, full of practiced mischief. “One signature. You can even make me beg for it, if that helps.”

Damen didn’t blink. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Laurent whispered, smile curling tighter. “I was trying to be persuasive.”

“You’re not.”

“I can be, if you’d just—” His hand landed on Damen’s chest. Damen felt the warmth of it through the fabric of his shirt. It was a surprise his heartbeat didn’t pick up. Laurent moved closer, and the hand on Damen’s chest wandered somewhere lower—

Damen caught his wrist.

“Stop.”

Laurent fell quiet.

Damen stepped away from the counter, needing the space. The distance. The air between them felt too thin all of a sudden. How had he forgotten how infuriating Laurent could be?

“If you think you can flirt your way out of this, you’re damn wrong.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

Laurent sat back, slowly. The flirtation vanished like fog burned off by sunlight. What remained underneath was sharper. More brittle.

Act three.

God. He was predictable.

“I can wire you whatever amount you want.”

Damen turned to him, truly on edge now. “You think this is about money?”

Laurent didn’t blink. “I think this is about control.”

“And from what I remember, you don’t like not having it.”

Laurent flinched. It was small. A breath, a twitch, a shadow of a movement—but Damen saw it. “My life is really, really difficult at the moment, Damen. Please don’t add to it.”

That should’ve done it, should’ve moved something. But Damen didn’t budge. Instead he asked.

That one question that had been nagging at him since the moment Laurent’s engagement was announced.

“Do you really want to marry him?”

Laurent didn’t react at first. Didn’t even blink.

“Charles,” Damen said, stepping closer. “Do you really want to marry him?”

Still, Laurent said nothing, but his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Because from what I’ve heard…” Damen went on, “that man has a reputation.” Laurent’s fingers tensed around the hem of his hoodie. Damen’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened, which somehow made it worse. “A history. Aggression. Even violence.”

That did it. Laurent’s shoulders tensed, but still, he didn’t deny it. Didn’t lift his eyes. Didn’t argue. Didn’t do any of the things Laurent usually did when cornered—deflect, twist, seduce, strike. He just sat there. Quiet and still.

And that was all the confirmation Damen needed.

Damn it.

Damn it all.

Laurent looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to lie, or if he was too tired to keep up the façade anymore. Damen took a single step forward, then another. He wasn’t trying to intimidate. That wasn’t his game. But he needed to be closer. Needed to see Laurent’s face clearly when he asked.

“Has he mistreated you, Laurent?”

Laurent looked up at that—sharp, fast. Something flickered behind his eyes. Alarm, maybe. Or fury. Or some deep, buried instinct to run.

“You have no right to ask me that.”

Damen didn’t back off. Not now. Not after he’d come so far. “I have every right.”

Laurent laughed then. A single, bitter exhale.

“Why? Because we’re married?” he asked, a hollow kind of smile curling at the edges. “Is that it? That little technicality gives you access to everything, now? Just so you know, that leftover title means nothing, don’t flatter yourself, Damen.”

“Answer the question, Laurent.”

Laurent looked away again.

“It should be yes or no.”

“Not everything is so black and white.”

“What does that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Damen resisted the urge to shake him. Demand answers Laurent wasn’t obliged to give.

“Answer me, Laurent.”

Just fucking answer.

“It’ll make Auguste happy.”

Damen stilled. The words were said so quietly they almost didn’t make it to Damen’s ears. But he heard them. And he understood. Not because Laurent explained, but because Damen knew how much that name meant when Laurent said it like that. Like it was sacred. Like it was the only currency he had left.

“You’d marry him for that?” Damen asked, almost gently. “To make Auguste happy?”

Laurent didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The silence was enough.

It was a confession all by itself.

And Damen felt something in his chest shift—hard and heavy. Like grief. Like the terrible, awful kind of love that comes from watching someone walk into the fire, knowing you can’t pull them out unless they want to leave.

“He’s my brother,” Laurent said, like that made it better, “he’s… he’s everything.”

Damen’s expression didn’t shift. “So you’ll shatter yourself into pieces, trying to be what he needs?”

Laurent’s didn’t answer. Maybe because it wasn’t easy. Maybe because it was too easy.

“If I do this right…” Laurent said finally, “he wins the election. He finally gets what he deserves. I stop being the reason people doubt him. I stop being the weak link. The scandal. The…” His voice trembled around the word. “Mistake.”

“You’re not a mistake.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

Laurent shook his head. “You don’t know what I did to him. You don’t know how many times I—” He cut himself off. “He trusted me, and I made him regret it. Over and over again.”

“That’s not true.”

Laurent’s smile was paper-thin. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what I cost him—”

“I didn’t have to be. And you didn’t cost him anything. He chose to stand by you.”

“And I disappointed him.”

“He still protected you, that was his choice too.”

“No. That was duty.”

“No,” Damen said, and there was no softness in it anymore. “That was love. You just don’t want to acknowledge it. Does he know what kind of man Charles is?”

Damen waited. No reply came.

“You haven’t told him, have you? Goddamn it, Laurent.”

Laurent opened his mouth. Then closed it again. He looked so tired. Like none of this was new, but hearing it out loud had pressed on something fragile he’d kept hidden for years.

Damen stepped back. Just enough to let him breathe.

“I won’t sign the papers.”

-

Laurent finished the soup. His movements were sluggish now, eyelids dipping lower with every other breath. But he kept going until the bowl was empty—some quiet, stubborn act of compliance.

When he finally set the spoon down, he pushed the bowl forward with the last of his coordination.

Damen took it without a word, carried it to the kitchen sink, rinsed it quickly, then came back, stopping just beside the arm of the sofa.

“Go to bed.”

Laurent didn’t move. Just looked up with half-lidded eyes and said, too quietly to be casual, “If I sleep… will you sign in the morning?”

There wasn’t even a pause.

“No,” Damen said.

Laurent stared at him for a beat longer. Then huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“You’re an arsehole.”

Damen leaned one hand against the back of the couch, eyes fixed on him. “You’re still married to me.” Laurent blinked. Damen’s voice didn’t change. It remained calm, and entirely unbothered. “So either lie down, or I’ll drug you.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Such bedside manner.”

Damen shrugged. “You knew what you were marrying.”

That earned a sound, a low, scratchy, almost-breathless thing that might’ve once been a laugh, if it weren’t so bitter. Laurent tipped his head back against the cushion, eyes sliding closed for a second.

“I didn’t know anything,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t meant for Damen. But he heard it anyway.

Damen stayed where he was, watching him. The way his legs curled closer to his chest now. The too-big hoodie swallowing him whole. The hollowness in his face.

“You can take the bed.”

That got Laurent’s attention. He cracked one eye open. “And where would you go? The floor?”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

Laurent looked at him. “That’s not the point.”

“No.”

Laurent didn’t argue. But he didn’t move, either. After a long moment, he said, quietly, “I don’t want to dream tonight.”

There was silence again. The worst kind of silence. The kind that said too much without saying anything at all.

“I’ll wake you if it gets bad.”

Laurent didn’t thank him. Of course he didn’t.

“Fine. But if you steal the duvet, I’ll press charges.”

“You’d have to survive the night first.”

“That’s the plan, husband.”

The word cut through the quiet like a thread snapping. Deliberate. Heavy with mockery. Or maybe it was regret. It was hard to tell anymore.

Damen didn’t respond. He just walked towards the bedroom, and left the door open behind him.

Laurent followed.

-

The bedroom was dim.

Damen had left the bedside lamp on. The sheets were turned down. One pillow bore the faint impression of a head, the other was untouched. Laurent stood at the threshold for a long moment, staring at it.

He didn’t move until he heard water running from the bathroom. Damen, brushing his teeth, maybe washing his face, doing the kind of rituals that came at the end of a long day. The kind that meant you lived here. Belonged here.

Laurent didn't.

Not really.

He stepped inside anyway. Dropped his phone on the bedside table without looking. Then sank down onto the edge of the bed with gracelessness that would’ve tipped Charles over the edge. His head fell forward. Hands in his lap. He didn’t mean to close his eyes.

But for just a moment, he let himself go weightless. He was so, so tired. His head hit the pillow.

And then his phone buzzed. Laurent didn’t move. It buzzed again.

He opened his eyes, dreading what he already knew. And of course, the caller ID confirmed it, Charles

Laurent stared at it. Didn’t touch.

The buzzing stopped. And then started again. He inhaled slowly. Picked it up. Held it. Just held it. It rang out.

The third time, he answered.

There wasn’t even a hello.

Just Charles’s voice—clipped and irritated, “where the hell have you been? Why weren’t you picking up?”

Laurent didn’t respond. His throat felt closed.

“Laurent.” This time, it was edged with warning.

He forced his voice out. “I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Ran into an old friend.”

“You don’t have any friends.”

It was so matter-of-fact. Like a weather report. Laurent closed his eyes. His fingers twitched around the phone. The urge to hang up surged up his spine like nausea. He didn’t.

Charles went on. “You know the press is still sniffing. Auguste is covering for you. You can’t keep doing this.”

“I know.”

There was another silence. But this one was different. Heavy like dead weight. And Laurent—Laurent didn’t fight it. He just let the phone slip from his hand. It landed softly against the blanket.

The call was still open, but Charles’s voice now was mere distant static. Laurent leaned back against the headboard. The hoodie slipped further down his wrists. His eyes didn’t close, but they stopped focusing.

He couldn’t do this. Not now. He was too damn tired.

Damen came out a minute later, settled on the bed beside him.

He looked so warm and safe. Laurent wanted to crawl in his arms, tell Damen to hold him and never let go.

He didn’t let himself.