The gray sky shone softly from behind the curtain. Last night's rain had ceased, leaving dew on the window and a dampness in the air.
Joey woke up first. His blond hair was disheveled, his hoodie still wrapping his body, warm from sleeping in Domenico's embrace. He didn't move immediately—just turned his head slowly, gazing at the face of the man asleep beside him.
Domenico slept facing him, that sturdy arm still encircling Joey's waist. His breathing was steady. The lines on his face looked softer in sleep. In moments like this, he didn't look like the Don. Just a forty-one-year-old man, worn out from loving in a way that was too hard.
Joey watched him for a while. His hand moved—as if wanting to touch the man's firm jaw. The slightly messy mane, or the sensual lips that were always tightly sealed as if holding hundreds of secrets. Domenico had shaved yesterday, the fine stubble around his jaw and chin looked cleaner.
Joey chose to turn away. Then rose slowly, without waking him. His feet touched the cold wooden floor. He walked to the kitchen, took a cup, and started brewing instant coffee from a cheap can.
The faint clink of a spoon against the mug. Thin steam rose into the air.
Domenico emerged from behind the hallway after washing his face, still in his undershirt and black trousers. His hair was a bit messy. But his eyes immediately fixed on the young man in the kitchen.
"You're up early on a Sunday," he said hoarsely, not fully recovered from sleep.
Joey didn't answer. He just pushed a mug of cheap, bitter coffee towards the dining table.
Domenico sat down, took a slow sip. Not as good as the espresso he usually drank, but this coffee felt special.
"Are you making breakfast?"
Joey glanced over his shoulder. "As long as you do the dishes."
A brief smile appeared on both their faces. A light chuckle that sounded gentle—but who knows where it came from. For a moment, the world felt... normal.
Joey started cooking—eggs, toast, leftover stir-fried vegetables. Over his shoulder, he could feel the man's gaze.
Domenico just sat, observing.
Joey's movements.How he opened the cabinets. How he tasted the sauce with the tip of his finger. How his body moved as if it had memorized this space—like a home. But not a safe home. A home under negotiation.
The food was done. They ate in silence. Not cold—but calm. An almost routine rhythm of eating, like something that had happened many times but never really spoken about.
Empty plates. Domenico stood up first, taking them to the sink.
Water ran. The sound of soap touching plates. Those large hands washed like someone who had never learned to be domestic, but was willing to try today.
Joey sat at the table, watching him quietly.
There was something strange in this calm. Not because it was new, but because they both knew—they were pretending to be an ordinary couple.
Domenico finished. He sat back down facing Joey. The young man smiled faintly, Domenico's expression softer. Both were lost in the quiet atmosphere.
No one wanted to speak first. The topic of work was too sensitive for both of them.
Joey disliked the world where Domenico walked with blood on his shoes, and Domenico disliked his Joey belonging to the public—seen, enjoyed, chased.
In the moment they locked eyes, they didn't ask. Didn't explain. Didn't judge.
They only shared a morning they didn't know would return next week or fade into the archives of time.
In this silence, for a moment, the world felt neutral. No domination. No surveillance. No wounds forcibly patched.
Today, just two people too tired to hurt each other.
*
Domenico wore a long dark overcoat, a leather glove on his left hand, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt which wasn't fully buttoned. The winter air didn't seem to touch him, as if he had his own climate. His authority spread like an expensive perfume—not ostentatious, but leaving a trace in the air.
Joey stood in the doorway of his apartment. His hair was still slightly damp from a shower, a gray sweater hanging loosely on his slender frame.
Domenico paused for a moment on the threshold, then looked at him. Just a gaze—long and slow—like two people who knew they would return to their respective wars after this morning.
"Take good care of yourself," Domenico said, his tone flat, his gaze soft.
Joey gave a small nod. "As long as you don't send a new camera."
A wry smile appeared on Domenico's lips. Not denying it. Not agreeing. Those dark brown irises glanced briefly before placing a soft kiss on top of Joey's head. Without waiting for the young man's response, he walked away, his leather shoes clicking softly on the corridor floor.
Joey remained standing there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. From the corner of his eye, he watched two young women—neighbors from the floor above—stop talking as they passed Domenico at the end of the hallway.
Their eyes followed the man with captivated expressions. One of them even bit her lower lip unconsciously.
The other whispered softly, "My God..." as if she had just seen a magazine model step out of the most exclusive fashion page.
Domenico kept walking without turning. He knew he was being watched, and he knew he left an impression—but he never played for a small audience.
Joey watched it all with a thin smile. Not jealousy. Not pride. More like someone watching a wild beast released onto the street, and wondering how many would be touched before they knew what they were facing.
Joey closed the door slowly. But he didn't go to the bedroom.
Instead, Joey stepped to the window, drawing the curtain slightly. His eyes looked down, to the small street in front of the building.
The black Jaguar was already waiting.
The car he had tried to borrow that one time in mid-January—when he intended to leave Domenico's mansion.
Back then, Domenico had just looked at him and said, "You still have time to decide. But if you run, make sure it's not with my car."
Now Joey saw the car from a distance, like looking at a memory that refused to let go.
The rear door opened automatically by the driver. Domenico got in without a word. Fabio—his driver and bodyguard—closed the door with a practiced movement. The engine started. The car slowly pulled away from the curb.
Joey rested his forehead against the windowpane. The cold temperature touched his skin like a reprimand. In the reflection of the glass, he saw his own face. The face of someone left half-behind.
"Go, and leave me alone," he whispered softly. "But don't be too long."
Joey still stood behind the curtain, watching the now-empty street. No black car. No Domenico. Just the trace of breath on the glass, and the aroma of cheap coffee hanging in the air.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't truly returned to his body.
Something was left behind in that morning—not words, not touch, but something more subtle. Like an unagreed-upon script that kept being repeated. Like a song that could only be enjoyed if it never ended.
Joey slowly closed the curtain.
His steps were slow as he headed towards the kitchen, passing the dining table where an empty coffee cup still sat. He didn't clean it. Not today. Let the traces of that morning linger a little longer—because they rarely had moments like that.
Joey stopped in the middle of the room for a moment, then took a deep breath.
Another day in a city that never truly gave a pause. Another morning with a man he should have left, but couldn't let go of.
A small version of happiness, that would never be recorded in anyone's history. Except their own.
*
The morning air still hung cold between the Manhattan buildings, though the spring sun was slowly rising. Joey Carter got out of the Volvo 240 he was driving, a gray hoodie covering his not-quite-dry blond mane. His expression was flat, holding remnants of sleep and something unresolved from this morning—the trace of a kiss on his head and the faint scent of masculine cologne still clinging to his collar.
The studio was on the third floor of an old building converted into a TV film production space, complete with tungsten lights, scattered cable reels, and VHS racks labeled Scene Rehearsal - Jan 95.
9:45 AM, the studio door opened with a soft chime.
Joey entered in the same gray hoodie from this morning, now layered with a faded Levi's 501 denim jacket. His hair was still slightly damp, the aroma of cheap coffee and Domenico's expensive cologne faint on the fabric. He gave a small yawn, his eyes still tired though his body was forced to be alert.
Inside the studio waiting room, the atmosphere was far from normal. A television was on the wall—a 20-inch RCA tube TV with a convex screen. The volume wasn't loud, but enough to make everyone fall silent.
CNN Breaking News. New Scandal Rocks Entertainment Industry: 3 Young Artists Arrested in Drug Network.
Alice stood with her arms crossed, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and high-waist jeans, a Motorola pager hanging from her belt. Adam sat leaning on the arm of the sofa while fiddling with his disconnected Walkman cassette. Chelsea sat stiffly, holding a styrofoam coffee cup from the deli downstairs, her eyeliner slightly smudged.
They were all staring at the screen—the morning broadcast from CBS.
On screen, the face of Ricky Mendez—a member of the famous boyband SUGARLINE—appeared in close-up. The young man was crying. His voice cracked, like a train derailing in the middle of an interview originally designed for denial.
Joey approached slowly. No one greeted him beyond a brief nod.
On screen, a blurry image showed a young face with bleached blond hair and large sunglasses—Jude Lex, stage name of the man who had just become a national criminal headline. Twenty years old, viral on MTV Spring Break, seen partying with big producers and boyband members.
"... connected to one of the Santiago houses in Queens, a location suspected to be a center for narcotics distribution for young celebrities. There, young men, Ferraris, and cocaine crossed paths in one classic night. The scandal has spread widely, ensnaring two members of SUGARLINE and one member of the independent band MIRRORDOWN..."
Joey furrowed his brow.
Those names weren't unfamiliar.
SUGARLINE—the phenomenal boyband of the year, five handsome young men with clean faces and tight choreography. And now, two of them, Ricky Mendez and Jasper Kim—appeared with handcuffs and exhausted, empty faces on TV.
Miles Torres from MIRRORDOWN appeared a few seconds later, his expression harder. But everyone's attention was on Ricky, sitting in an interrogation room, his face swollen.
Meanwhile, Miles Torres, one of the three young men arrested, wasn't from SUGARLINE, but part of the alternative-pop trio MIRRORDOWN, an urban-electronic band that had recently become popular on campuses and small festivals.
Miles was known as a producer and rapper with an edgy style and more mature lyrical content. Now, he was also recorded in the same network as Jude Lex.
"They said they'd boost my career, if I slept with some of their big shots..."
Ricky's voice trembled. Tears fell. His hands shook on his lap. There was a long pause before he couldn't continue, his head bowed, crying. "Then... they gave me something. I didn't know what, but after that, I needed more. They said... I could get more if I helped with distribution."
Around him, cameras kept rolling. His face was like a mirror of a recurring tragedy.
Joey stopped at the room's threshold. His gaze fixed on the screen.
Chelsea stood not far away, her hand holding a paper coffee cup that had gone cold. Her expression was gloomy.
"I really liked Ricky," she whispered softly. "He was the chillest one in that band. And he's only nineteen."
Joey didn't interrupt.
Alice stood behind the sofa, arms crossed over her chest. Her cynical expression was typical, but today there was a sad note there.
"This world is brutal," she murmured. "You think you come to create. But most of the time? You're just... disposable."
Adam nodded, still fiddling with his Walkman cassette.
"They always start with the kids," he said. "Take an innocent kid, make him shine, give him glitter, give him pressure, then when he's used up, throw him away."
That sentence hung in the air like dust that couldn't be cleaned.
Joey remained silent. But the glint in his eyes changed. He wasn't seeing Ricky. He was seeing a shadow of himself—a version that could have been trapped if one path had slipped.
He had never touched drugs. Nor was he forced to sleep with producers. But Joey knew that feeling—being wanted not for talent, but for the body. Being seen not for work, but for trauma that was enjoyable to watch.
"Does anyone know who Jude Lex is?" Chelsea asked quietly.
"An MTV kid," Adam answered. "Went viral last year as a music video model. Rumor has it, small-time dealer. Got into the circle through boybands."
Alice narrowed her eyes, her murmur almost inaudible.
"Fake name. But his style, sounds familiar. Some say he hangs out at that Santiago house, the one in Queens."
Joey bowed his head slightly. No reaction showed on his face. But inside him, a cold door opened.
The Snow King. A name beginning to circulate quietly behind the scenes. He wasn't an artist. Not a manager. But he created stars from ruins—with drugs, money, and fear. Jacob Doyle, the missing young actor, still hadn't been found. And it all led back to this city. A city that offered lights, but rarely gave an exit.
Joey stepped in. His voice sounded quiet but solid.
"Is there a new script today?"
Alice turned, slightly surprised.
"You okay?"
Joey shrugged. "I don't know Ricky. But yeah..., I feel bad for him." His tone was flat, almost cynical.
"Where's the script now?"
Adam handed a binder towards Joey without a word. Chelsea was still staring at the television screen, her gaze now hazy.
On screen, Ricky was still crying. And among all the cameras, the only one not recording was the camera in Joey's eyes—storing it all in memory, not for documentation, but for survival.
Because in a world like this, anyone could fall. Even those who seemed to still be standing. And this morning, Joey knew one thing; Another war had begun. Not between mafias, but between dreams and destruction wrapped in glitter.
Joey didn't speak much, though his expression hardened. He stared at the screen—stared at Ricky—and for a moment, the young man's expression was like a blurry mirror. Not because Joey was part of that network. He wasn't. But because he knew what it was like to be in the middle of a place promising light, then embracing you with chains.
His thoughts drifted back to this morning.
The sound of a spoon in the mug. The touch of that man's lips on his head. The soft sentence in the hallway, "Take good care of yourself."
Joey averted his gaze.
He was clean in this industry. That didn't mean he was free.
[]