Silas turned the ignition off with a soft click. The mansion loomed ahead — tall, quiet, and bathed in warm, golden light. Stillness everywhere, except in the passenger seat beside him, where a storm named Zara was in full performance mode.
"…and THEN the man had the audacity — no, the raw confidence — to ask if this," she gestured wildly at herself, "was thrifted."
Silas didn't answer. He was half-smiling, eyes lost in thought.
Zara side-eyed him over her Louis V shades. "You're not even listening, are you?"
He still said nothing.
Zara leaned closer, inspecting him like a suspicious TSA agent. "Wait. Wait-wait-wait. Is that a dreamy smile I'm seeing? Are you having an out-of-body experience? Blink twice if you've been cursed."
Silas blinked once… and continued smiling faintly.
Zara gasped. "Oh my God, did you—did someone flirt with you?! Did a boy flirt with you?! Was he hot?!"
Silas still didn't respond. He was too deep in the mental TikTok-loop of earlier:
Sage, panting from the shove.
Those sharp eyes.
That stupid, cocky little smirk.
That moment right before—
SNAP!
Zara's fingers sliced through the air in front of his face.
He jolted. "What the hell?"
"You glitched," she said calmly, popping her Dior purse open to check her lipstick. "I've never seen you glitch. Was it that kid who shoulder-checked you in the candy aisle? 'Cause if it was—he kinda ate."
Silas glared at her, but couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Get inside."
Zara gave a little hair flip, then stepped out — her heels click-click-ing like she was walking a runway, not a driveway. Gone was the cropped tee and cargo pants she'd worn earlier. Now?
Schiaparelli gown, fitted like sin
Chanel fur coat, casual shoulder drop.
Louboutin stilettos, red soles bloodying the earth.
Louis V shades, still on, even though it was dark.
A mini Dior purse, swinging like a weapon of status.
"Girl, you went to the mall, not the Met Gala," Silas muttered, trailing behind her.
"Excuse you," she sniffed. "I had an outfit change. I don't do overtime in peasantwear."
They reached the front door. Zara paused to admire her reflection in the glass panel. "Also, one of the clerks asked if I was Zara Moreau the influencer. I didn't even correct her. I just said, 'You tell me.'" She winked at her own reflection. "Queen behavior."
Silas opened the door. "You are literally exhausting."
As they walked in, Zara suddenly stopped.
"Wait," she said, turning with slow, dramatic realization. "Did you seriously leave my bags in the car?"
Silas blinked. "Zara—"
"No. No. I'm not doing this again. You do this every time. I specifically said: carry the black one gently — it's got limited edition glass packaging. If that breaks, I break. Do you want me to break?!"
He was already halfway back out the door, muttering, "God help me," under his breath.
The trunk opened with a soft whirr. The cool night air hit his face.
Silas paused.
Right there, under the stars and the soft hum of cicadas, it hit him again.
That stupid candy aisle.
The shove.
The gummy bear.
The goddamn eye contact.
He stood there, hands on the edge of the trunk, just staring into the night. And then, to no one in particular, he muttered:
"…and that idiot guy had to show up and ruin it. Whatever the hell his name is."
He sighed, grabbed Zara's bags, and shut the trunk.
Somewhere deep in his chest, something buzzed. The kind of buzz that doesn't just go away.
He'd see Sage again. That much he knew.
And next time?
There'd be no interruptions.
Night air tastes like tension…
The street was quiet. Too quiet for Sage's usual comfort. His house stood there like it always did—square, minimalist, moody lighting tucked behind glass panels and charcoal walls. But tonight… the shadows stretched longer than they should've.
Devon's car rolled up to the curb, headlights slicing the silence in two. Inside, the air between them was still thick with the earlier mall drag—Sage clowning Devon for liking Zara's post, then swearing she looked "reposted from Pinterest." Devon hadn't laughed. He hadn't even flinched.
Now, they were at Sage's gate.
Sage, ever unserious, ever dramatic, sighed and leaned across the console.
"You sure you don't want to come in? I still have those mocha mousse cakes. You love them and you're just pretending you don't."
Devon shook his head, jaw tight. "I don't pretend about what I don't like."
Sage raised a brow, smirking. "Including me?"
"Especially you," Devon muttered.
The car fell silent. A beat.
"Whatever. We already dropped Quinn. You can stop acting like I was third-wheeling your little fantasy date." Sage pulled the door handle, stepping out. "Goodnight, emotionally unavailable chocolate king."
He turned dramatically, threw a kiss like a ballroom prince, fluttery fingers and all.
Devon squinted. "Stop. Don't pull me in… but when I reach for you, you pull out."
But the door slammed mid-sentence.
Sage didn't even blink. He just tossed his keys and repeated Devon's words under his breath.
"Don't pull me in but when I reach for you, you pull…"
He shook it off with a scoff. "Nigga thinks he's deep. I'm tired."
He unlocked the front door and walked in, not noticing the car across the street.
Its headlights had been off when Devon pulled in.
Now?
Lights on. Engine low.
It waited. Just a second too long. Then slowly rolled past the house, taillights glowing red like a warning sign in the dark.
Sage didn't notice. Not really. Just that feeling—like something was watching, like the walls were made of eyes.
He looked back through the slit of his half-open blinds.
Street? Empty.
Night? Still.
Mind? Buzzing.
Devon's voice still lingered.
"Don't pull me in…"
Sage shook his head and walked deeper into the house. Unbothered on the outside. But inside?
He felt it.
Something shifted.
And this night?
It was far from over.
★Sage's P.O.V★
INT. SAGE'S APARTMENT – NIGHT
The clock blinked 2:47 AM. The city hummed in low frequencies beyond his balcony glass, streetlights flickering like dying stars. Sage sat hunched over his reading table, caffeine twitching through his system, a lukewarm mug of coffee between his fingers. Sleep had become a stranger again.
Not because of trauma.
Not because of nerves.
But scent.
That cologne.
The exact same cologne from the Durov mansion crime scene that morning—staining the halls like a memory that refused to die. Expensive. Spicy. Lingered with arrogant sweetness.
And tonight, in Dusane Mall, it clung to someone else. Someone who'd grinned after he was shoved. Someone with sin stitched into his smirk.
Sage flipped his leather notebook open and wrote in red ink:
"Cologne match. Dusane Mall. Gummy bear aisle. Tall, dark, flirtatious. He is a prime suspect."
Underlined twice.
He closed the book.
His eyes stayed open.
★silas's P.O.V★
-
SILAS'S BEDROOM – SAME TIME
Sheets kicked off. Shirtless. One hand behind his head, the other lazily scratching his toned abdomen. Silas lay in the dark, the ceiling fan slicing moonlight into slow motion across his abs. He groaned like a man hungry—not for food.
His mind was stuck in the candy aisle.
That boy.
The one who shoved him.
Feisty. Femme. Soft hips, sharp glare, mouth tight like he was biting back opinions. Silas could practically taste his irritation.
And his voice... honey laced with knives.
Silas smirked, licking his bottom lip as he rolled over, pelvis grinding lightly into the mattress.
"Little bitch wanted gummy bears and gave me attitude..." he muttered to himself, groaning softly.
"Perfect fuck buddy," he whispered with finality, then let his fingers wander south.
Two men, same city, same sleepless night.
One chasing truth.
The other chasing skin.
Neither knowing they've just become each other's obsession.
One's making a list.
The other's making plans.
And only one of them knows how to kill without leaving a trace.