"Put me down!"
Isidore's voice cracked through the smoke. His arms tightened around Julian, trembling yet unyielding.
Tristan didn't flinch. His grip remained firm, carrying both of them down the staircase step by step.
"Stop fighting," he muttered, jaw tense. "You'll fall."
"I said—put me down!"
Isidore's fury lashed out like a flame, even as his strength waned. His head lolled briefly, and Julian whimpered, pressing his tiny hands against his mother's cheek.
"Mama," he whispered, voice trembling.
Tristan's heart clenched. He looked down—the child's fingers smeared with soot, Isidore's skin ghost-pale and hand's blistered, his breaths ragged.
The stairs groaned beneath them, each step echoing like the toll of a bell. Dust rained down from the ceiling, a faint gray veil over Tristan's coat.
He tightened his hold. "You're safe now," he said under his breath, more to himself than to them. "I've got you both."
By the time he reached the ground floor, the afternoon light bled through the cracked doorway, gold cutting through gray. He could see the car outside, the driver waiting, eyes wide at the sight before him.
Isidore's body sagged in Tristan's arms. His lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and then stilled.
"Isidore," Tristan called softly. No response.
Julian's little voice rose in panic. "Mama!"
Tristan glanced down at the child. "Shh, he's sleeping," he soothed. "Just sleeping, little one."
Julian clung tighter to his mother, his small hands trembling.
Tristan pushed through the door. The sunlight struck harsh against his face, and for a moment, he had to squint. The air outside felt almost clean after the suffocating heat within.
"Sir!" The driver hurried forward, alarm etched across his face. "Let me take the child—"
Julian immediately shook his head, burrowing into Isidore's shoulder. "No!"
Tristan sighed. "Hey," he murmured, crouching slightly to meet the boy's eyes. "Look, your mama's just resting, see? I'll put him in the car, all right? You'll wait with me like a brave boy, hmm?"
Julian's lips quivered. He hesitated—then nodded, trusting the man he'd seen countless times on glowing screens, the hero in suits and calm smiles.
The driver reached carefully and lifted Julian from Isidore's arms. The child whimpered but didn't resist, still watching Tristan anxiously.
"Good boy," Tristan said softly. "We'll be right behind you."
The driver held Julian gently, murmuring something soothing as he turned toward the car.
Tristan looked down again. Isidore's head had fallen against his chest, his breath shallow. Strands of beige hair stuck to his damp cheek, catching faintly in the light.
Something in Tristan's chest twisted painfully.
He bent down—hesitant, almost unwilling—and brushed his lips against Isidore's. A fleeting touch. Smoke. Salt. Desperation.
It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was something smaller, more fragile—something that hurt.
The driver turned at that exact moment and froze. "Oh dear," he muttered under his breath, quickly turning Julian's face away with one hand. "Let's… look at the sky instead, little one."
Julian blinked up innocently, oblivious. "Mama gets kisses too?"
The driver cleared his throat. "Ah—yes, yes. Because Mama's very brave."
Tristan didn't hear them. He was already moving again, carrying Isidore toward the waiting car. The sun flashed against the black paint as he opened the rear door.
He laid Isidore gently on the seat, brushing the soot from his cheek. His hand lingered there for a moment longer than it should have. Then he fastened the seat belt around him with careful precision.
Isidore's head tilted to the side, his lips parted faintly as if whispering a name.
Tristan's throat tightened.
He turned toward the driver. "Give me the boy."
The driver obeyed without question, passing Julian into his arms.
Julian immediately looked toward his mother, small hands reaching. "Mama…?"
"he is tired," Tristan murmured. "he'll wake soon."
He climbed into the back seat, pulling the door shut behind him. The car's interior smelled faintly of leather and smoke. He placed Julian on his lap, close against his chest.
The boy leaned forward, pressing his tiny hand against Isidore's arm. "Mama's hurt," he said softly.
Tristan's gaze darkened. "I know," he whispered. "But I won't let anything happen to him."
He reached over, adjusting Isidore's head until it rested gently against his shoulder. The warmth of him—so faint it frightened Tristan— the pheromones of Isidore seeped through his coat.
The driver started the engine.
Outside, the abandoned building stood hollow and black against the pale afternoon sky, the last of its smoke curling upward like a dying ghost.
Inside the car, silence filled the space—thick, fragile.
Julian's eyelids drooped. He nestled closer to his mother's arm, thumb brushing the edge of her sleeve.
Tristan looked at the two of them—the fragile boy and the broken omega—then Tristan exhaled slowly, his hand drifting to Isidore's hair.
"Sleep," he murmured, brushing a kiss across the crown of Isidore head. "Both of you."
As the car rolled forward, sunlight spilled across the road—
leaving the ashes, the lies, and the fire's echo behind.
The car rolled smoothly through the crowded streets, its black gloss gleaming like a mirror under the afternoon sun.
Bypassers turned their heads, whispers trailing in the air — Tristan Ashford. The name alone could hush a room, and now his unmistakable car had stopped before the Grand Hotel, a place that whispered wealth and glittered with marble dreams.
The driver stepped out first, immaculate in posture, opening the door with a low bow. Tristan emerged slowly, his tall frame casting a sharp shadow across the cobblestone drive. His eyes, usually the calm of an actor in control, were storm-dark now as they fell on the figure lying motionless in the backseat.
Isidore.
His pale hands were blistered raw, his breath wasn't fine— it was torn by fire. Guilt flickered through Tristan's expression, quick and unguarded. He had made the plan too cruel. It was jealousy — nothing else — that had birthed this disaster.
"Hold the child," Tristan said softly.
Julian didn't resist this time. He clung tightly to the driver's shoulder, his wide eyes darting between his mother and Tristan. His tiny hands trembled, but when he saw the man he called his hero, he believed again.
Tristan leaned in, unbuckled the seatbelt, and scooped Isidore into his arms. His grip was firm, protective — as though the entire city might try to steal Isidore away if he dared loosen it.
"Follow me," he ordered.
The driver obeyed instantly. As they entered the hotel, murmurs rose like ripples on still water. Every guest, every clerk, every curious onlooker froze. Tristan Ashford — that Tristan Ashford — was walking through the lobby with a man in his arms. A man too pale, too delicate, too beautiful even in ruin.
But Tristan didn't care.
His bodyguards appeared at once — tall men in sleek black suits, mirrored glasses reflecting the gold chandeliers overhead. One of them stepped forward, silent and precise.
"Hand the child to him," Tristan said.
The driver hesitated only for a breath before passing Julian to the bodyguard. The boy whimpered, clinging to his hero's sleeve.
"It's alright, little one," Tristan murmured, brushing a lock of blonde hair from Julian's damp cheek. "Your mama's just sleeping."
The boy's grip loosened, though his lip quivered. The bodyguard adjusted him carefully, his massive hands surprisingly gentle.
Tristan commanded. "call the doctor. Now."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, swallowing them into its quiet golden interior. The mirrored walls caught their reflections — Tristan's rigid jaw, the child's trembling curls, Isidore's faint outline limp in his arms. The ride felt eternal, the hum of the lift drowned only by the pounding of Tristan's heart.
When they reached the top floor, the hallway stretched long and silent, carpeted in wine-red velvet. The bodyguard walked ahead, carrying Julian close. Tristan followed, every step deliberate, each breath drawn against the weight of guilt clawing at him.
He had done this.
He had caused this.
But he would fix it — even if it meant burying every sin under luxury and apology.
The door to his suite opened at once, the air inside perfumed with expensive stillness. Every corner gleamed, perfectly arranged — a kingdom of comfort, too cold for the scene it was about to cradle.
Tristan lowered Isidore gently onto the vast bed, the ivory sheets sighing beneath him. He lingered, brushing a thumb across Isidore's temple, tracing the faint skin there. Then he turned to Julian, whose small face had gone pinched with worry.
"Come on, little guy," Tristan said softly. "It's your turn now."
Julian's tiny hands stretched toward him. Tristan gathered him up with practiced ease, setting him briefly on his hip.
"Don't worry, little one," he whispered. "Your mama will wake soon."
The child nodded, trusting. Always trusting.
Tristan's throat tightened.
He handed Julian a faint smile and turned to his bodyguard. "Tell the staff to prepare something for him — something sweet."
The man nodded and left quietly. Tristan then set Julian down beside Isidore, careful not to disturb the faint rise and fall of the man's chest. The boy crawled closer, clutching the sleeve of his mother's shirt with both hands.
"Mama…" he whispered.
No answer came. Only the hush of the room, and the sound of Tristan's own heart echoing somewhere in the silence.
He sat down slowly beside them, resting one hand over Isidore's.
And for a fleeting second, he wished the cameras had never loved him — so he could love this ruined, beautiful moment without shame.
The door opened with a soft click, breaking the stillness. The doctor entered — a man with silver-framed glasses. He paused for a moment at the sight before him: Tristan Ashford, the nation's beloved star, sitting beside a fragile young man asleep in his bed, with a child curled close to his side.
"Come up here, little one," Tristan murmured. His voice, low and steady, carried warmth now instead of command. "Uncle doctor will see your mama."
Julian blinked, uncertain, then stretched out his tiny arms toward him. Tristan scooped him up with practiced ease, resting the child against his chest as the doctor began his careful work.
The scent of antiseptic drifted faintly through the air as gauze unrolled and scissors snipped. Tristan's gaze followed every motion, dark eyes sharp as blades. When the doctor reached for Isidore's wrist to clean the blisters, Tristan's jaw tightened.
"Be careful," he said quietly — too quiet, almost kind, but edged with a warning that made the doctor's hands tremble for half a second.
Julian, sensing something in the air, he pressed his small head into the crook of Tristan's neck. His soft curls brushed against Tristan's jaw. Instinctively, Tristan rubbed the boy's back with a gentleness that surprised even himself.
"Don't worry, little guy," he murmured, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Everything will be fine."
Julian's fingers fisted in Tristan's collar, clinging tighter. Tristan tilted his head, studying the boy's solemn face. Something within him cracked — faint but real.
"Tell me," he said softly, "do you want this uncle to be your hero or not?"
Julian blinked, confused, then squealed when Tristan suddenly lifted him high above his head. For the first time since the fire, laughter filled the room — small, bright, and uncontainable. Tristan caught him again, the child's giggles echoing against his chest.
He threw him once more, higher this time. Julian's arms spread wide, fingers grazing the air like tiny wings. His laughter came in bursts — the kind that made even the walls seem lighter.
Tristan smiled. A strange thing, that smile — hesitant, unpracticed. The sound of the child's laughter had done what no applause, no award, had ever managed: it softened him.
The doctor cleared his throat gently. "Nothing serious, Mr. Ashford. The burns are shallow, but exhaustion has taken its toll. He must rest — truly rest. If he does, he'll recover soon enough."
Tristan nodded curtly. "Good. You may go."
The doctor packed his instruments quickly and slipped out, leaving behind a faint trail of clinical calm.
Silence settled once more, thick and tender.
Isidore slept, his breathing faint but steady. His hands, now bandaged, lay folded against his chest. Tristan watched him for a long time, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
Julian, now perched on his lap, had one finger in his mouth. He stared at Tristan — then at Isidore — then back at Tristan again.
Without warning, he tugged at Tristan's chin, turning his face toward him. His tiny brows furrowed, and he pointed at his own cheek.
"Dun'," he said, voice small but full of stubbornness. "Mama no need kiss. Kiss me."
Tristan blinked, taken aback. "What—?"
Before he could finish, Julian pressed his chubby cheek against Tristan's lips, his meaning unmistakable.
A startled laugh escaped Tristan. Then, obediently, he leaned in and kissed the boy's nose. Julian squealed, wriggling. Another kiss — this time on the cheek. Julian giggled louder. A third, on his tiny forehead, sent him into a fit of delighted laughter.
"Enough?" Tristan asked, amused.
Julian shook his head, pressing his face into Tristan's neck, laughing so hard his little body shook. Tristan gave in completely, raining kisses over his cheeks and chin, until the boy squealed again — loud and free — the kind of laughter that once belonged only to his mother and Uncle Zayn.
And for a fleeting moment, in that bright burst of childish joy, even Tristan Ashford — the man who'd built his fame on masks — forgot his guilt, his jealousy, his sins.
He only heard the laughter.
And felt, for once, alive.