CEO loves me with all his soul.-Chapter 119. Two sides of love

The hotel corridor was dim and silent, lit only by the soft glow of the sconces lining the walls. Augustin’s bare feet made no sound against the plush carpet as he stepped out of his room, shirtless, hair tousled from tossing in bed.

Sleep had eluded him—again.

His mind was still tangled in theories, in questions, in the shadowed trail behind Wryn Hudel. He’d tried calming his nerves with soft music and a glass of hotel red. Neither had helped. Now, hunger grumbled low and stubborn in his stomach.

He moved down the hallway toward the shared kitchen at the corner suite, tugging a silk robe closed around himself.

As he reached the elevator lounge area, he caught the subtle click of a door opening.

Turning, Augustin raised an eyebrow when he saw Ethan stepping out of his suite—dressed in nothing but a loose nightgown of soft black silk that brushed his calves, hanging open just enough to reveal skin that was definitely not untouched.

Ethan paused as their eyes met. He looked far too smug for someone wandering a hallway at one in the morning.

Augustin’s eyes narrowed immediately, then dropped—to the dark marks blooming just under Ethan’s jawline and down to the edge of his collarbone. Obvious. Bold. The kind of love bites you didn’t try to hide.

"Couldn’t sleep either?" Augustin asked dryly.

Ethan stretched slightly, as if completely unbothered. "I’m fine. Adrian’s resting."

Augustin’s eyes flicked to Ethan’s neck again. "Resting, huh?"

"I wore him out," Ethan said casually, that signature husky voice of his laced with pride. He moved past Augustin like a cat at ease in its kingdom. "I’m going to get food. He was mumbling about strawberry mousse in his sleep."

"You spoil him," Augustin muttered, following him into the kitchen.

"I married him," Ethan countered.

The kitchen light flicked on, revealing an immaculate marble space—and a few less-than-glamorous hotel snack trays. Augustin surveyed the options with a bored glance before rummaging through the cabinet for something edible.

Ethan opened the mini-fridge, unearthing leftover dessert and half a platter of cheese and prosciutto. Augustin reached blindly for what he thought was a box of crackers.

He popped one into his mouth and immediately gagged.

Ethan turned, watching with a raised brow.

Augustin spat the bite into a napkin, horrified. "Is this—this is dog food. Why is there gourmet dog food in the human pantry?"

Ethan only chuckled, unfazed as he arranged a tray—two desserts, a few slices of aged cheese, chilled juice. His movements were smooth, elegant even in sleepwear. Augustin watched him for a moment.

"You two really do love each other," Augustin said softly.

Ethan paused with his hand on a glass.

"I’d die for him," he replied. "But more importantly, I’d live for him."

There was no arrogance in the words. Just truth. Deep and anchoring.

Augustin said nothing more. He watched Ethan retreat back toward his room, tray in hand, moonlight catching the line of his throat and collarbone—those hickeys standing out like a trail of proof.

Back in Their Suite

The room was quiet. The curtain flutters softly in the air conditioning, and the warm golden lights dimmed for comfort.

Adrian, barefoot and bleary-eyed in one of Ethan’s oversized shirts, padded quietly toward the bathroom. His black hair fell in sleepy waves down his back, and his eyes were still glazed with that half-dream daze.

He didn’t expect Ethan to return so soon.

But before Adrian could reach the door, Ethan stepped inside behind him, setting the tray quietly on a side table.

"Caught you," Ethan whispered against the back of Adrian’s neck.

Adrian jumped slightly, startled, then relaxed as those strong arms slid around his waist.

"Ethan..." he murmured.

Ethan leaned down, lips brushing the skin just under Adrian’s ear. "Going somewhere, sweetheart?"

"Was just... going to wash my face," Adrian replied, though his body was already melting into the touch.

Ethan kissed his neck, slow and deliberate. "You don’t need water. You need me."

Adrian flushed.

Without warning, Ethan bent and swept him up—princess-style—one arm under his knees, the other cradling his back. Adrian let out a soft gasp, arms curling around Ethan’s neck.

"Ethan!" he whispered, scandalized.

"You’re not walking when you can barely stand," Ethan said smoothly. "I’ll make it up to you in the shower."

Adrian’s heart fluttered violently in his chest as Ethan carried him past the velvet drapes and into the massive bathroom, steam already beginning to curl in the air.

The marble-tiled space was warm and glowed softly from the underlights. The walk-in shower loomed like a private sanctuary—glass, gold fixtures, the gentle hiss of water raining down from the rainfall spout above.

Ethan placed Adrian down carefully inside, under the warmth, and pressed his lips to his husband’s—soft at first, then deepening with hunger. His hands slid under the oversized shirt, pulling it up slowly, revealing pale skin flushed from heat and touch.

The water streamed down around them like a curtain of heat.

"You’re so beautiful like this," Ethan murmured, pressing Adrian against the tile, water tracing their skin like a second set of hands.

Adrian blushed deeper, his breath catching. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s true every time," Ethan said, dragging his mouth across Adrian’s throat, claiming every soft sound that followed.

What happened next unfolded in the rising steam and the warmth of bodies reacquainting with each other like waves returning to shore—an intimate storm of whispered names, slick skin, tangled fingers.

They lost time to each other.

The water had long since cooled when Ethan turned it off. He wrapped Adrian in a soft towel, drying him with gentle care, then lifted him once more and carried him back to bed.

Their tray of food was untouched.

They curled under the covers, skin still damp, hearts slowed.

Adrian’s head rested against Ethan’s chest, and Ethan played with a lock of his hair in silence for a while.

"You know," Adrian whispered sleepily, "I never thought I’d be this... happy."

Ethan looked down, silver light from the window catching the edge of his face.

"You make it easy," Ethan said softly. "To be happy. To be something other than a weapon."

Adrian smiled, lashes lowering. "You’re still a weapon. You just point yourself at the people who hurt what you love."

"Then I’ll never stop pointing," Ethan said. He leaned down and kissed Adrian’s forehead. "Sleep now. You’ll dream better with me here."

"I always do."

--

-

The park was quiet.

Late afternoon bled into a cool dusk, and the sky stretched like a canvas brushed in fading amber and gray. Children had gone home. The fountains trickled without company. Leaves, curled and copper-toned, rustled gently across the stone paths, blown by a breeze that smelled faintly of earth and coming rain.

On the last bench beneath a sycamore tree, Isaac sat alone.

His tall frame was hunched slightly, forearms braced on his knees, the wind tugging at the collar of his black coat. His dark eyes, ringed with fatigue and months of grief, were locked on a small paper box in his hand—white and plain, tied with a thin golden ribbon that fluttered in the breeze.

He hadn’t touched it. Not yet.

People passed without noticing him. Perhaps they felt the weight in the air around him, the edge of something sharp and unwelcoming in his aura. Isaac always had the kind of presence that repelled the average stranger—too cold, too intense, too dangerous. But now, that presence was quieter. Not colder, just... hollowed out.

He slowly untied the ribbon.

Inside was a slice of chocolate honey cake—Lucas’s favorite. The one with the soft sponge soaked in a glaze of dark rum, with thin layers of honeyed cream between each piece. The top had a faint dusting of gold shimmer sugar. Lucas had once called it "too pretty to eat, but too delicious not to."

Isaac stared at it now like it was a relic dug from his own ribcage.

He pulled the plastic fork free and took a bite. The taste—rich, warm, clinging to memory—hit him like a knife through paper.

Lucas.

He hadn’t said his name aloud in days.

And yet it was always on his lips, somewhere. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

It had been exactly one month since that day in the station. The day gunshots rang through glass. The day blood painted sterile white tiles red. The day time stopped, and Isaac screamed so loudly they had to drag him away while his hands shook with the kind of rage that had no outlet, no target, no cure.

Lucas had died before Isaac could even say the words out loud.

"I love you."

The phrase echoed now in Isaac’s mind like it had lived there forever—unsaid, unspent, starving.

He took another bite of the cake. Slower. His jaw tightened.

Lucas had adored this stupid thing. Every time Ethan’s chef made it, he’d light up with this expression—half joy, half mischief—and Isaac would watch him devour it like a kid who forgot he was a responsible doctor. Always with those damn golden eyes, full of sunlight and sincerity. They’d shimmer when Lucas smiled.

Gods, how they shimmered.

Isaac tilted his head back against the bench, closing his eyes.

He could see it again so clearly—Lucas leaning over the kitchen counter, fork in one hand, cake smeared just slightly on his cheek. That annoying little twitch in the corner of his mouth when he pretended not to notice Isaac watching him.

"You’re staring," Lucas had said once, voice laced with gentle reprimand.

Isaac had leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. "I like watching you eat. It’s the only time you drop your perfect doctor act and look like a happy idiot." freewёbnoνel.com

Lucas had rolled his eyes. "You’re an ass."

"But your favorite one."

Lucas didn’t deny it.

And now...

Now there was nothing but a slice of cake on a cold bench and silence where laughter once echoed.

Isaac’s hands clenched around the box.

"Do you remember," Isaac murmured, "that night in the back of Ethan’s car?"

He was talking to the air now. To the emptiness.

"You were so mad. I was supposed to drive you home and instead I parked near the river and tried to make out with you like some hormonal teenager. You slapped me with your clipboard."

A laugh cracked out of him—but it sounded wrong. More pain than humor.

"You always thought I wasn’t serious. That I’d get bored. That I’d disappear. And I let you believe that. I let you think you weren’t the center of the goddamn universe."

He looked down at the cake again, at the smudged bite lines. The paper box trembled slightly in his hand.

"You were. You are."

The breeze picked up, scattering dry leaves across the pavement.

"I’d trade every one of my nights," he said, voice low, "for one more morning with you."

A bird cried in the distance. The city hummed far off beyond the trees. The world moved on—stupid and unfair, and worse, indifferent.

Isaac stayed on that bench until the cake was gone and the light had faded entirely.

Only then did he stand, wiping his hands on his coat, tucking the box carefully into his pocket like it still meant something.

He looked at the sky. Then at the shadows stretching across the grass.

"Whoever took you from me," he whispered, voice darker now, colder, more dangerous, "is going to learn what it feels like to lose everything."

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