The motel room was dimly lit, the golden glow of the bedside lamp flickering against the mirror. Etienne stood in front of it, fingers curled along the edges of the sink, staring at the reflection that had haunted him for years.
There's an old teaching on how to successfully negotiate the lowest bid: convince the seller that what they're offering is worthless. Point out the flaws, insist that nobody would want it, make them believe it doesn't deserve the price they're asking—that it's worth less than half.
If the seller is foolish enough, they'll let you walk away with it for next to nothing.
That's how you win. You don't pay full price. You break the value—so they lower it for you.
He believed he was less than, because the man who was supposed to protect him, guide him, feed him—the man his survival depended on—made him feel that way.
As a boy, why wouldn't he crave that man's approval? Why wouldn't he be happy to hear even the smallest bit of praise? His words mattered. Because back then, Etienne's entire existence depended on him.
When it was good, it was great—he felt loved.
Until the first time the man laid his hands on him.
"You think you're so smart? You think you know everything?! You're just a fucking dumb blonde!"
That big, muscular, hairy hand struck his face again and again, until he learned the lesson: He must never be smarter than a man.
Because he was beautiful.
And then, after the storm passed, the same hand that inflicted pain and domination over him would be the one to nurture his wounds.
Filled with guilt, the man would sigh, running his fingers gently over the bruises he left behind, "If only you didn't act up, I wouldn't have to beat you."
At first, it was confusing.
"If he loves me, why does he hurt me? Is he safe, or is he dangerous?"
But what options did he have? None.
No one was coming to save him. No one even knew he needed saving, including himself.
Etienne didn't even know if he was allowed to leave the dark, damp house. Because that man told him the world outside was worse.
"It's dangerous out there. Kids get kidnapped. Sold on the black market. Human trafficking is everywhere."
And so, the man reminded him, again and again:
"I am the only reason you're still alive."
"I keep you sheltered from the heat and cold."
"I make sure you're well fed."
It wasn't a cage.
It was protection.
And for a long time, Etienne believed it.
He thought he had moved on.
He had learned the hard lessons—about manipulation, grooming, and how the safest place can become the most dangerous. He didn't even know how he had ended up with that man in the first place. He was too young to remember.
But that experience had taught him one undeniable truth: The ones who love you will be the ones who break you. The deeper you allow yourself to love, the deeper you allow yourself to be broken.
A gentle touch on his hips pulled him from his thoughts, followed by the warmth of Byron's lips pressing softly against his shoulder. "Why are you staring at the mirror so long? Admiring your own beauty?"
Etienne leaned back, resting in the solid warmth of Byron's arms as they wrapped around him from behind. These strong arms. They felt safe.
Too safe.
They reminded him too much of that man's arms—strong, solid, protective.
And that terrified him.
Because one day, Byron would leave too.
One day, Byron would find something newer, fresher, more beautiful.
Etienne was 38. His beauty now depended on makeup, serums, and careful maintenance. But time was unforgiving. Sooner or later, he wouldn't be able to fight the wrinkles, the balding. Maybe he would gain weight. Maybe his scent would change, his skin would sag, black spots would appear on his face.
Byron, on the other hand, was still young. He would age like fine wine—the older he got, the more attractive he would become.
Even now, Byron didn't notice the way women turned to watch him whenever he walked by. How their eyes lingered. Whenever he spoke to the hotel clerk she always avoiding his gaze, flustered. Why wouldn't they? He was strong, confident, built like a man who knew his own power.
He was everything a woman wanted.
And in a few years, he would find someone who fit him better.
And Etienne?
He would be left behind—with nothing but a broken heart and the memory of a love that lasted no longer than a shooting star.
***
"Etienne, I'm worried sick about you, and there you are, off on a hot romantic journey with a dashing young man?!" Marco's voice echoed from the distance, full of enthusiasm as he looked at the updated photo on Etienne's social media.
Lying on the bed with nothing but a bath towel, his flat, fair chest exposed, Etienne looked effortlessly sexy. "Well, Marco, I get why you're jealous. It's a fine treat from the universe—now that I'm 38, just at the edge of my golden days, hahaha!"
"What's wrong with being 38? Have you ever seen someone at 68 still looking gorgeous? You need to have a better perception of yourself, girl!" Marco shot back.
Nah, I'm just being realistic. Who knows? My hair could start falling out in two years, and I'll be forced to become some old, boring, greasy uncle. Etienne kept telling himself, even though his mouth curved into a laugh as he joked with Marco, saying, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder!"
Byron enters the room, just after bath, he looks unbothered, sits on the bed rummaging his backpack to find a new underwear. But the way he remove Etienne's clothes, is so rough as a mole rate building their home, so Etienne slaps Byron's bicep.
"Careful! That's my lingerie! I want you to tear it when I'm wearing it, not when you're just digging through my stuff like some wild animal!" Etienne huffed, propping himself up on one elbow, his towel slipping slightly, revealing one of his smooth shoulders. And yet, he made no effort to fix it.
Byron smirked, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin. Marco was still talking on the phone, but Byron casually took it from Etienne's hand and set it aside before leaning in.
"What are you doing?" Etienne's voice carried a warning, but he wasn't pulling away.
"Stop!" Etienne giggled, pretending to push Byron away, but Byron knew his game by now. He continued, pressing soft kisses along that enticing shoulder bone, while effortlessly pinning Etienne's wrist down on the bed.
"I'm just out of the shower...!" Etienne protested, his voice a mix of laughter and playful whining.
Byron didn't care. He kept marking Etienne's skin, leaving his claim in warm, lingering kisses.
"Etienne, what's going on?" Marco asked through the phone.
But as soon as he heard the giggling, the soft protests, and the unmistakable sound of smooches, Marco sighed. "Alright... I'll call you later, I guess."
***
It felt restless—they needed to check out of the motel soon, but Etienne was just too exhausted. His body felt weightless, as if he were floating. He couldn't feel his limbs; all he felt was pleasure, a warmth so overwhelming that he just wanted to drift off to sleep.
So he simply lay there, his bath towel loose and open, exposing his bare back and bottom.
He exhaled slowly, feeling electric jolts sparking through his veins, spreading all over his body. It had never felt this good.
He barely resisted Byron taking his hand, pressing his fingertip against the device to unlock it. He didn't resist. Why should he? He was too tired to care—and besides, he had nothing to hide.
"It's my privacy..." Etienne murmured, his voice soft and spoiled.
"You were also digging through my phone last night," Byron replied, lying on his back as he started scrolling.
"I was trying to see your old pictures... If I had known you only cared about sunsets and clouds, I wouldn't have bothered sneaking around." Etienne finally rolled over, resting his head on Byron's chest.
Byron welcomed him, absently running his fingers through Etienne's hair as he continued scrolling. His eyes flicked to social media—and then he froze.
"...Seriously?" Byron's voice was laced with displeasure.
"What?" Etienne recognized that tone, his brows furrowing in confusion.
"We're on the run, and you're updating your social media? Seriously?" Byron's expression darkened. He was fully awake now, ready to go.
He left the bed—and Etienne—hurriedly rummaging through his backpack until he found his clothes.
"Are you mad at me?" Etienne asked. To be honest, he hadn't expected Byron's serious reaction to his social media update to hurt this much.
Byron didn't answer. He was completely focused, moving quickly as he got dressed. He pulled on his blue jeans, strapped on his smartwatch, and threw on his usual plain white shirt. Without a word, he rushed into the bathroom to gather anything important.
The silence felt heavier than any argument. Maybe he really was angry at Etienne's stupidity. How could he have been so careless? Updating his status while they were on the run—what the hell was he thinking?
Byron still wasn't responding. He felt distant. Cold. And that scared Etienne.
Byron will leave me.
Sooner or later, he will.
It's a time bomb.
Better to blow it up first—before it blows up on me.
And.... he better leave.
Go, Byron.
Goodbye.