Chapter 43
Theodore got home.
The house was already awake.
Voices in the dining room.
Soft movement.
The quiet rhythm of a place that functioned whether he was present or not.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“In the kitchen,” his mother called before he even spoke.
Of course.
Theodore exhaled lightly and walked in.
His mother was seated at the table, wrapped in a blanket, a cup of tea in her hands. The nurse stood nearby, setting down breakfast.
She looked up—
and immediately smiled.
“Well,” she said, eyes sharp despite her tone, “look who decided to come home.”
Theodore didn’t react. “Good morning.”
“Morning?” she repeated. “That depends on what you were doing all night.”
The nurse tried not to smile.
Theodore reached for a glass of water. “Working.”
“Mm,” his mother hummed. “Of course. And I suppose work now requires staying out overnight.”
Theodore took a sip, unbothered. “Sometimes.”
She watched him for a second longer.
Then—
a satisfied little smile.
“Well,” she said, settling back, “at least you’re finally making progress.”
Theodore paused.
“…progress.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “You’re not getting any younger, Theodore. If you’ve finally decided to stop hiding in books and start seeing someone—”
“I’m not,” he cut in.
She waved that away. “You don’t need to tell me. I can see it.”
The nurse busied herself with the table.
Theodore set the glass down. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” she said lightly. “You disappear for a night and come back looking—”
She stopped, studying him.
“…different.”
Theodore didn’t take the bait.
“I have work later,” he said instead.
“Of course you do,” she replied. “Just don’t forget you have a life outside of it.”
Theodore gave a small nod.
“Eat something before you go,” she added.
“I will.”
He didn’t.
He left the room before the conversation could stretch any further.
His steps were quiet down the hallway.
Door closed.
Silence.
Theodore stood there for a moment.
Still.
Then reached for his shirt.
Unbuttoned it.
Paused.
His gaze dropped.
Marks.
Faint, but not subtle.
He exhaled slowly.
“…right.”
No panic.
No embarrassment.
Just acknowledgment.
His fingers brushed lightly over one of them—
not lingering—
just enough to register it.
It hadn’t been careful.
It hadn’t been controlled.
But—
“It wasn’t bad.”
The words came out quiet.
Matter-of-fact.
That was the problem.
Theodore pulled the shirt off completely and dropped it onto the chair.
Killian.
His student.
That part sat heavier than the rest.
Not the act.
Not the lack of control.
That.
Theodore ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.
“…inconvenient.”
That was the word he settled on.
He stepped into the bathroom, turning the water on.
Steam began to fill the space.
As he stepped under it, the warmth hit his skin, grounding, steady—
something predictable.
Unlike the night before.
Unlike what would come later.
The Annex.
Theodore closed his eyes briefly.
Control.
Structure.
Distance.
That was what it was supposed to be.
And yet—
He leaned his head back slightly, water running down his neck—
“…we’ll see.”
Because for the first time—
he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it
to stay that way.
Meanwhile, across the city—
Killian stepped out of the taxi without looking back.
“Keep the change.”
The driver nodded, already pulling away.
The building loomed ahead—clean lines, polished glass, everything exactly where it should be.
Killian exhaled once and walked in.
Inside, the staff moved like clockwork.
Controlled.
Efficient.
Predictable.
Unlike last night.
“Morning, sir,” the family driver greeted as Killian crossed the lobby.
Killian pulled the car keys from his pocket and handed them over without slowing.
“Something’s wrong with it,” he said. “Left it near Kensington High Street. Side street behind the hotel—Greyford Suites.”
The driver nodded immediately. “I’ll have it checked and brought back, sir.”
Killian gave a short nod and kept walking.
He didn’t stop until he reached the dining room.
His father and uncle were already seated, breakfast laid out neatly in front of them.
His father didn’t even look up at first.
“You’re late.”
Killian poured himself a glass of water. “I wasn’t aware I had a schedule.”
His uncle chuckled softly. “Depends on what you call a schedule. Nights out, disappearing, showing up in the morning—seems quite structured to me.”
Killian didn’t respond.
His father finally looked at him.
Measured.
Unimpressed.
“You’re wasting time,” he said. “At some point, this lifestyle stops being amusing.”
Killian took a sip of water.
“I’ll let you know when that happens.”
His uncle smirked. “Careful. One day you’ll wake up and realize you’ve built nothing but stories you can’t even repeat in decent company.”
Killian set the glass down.
“Good thing I don’t aim for decent company.”
A beat.
His father’s expression hardened slightly.
“That attitude won’t last.”
Killian shrugged. “Neither will this conversation.”
And just like that—
he turned and left.
No argument.
No escalation.
He wasn’t in the mood.
Upstairs, the silence was immediate.
Killian walked into his room, shut the door, and dropped his jacket carelessly onto the chair.
Then—
he fell back onto the bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
For a moment—
nothing.
Then—
“…seriously?”
The word came out low, irritated.
Sophia.
Dumped.
Just like that.
Killian let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face.
“For what?” he muttered.
A humorless laugh followed.
“For that?”
A pause.
He turned his head slightly, staring at nothing.
A man.
That was the part that stuck.
Not the hotel.
Not the lie.
That.
Killian exhaled again, longer this time.
“It wasn’t even planned.”
That made it worse.
No intention.
No buildup.
Just—
happened.
Twice.
He shut his eyes briefly.
“…unbelievable.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter—
“I’ll call her later.”
Practical.
Let things cool down.
Let her calm down.
It always worked.
Killian turned onto his side, one arm under his head.
“…yeah.”
That was the plan.
The thought settled.
Not entirely convincing—
but enough.
His body was already giving in.
The tension from the night, the morning, the conversation—
finally catching up.
Within minutes—
he was asleep.
And for once—
there was nothing controlled about it.