When Isidore stepped out of the bathroom, the mirror's ghost still clung to him—pale cheeks, damp lashes, the faint tremor of someone fighting too many thoughts at once. He closed the door softly and walked back into the room.
Julian was still on the bed, surrounded by a kingdom of animals and plush Teddy bears. —his stuffed stag—was currently conquering all the others.
Maurice was already inside, arms crossed, foot tapping, eyes burning with clinical irritation.
"What is bothering you this time?" he demanded.
Isidore ignored him, moving toward the bed where Julian played. He lowered himself gracefully, a hand brushing through his son's fine blonde hair. "Nothing serious."
Maurice exhaled through his nose, a man allergic to patience. "You always say that. And you're always wrong."
He stepped closer and snatched Isidore's wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough that Isidore stiffened. Maurice pushed up the sleeve and began checking his pulse.
"I said I am fine," Isidore muttered.
"You know nothing," Maurice hissed, his voice tight with professional wrath.
Isidore sighed, weary of this ritual.
"How many times must I tell you," Maurice pressed on, "stop indulging in depression. Your hormones are still sensitive—you exhaust yourself for no reason."
"It's just fatigue," Isidore murmured.
"No, it's stress," Maurice snapped. "Again."
Isidore groaned under his breath.
Maurice pointed at the mattress. "Lay flat."
Isidore hesitated only a heartbeat—then glanced at Julian, who was still happily arranging his toy soldiers. He complied, lying back against the pillows, the silk sheets whispering under him. Maurice's cold fingers pressed along his ribs, then over the tension in his abdomen.
Isidore tensed, discomfort twitching under his skin. He didn't complain—he rarely did—but the restraint tightened his jaw.
"I can't keep repeating myself," Maurice grumbled. "You exhaust your body. You drag anxiety like chains. One day it will crush you."
"I already told you, I'm fine."
"Unbelievable."
A toy clattered. Julian squealed and hopped off the bed to retrieve it. But halfway back, he froze—little eyes locking on Isidore lying down, Maurice leaning over him with a stethoscope.
"Mama?" Julian whispered. "What happened?"
Isidore reached out, brushing his son's soft cheek. "It's nothing, honey."
Julian's gaze drifted to Maurice, suspicious. "Why is doctor-uncle here, Mama?"
"He's only checking that I'm feeling much more better now," Isidore soothed.
Julian's shoulders relaxed, and he dropped his toy with a squeak. "Mama… where is my hero?"
The question struck Isidore like a thrown stone.
His throat closed.
His eyes lowered.
His fingers faltered in Julian's hair.
He couldn't answer—not when the memory of Tristan's blood on the studio floor still clung to him, not when the nausea of it had followed him home like a shadow.
Maurice broke the silence with a rustle of paper. "I've written your prescription."
He handed it to Isidore, who barely glanced at it.
And then Maurice launched into another tirade.
"Mr. Davenant, I have warned you thousands of times," he clipped, pacing now. "Stress will worsen your condition. You gave birth only a few years ago—your body is still fragile. And you insist on raising a child, managing work, running around after everything alone is not good for your health—"
Julian's eyes went round. "Mama… doctor-uncle says you're sick."
Isidore shot Maurice a brutal glare.
Maurice didn't even blink. Doctors were immune to death stares.
"And if you keep this up," Maurice continued mercilessly, "you'll ruin your health to the point that you won't be able to have another child."
Isidore's face ignited red.
"It's none of your business whether I want another child or not!" he snapped, louder than intended.
Julian jolted. Maurice didn't.
"Just remember my advice," Maurice muttered, gathering his things. "Don't stress yourself. Goodbye."
He left, slamming the door with doctorly drama.
Julian blinked, utterly baffled—and then, like a puppy catching the wrong scent, he latched onto the only unusual word he understood.
"Mama…" His voice was tiny. "Where babies made?"
Isidore went white.
Julian continued blinking, waiting innocently.
Isidore covered his face with both hands. "Maurice… I swear I'll strangle you…"
Julian crawled closer. "Mama?"
Isidore inhaled sharply, forced composure, and lifted his head.
"Babies…" He swallowed. "Are made of flowers."
Julian frowned. "How, Mama?"
Isidore mentally begged the heavens for help.
He removed his round glasses, rubbed his trembling eyelids, then put them back on. A scholar preparing to defend the worst thesis of his life.
"When someone gives you a special flower," he said slowly, "and you water it every day… it grows and grows… until a beautiful baby blooms from the middle."
Julian's pure eyes widened in awe. "Mama… you give me water too!"
Isidore flushed scarlet. "Yes… honey."
"Was I your favorite flower then?" Julian asked, touching his own hair.
Isidore's voice cracked. "Yes. Always."
Julian nodded thoughtfully. "Then… Mama… who give you the flower?"
Isidore froze.
His face caught fire.
Because he remembered—
the night Tristan, warm and reckless, had—
Isidore shut his eyes hard. "I… I forgot who gave me the flower. But I kept it safe until you were born."
Julian squealed happily, completely satisfied with this mythology.
Isidore nearly collapsed from relief.
The maid entered through the side door, bowing. "Young Master, lunch is ready."
She lifted Julian, who waved energetically at his mother as he was carried out.
Isidore didn't move for several seconds.
He just breathed—finally breathing. Alone. The room was warm. Too warm. His cheeks still burned from memories he refused to revisit.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
Tristan.
His hand shot to the nightstand, fingers trembling as he grabbed his phone. He didn't even think—just unlocked it and dialed Zayn's number with frantic precision.
Isidore sucked in a sharp breath.
"This is ridiculous…" he muttered under his breath, cheeks burning hot. "It's not like I—I care about him."
He stabbed the call icon anyway.
His pulse thudded at his throat like a panicked bird.
"It has nothing to do with me," he snapped aloud—mostly to himself. "I'm just checking because he's… because he's—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Because he's a bastard"
He finished the sentence but in shamefully way.
He clutched the phone tighter, swallowing hard.
His heart hammered so fiercely he thought the maid in the other room could probably hear it.
"Just pick up," he murmured. "So I can get this over with. So I can stop—"
Caring.
Thinking.
Imagining the worst.
He scowled at the floor.
"I don't like him," he told himself again.
Zayn's phone buzzed against his palm.
He glanced down, saw the caller ID, and blinked.
His mouth twitched. "Davenant."
Tristan, propped against pillows and wrapped in bandages, looked up. "Isidore?"
Zayn nodded. "Yes. Why did he calls."
Tristan's crystalline-blue eyes widened in delight. His cheeks—absurdly—flushed red.
Zayn picked up, smoothing his voice into calm professionalism.
"Yes, Davenant. Why did you call?"
On the other end there was a faint, startled inhale.
Then Isidore's voice—soft, shaky, absolutely trying to hide it:
"Zayn… where are you?"
Zayn's brows shot up. "Where am I? Obviously at the hospital, Davenant."
Tristan bit his knuckle to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Across the line, Isidore made a tiny choking sound.
"I—I was merely asking. Don't misunderstand."
Zayn leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing like a cat who had found entertainment.
"Were you worried about Mr. Ashford?"
Tristan's breath caught.
His ears went bright pink.
He tugged the sheet higher as if hiding his entire torso would help.
On the other end, Isidore sounded like he'd swallowed a spark.
"I didn't say anything like that!" he snapped—far too defensively. "You're hearing things!"
Zayn sighed dramatically. "Then why did you call?"
Isidore fell silent.
Zayn raised a brow at Tristan.
Tristan crooked a finger and leaned in, whispering something directly into Zayn's ear.
Zayn froze… then slowly drew back, staring at Tristan like the man had suggested burning down Rome.
"You can't be serious."
Tristan only nodded once, smug, cheeks still tinged pink.
Zayn rubbed his eyes. "You—are unbelievable."
"Do it," Tristan mouthed.
Zayn muttered something unrepeatable under his breath and lifted the phone again just as Isidore's worried, trembling voice floated through:
"Zayn, I am speaking. Can you hear me?"
Zayn cleared his throat.
"Well, Davenant… I wanted to tell you something. About Mr. Ashford."
A long pause.
Isidore's tone sharpened, anxiety cutting the edges. "What are you talking about?"
Zayn glanced at Tristan—who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up despite being wrapped like a wounded marble statue.
Zayn inhaled.
"I'm sorry, Davenant. But Mr. Ashford… is not with us anymore."
Silence.
Zayn's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said.
Tristan slapped a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh.
Then—
Click.
The call ended.
Zayn stared at the screen.
"…He hung up."
Tristan blinked. "He did?"
Zayn nodded. "He didn't even shout. He just cut the call."
Tristan frowned hard. "Try again."
"Tristan, we should not have made this kind of joke—"
"Try again," Tristan repeated, softer, smile curling. "I want to see what he does."
"You want to—what—observe his panic?" Zayn groaned. "You're wounded, not writing a romance drama."
Tristan ignored him, face warm, heart beating far too fast. Images flashed uninvited—Isidore pale with worry, Isidore rushing to him, Isidore saying I couldn't bear it if something happened to you—
A smile tugged traitorously at his lips.
"Just do it."
Zayn muttered something unholy and hit redial.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Zayn's shoulders stiffened. "We really shouldn't have—"
Tristan stared at the ceiling, cheeks pinking deeper with every ring.
"I believe he is worried," he murmured, voice embarrassingly soft. "About me."
Zayn shot him a look. "You're enjoying this?"
Tristan pressed a hand to his chest, embarrassed by the fluttering in it.
"I just want to know how far he'll go."
Zayn smacked a palm to his forehead.
"And you accuse me of being dramatic."
But Tristan didn't hear him.
Don't scare me like that again.
Zayn groaned again.
"Mr. Ashford, you really want to tease someone like Davenant in this condition? With this injury?"
Tristan's blush deepened, but so did his grin.
"He'll come," he whispered. "You'll see."
Zayn just stared at him, utterly defeated.
"You're insane."
Tristan didn't deny it.
Because his heart—traitorous, greedy, aching—was already imagining the sound of hurried footsteps outside the hospital door.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor—fast, frantic, unmistakable.
Tristan's eyes widened. "My, my… did he really sprint all the way here?" he muttered, sounding half-delighted, half-scandalized.
Zayn exhaled like a man preparing for battle and pushed open the hospital room door.
Only to stop.
Jaw twitch. Eye twitch.
Standing there—radiating both concern and shameless charm—was Joshua.
"Zayn," Joshua greeted smoothly, brushing a hand through his hair as if posing for a painting. "Fancy meeting you again."
Zayn's smile flattened into a lethal line. "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."
Joshua only leaned closer with a grin that could get a city fined for public disturbance. "Still Awfully cold huh."
Inside the room, Tristan's voice rang out. "Maverick? Who is it?"
Zayn stepped in, pointing behind him like he was presenting a cursed artifact. "It's this bastard."
Joshua sauntered in right after him, unbothered.
Tristan's expression dropped instantly—pure boredom, like someone had replaced his breakfast with plain tofu. "What are you doing here?" he asked, puffing his cheeks in an irritated pout.
Joshua held his composure with a smirk that said he enjoyed every second of this. "Well, brother… I am a police officer. It's obvious, I'm investigating the case." He gave Tristan a pointed look. "Naturally, I had to come."
Tristan groaned.
Zayn visibly suffered.
Both men looked seconds away from kicking Joshua out the nearest window.
Joshua folded his arms, gaze sweeping the room like he owned the place.
"I already warned you," he said. "Be cautious. Danger doesn't knock—it breaks the door."
Tristan barely blinked. He lounged back on the bed, eyes glued to the doorway with single-minded devotion.
He wasn't listening.
He wasn't ever listening.
He was simply waiting for Isidore.
Everyone else was background noise.
Joshua clicked his tongue and shifted his attention to Zayn. "Well, Zayn… I'm sorry I left too early that night."
Zayn barked, "It's not like I wanted you to stay."
Joshua's smirk sharpened. "Did you miss me?"
Zayn hissed like a cornered cat. "I would rather lock myself in a dark room and swallow the key than spend one more second with you."
Joshua placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Ah. Rejection. My dear."
Zayn glared.
Tristan sighed.
The air crackled with irritation, exasperation, and the faint sound of Tristan's patience crumbling molecule by molecule.
And still—through it all—Tristan's gaze kept sliding back to the door.
Waiting.
Impatient.
Hungry for one person and one person only.
Isidore.