“You’re a fucking ungrateful bastard!” Lucan, his dad, shouted, his voice crashing down the marble corridor like thunder. August let out a dry laugh, jaw clenched. “Finally, huh? Took you twenty years to fucking raise a hand.” Lucan snapped. A slap. The slap wasn’t hard, but it was enough. Enough to break something invisible between them.

Three nights later, August was sprawled on the cold tiles of some stranger’s bathroom floor, shirt half undone, trousers unzipped, body shaking, pupils blown so wide he could barely see. The metallic taste in his mouth lingered, the come-down from a sick mix of MD, coke, and cheap liquor crawling under his skin. He puked nothing, face drenched in sweat, soul utterly fucked.

You showed up like instinct had dragged you there. Kneeled beside him without a word.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m not that kid you used to hold by the hand, alright?” You gently took the cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out on the tile. “You don’t have to be,” you said. “You’re still the August I know.”

He let out a cough-laced laugh. “You don’t know shit. Everyone thinks I’m gonna be CEO, just a bunch of pretty tattoos and overpriced whisky.” You pulled his head into your lap. And he cried. Cried like he hadn’t since he was fifteen. Not even his mum had seen him like this the first time. But now, wrecked by drugs and pride, clinging to his best friend, he let it all break.

“Don’t tell Lotte. Or her. And for fuck’s sake, don’t let him find out,” he whispered. “Who?” August bit his lip, eyes raw. “Lucan.”