Julian didn't count it by the calendar, but by the little traces Fabian left like time bombs around their apartment. The wet towels that always landed on the bathroom floor like bodies at a crime scene. The smell of the black coffee Fabian brewed entirely too strong every morning. And the way he said "baby" with the exact same tone—half-needy, half-claiming ownership—as if the word had been permanently branded onto his tongue.
One year of marriage. And Julian still didn't really know what Fabian did when he wasn't home.
It wasn't because he didn't care. It was because Fabian always came back. He was always there—sprawled wide open on the couch, or in the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron that barely covered anything, or in bed with a wide smile and a naked body that immediately plastered itself against Julian. It was as if the outside world didn't exist.
But Julian knew that was a lie. Fabian owned an art gallery. He held shares in Miami 010. He owned properties whose addresses were never mentioned. He had a past as an elite gigolo that still left the scent of expensive perfume lingering on his shirt collars.
"Baby, I have some business at the Miami 010 Mansion later. After the gallery, I'm heading straight there."
Fabian's voice shattered the morning silence.
Julian turned his head from the bed. Fabian was standing in front of the full-length mirror, still completely naked, his skin gleaming under the sunlight slipping through the sheer curtains. His large hands moved slowly, rubbing lotion into his broad chest, down his faintly sculpted six-pack, and then, shamelessly, down to his morning wood. His fingers stroked it gently, as if tending to a prized possession.
Julian swallowed hard. He was used to the sight, but the effect still hit him like a punch to the lower gut.
Fabian sprayed YSL Kouros Body onto his neck, his wrists, and once more onto his chest—the scent instantly dominating the room. A blend of musk, leather, and something dark, masculine, and expensive. The smell that always made Julian want to drag him right back to bed.
"Need help getting your back, Fab?" Julian asked, his voice still raspy with sleep.
Fabian shot him a sidelong glance through the mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. "If I let you lotion me up, we won't leave this room until noon. It's just logistics procurement. New gigolos, short-term contracts, blah blah blah."
His tone was flat. Too flat. Like someone saying, “I’m just running to the convenience store.”
He set the perfume bottle down and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped as his large frame landed beside Julian. Thick arms immediately wrapped around him, pulling him against a chest still sticky with lotion. Warm. Heavy. The scent of cologne mixed with Fabian's natural skin—a hint of morning sweat and that underlying musk that always made Julian go weak.
Julian let himself be held. But his mind was elsewhere.
Fabian's world was so entirely different.
For the past year, Julian had only seen one side of Fabian. The clingy side, the side that always demanded proximity, the side that annoyed him on purpose. But outside this apartment, Fabian was an art gallery owner, a Miami 010 shareholder, someone who managed properties and businesses that Julian had never laid eyes on.
What did Fabian do out there? Who did he meet? How did he speak to other people?
Julian didn't know.
And for the first time, he wanted to know.
Fabian gently rubbed his back, his thumb tracing Julian's spine with a deeply familiar rhythm. "Are you busy today?"
"Even if I am, I'm still coming home," Julian replied. He pressed his face into Fabian's chest, inhaling deeply. "You?"
"I'll be home a bit late. Meeting at the gallery after Miami 010."
"Handling what?" Julian asked, even though he knew the answer would be vague.
"Logistics procurement," Fabian repeated, his tone bored, though Julian felt a slight, subtle tension in his shoulders. "Some new gigolos. Short-term contracts. The usual. Don't overthink it."
Julian smiled faintly against Fabian's chest. "I'm not overthinking it. Just curious why you always say 'logistics' like you're talking about picking up milk."
Fabian chuckled, the vibration rumbling against Julian's ribs. "Because it's safer than saying 'I'm recruiting kids who want to sell their cocks to rich people.'" He kissed the top of Julian's head. "Are you jealous?"
"No."
"Liar." Fabian tilted Julian's chin up, staring into his eyes with an intensity that always left Julian feeling spiritually naked. "You know I only have one person who's allowed to touch this now." His hand slid down, giving Julian's ass a soft squeeze. "And he's right here."
Julian held back a sigh. "Fab, you have to get going."
"I do." Fabian kissed his forehead lingeringly, then got up. He slipped into a white linen shirt that clung perfectly to his frame, cream trousers, and brown leather shoes. Sharp, expensive, and a universe away from the man who was just jerking off with lotion in front of the mirror.
"What time are you coming home?" Julian asked from the bed.
"Depends. Six, maybe seven. Love you, baby."
"Love you too."
The apartment door closed with a soft click. Fabian's footsteps faded down the corridor.
Julian sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the elevator chime open and close. He reached for his phone. Opened Maps. Typed: Mansion Miami 010.
The address popped up. A twenty-minute drive. Unbelievably close.
He stared at the screen for a long time, his thumb hovering over the "Get Directions" button.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I'll follow you. For the first time in a year, I want to see my husband in the wild.
He set the phone down, but the curiosity clung to him like a smear of lotion on skin—sticky, impossible to just wipe away. And beneath that curiosity lurked something slightly darker. Fear. Or perhaps a foolish, tiny glimmer of hope that he would find something he could use to finally convince himself that Fabian truly belonged to him now.
Julian took a deep breath, then lay back down against the pillow that still smelled of Fabian.
Tomorrow.
Julian parked his car two blocks away from the gallery.
Not because he was afraid of getting caught. But because he wanted a clear view. From a distance. Without interference.
He stepped out of the car, slipping on his sunglasses—even though the sky was overcast—and strolled casually toward Arthrobe Genzel. Fabian's contemporary art gallery. The gallery where Fabian painted, bought, and sold art. Several famous Miami artists even consigned their work there, names like Purvis Young and Hernan Bas (Fabian had even been a muse for Bas once, starring in a nude painting currently priced at $500,000, titled "Blue Hercules"). From the outside, the gallery looked like a monolith of glass and concrete. Cold. Elegant. Unassuming. Much like Fabian himself—at least, the version of Fabian who wasn't naked in their apartment.
Julian stopped across the street, pretending to check his phone. His eyes tracked the figure emerging from the back door.
Fabian.
Wearing a long-sleeved white shirt rolled up to the elbows, his blonde hair slicked back immaculately. He was speaking to a staff member—a young woman with short hair and a serious expression. Fabian nodded, issuing instructions with sharp, decisive hand gestures. The staff member took notes on her tablet, then hurried off.
Fabian didn't look like the man who had been buck naked in their apartment this morning. He looked like a CEO. Or a curator. Or a man who knew exactly what the fuck he was doing.
Julian narrowed his eyes. Who is this man?
He waited a few minutes, then walked toward the gallery's side entrance—a door only known to insiders. Fortunately, he had the spare key Fabian had given him.
Click. The door unlocked.
Julian slipped inside with quiet steps, ghosting into the gallery. The first room was empty. High white walls, massive paintings suspended under precise spotlights illuminating every brushstroke.
He heard voices from the adjacent room. The workshop.
Julian crept closer, hiding behind a heavy velvet curtain separating the exhibition space from the work area. Through a small gap, he could see Fabian standing in front of a massive canvas with three clients—two men and a woman, all sharply dressed with serious expressions.
"This is a Purvis Young," Fabian said, his voice calm but commanding. "A limited piece from the 'Redemption' series. There are only three in the world."
One of the clients—a man in a gray suit—leaned in. "How much?"
Fabian smiled. It wasn't the warm smile he gave Julian. It was a practiced, professional smile. "Current market value is around 1.4 million."
Julian blinked. 1.4 million.
The man in the gray suit frowned. "But I heard a similar piece went for 1.2 in New York last month."
Fabian didn't flinch. "That was a different series. This series holds higher historical value because Purvis painted it during the absolute peak of his career." He paused, letting the words sink in. "And I already received an offer of 1.8 from a collector in London last week."
Julian could see the client shift uncomfortably.
"I despise haggling," Fabian continued smoothly, "but since you came directly to the gallery, I can offer you a special price: 2 million. Not 1.8. 2."
The man in the gray suit fell silent. The woman beside him watched him, waiting.
"Alright," the man finally said. "2 million. But I want a certificate of authenticity and personal curation."
Fabian extended a hand. "Deal."
Their handshake was firm. Fabian smiled—the smile of a man who had just won.
Behind the curtain, Julian was stunned.
He just bumped the price from 1.4 to 2 million. Effortlessly.
He had never seen this Fabian before. Assertive. Skilled. Refusing to lose in a negotiation. This was a side of Fabian he never saw back at the apartment.
After the clients left, Fabian turned back to the same staff member from earlier.
"Note: Purvis Young 'Redemption' series is sold. Send the certificate of authenticity tomorrow morning. And contact the London collector—tell him his offer is no longer valid."
The staff member nodded, typing rapidly.
Fabian moved to another area. Julian trailed him from a distance, remaining hidden behind curtains and partitions.
In the main exhibition hall, Fabian stopped in front of a massive painting. An abstract landscape in deep blues and gold, depicting a human figure drowning.
"This painting," Fabian instructed another staff member—a young man with thick glasses—"needs to be moved to the south wall. The lighting here is too harsh; it's ruining the blue."
The young man scribbled on his notepad.
"And for next month's exhibition," Fabian continued, "we need to overhaul the layout. Do not put Hernan Bas near the entrance. Visitors need to walk first, view the other pieces, and only discover Bas at the very end. Visitor psychology: the further they walk, the more invested they feel. The more likely they are to buy."
The staff member nodded quickly.
Behind a pillar, Julian held his breath.
Fabian wasn't just selling art. He understood how people thought. How they moved through a space. How they made decisions.
Who is this man?
Fabian left the exhibition hall, heading for the left wing of the building. Julian followed, still silent, still unseen.
In the left wing, several contractors were at work. New walls were being erected, the paint was fresh, the sharp smell of cement and chemicals stinging the air.
Fabian stopped in the middle of the room. He stared at a freshly painted wall, then turned to a man in a yellow hard hat and a dirty uniform.
"This is wrong," Fabian said.
The contractor blinked. "Excuse me, sir?"
"The color. I requested a silver-gray with blue undertones. This is a neutral gray. Look here—" Fabian pointed to the corner of the wall, "—there is zero blue reflection."
The contractor looked at the wall, then back at Fabian. "But sir, we followed the—"
"I don't care what you followed. This is not the color I requested." Fabian's voice rose slightly. He wasn't yelling, but it was sharp enough to make every worker in the room stop. "I am paying you for exact execution. Not an approximation."
The contractor looked down. "We can fix it, sir."
"Good. And the molding on the ceiling—" Fabian pointed upward, "—is supposed to use a reflective material. This is matte. Replace it. I will return tomorrow to check."
He turned on his heel, leaving the stunned contractor behind.
From behind a doorway, Julian exhaled slowly.
Fabian, angry.Fabian, knowing exactly what he wanted. Fabian, unafraid to express his displeasure.
The Fabian he had always viewed as a needy boy who only knew how to fuck and joke around—was actually a ruthless businessman. A man who managed a multi-million dollar gallery. Who grasped art, psychology, and hardcore negotiation.
Julian stared at Fabian's retreating back.
Julian walked out of the gallery feeling like a stranger.
Not because he was lost. But because he felt as if he had just seen Fabian for the very first time.—an art entrepreneur capable of hiking a painting's price from 1.4 to 2 million in a ten-minute conversation. The clingy, whining man he knew at home—could silence a grown contractor with a single glare.
Julian walked to his car, sat in the driver's seat, and stared up at the scorching Miami sky.
I don't know him.
But strangely, that realization didn't terrify him. It made him feel... comforted.
Because if Fabian was purely one-dimensional—only needy, only naughty, only naked—Julian probably would have gotten bored. But Fabian wasn't one-dimensional. Fabian had layers. And Julian had just witnessed a layer that had been hidden all along.
The best version of Fabian was reserved for the right people.
And Julian felt incredibly lucky to be that right person.
The clock struck noon. Miami was hot as usual—the air clinging to the skin like a wet blanket. Julian started the engine, the AC immediately blasting cold air.
He was on Froy-duty for school pickup today.
Froy's School – Two Hours Later
Froy bolted out of the school gates with his blue backpack and a massive grin. He waved enthusiastically the second he spotted Julian's car.
"Dad!"
Julian pushed the door open from the inside. Froy hopped in with boundless energy.
"How was today?"
"Great! I got a hundred on my math test."
"That's excellent."
"Where's Papa Fabian?"
"Papa Fabian is working."
Froy nodded, not pressing the issue. He was already used to his two fathers' occasionally conflicting schedules.
Julian drove Froy back to the apartment. Made him lunch—reheating leftover fried rice from the night before. Sat with him while he did his homework until the boy grew drowsy on the couch.
Froy fell asleep on his favorite blue pillow. Julian tucked a blanket around him, then stood up.
He checked the time. Three in the afternoon.
Mansion Miami 010.
He had been waiting for this since morning.
The Drive to Miami 010
Julian's car cruised along the Miami coastal road. Palm trees flashed by, alternating with opulent mansions hidden behind towering gates.
Julian had never been here. He'd never wanted to. But today, he wanted to see. He wanted to know what Fabian did in the place that used to be the epicenter of his life.
As the mansion came into view in the distance, a sudden realization hit him.
Miami 010.Two testicles and one penis.
"No wonder!" Julian muttered, half-laughing. He shook his head. He had never really paid attention to the name before. But now, it made perfect, filthy sense.
The mansion stood right on the shoreline, Mediterranean in style with stark white walls and a red terracotta roof. The front lawns were manicured to perfection. A massive pool sparkled under the blazing sun.
From a distance, Julian could see several men strolling around the pool—mostly shirtless, some wearing only the thinnest of swim trunks. Their bodies were flawless. Like sculpted statues.
Julian parked his car a block away from the estate. He stepped out, smoothed down his shirt, and walked closer.
In Front of the Mansion
Julian rarely felt like an alien. But here, standing outside the gates of Miami 010, he felt like an extraterrestrial who had crash-landed on the wrong planet.
The gigolos at the entrance—gorgeous men with immaculate bodies and seductive smiles—stared at him like he was an anomaly. Maybe because he was wearing a long-sleeved button-down in the sweltering heat. Maybe because he wasn't half-naked like the rest of them.
"Who is that?" one gigolo whispered to his friend.
"No idea. Handsome, though."
"Is he a new client?"
"Doesn't look like it. Dressed too sharp."
Julian heard their whispers. He maintained a completely neutral expression—the mask he had perfected since childhood.
He looked toward the pool area. A few gigolos were sunbathing. Some were swimming. Others sat on the edge with their legs dangling in the water. All of them breathtaking. All of them practically naked. It was like an adult playground he had never even begun to imagine.
Julian swallowed hard.
This was Fabian's world.
To be continued..
