Autumn is a second spring

142. Hostile

Prem lay sprawled across the couch like a starfish, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The afternoon light streamed through the curtains in soft, lazy stripes, dust floating in the air like tiny motes of boredom. He sighed—again. He had lost count of how many times he had done it since noon.

The apartment was quiet, too quiet for his liking. It wasn't even his; it was one of Fluke's places, the one Fluke had initially arranged for his parents. But later, for "safety reasons," Fluke had made Prem stay there too. It was safer than his own place, apparently, after the scandal.

He didn't mind the safety part. What got to him was the isolation. His parents were out, off on a so-called "date," after visiting Sammy and the baby earlier that morning. He was happy they had found something to enjoy—God knew they deserved it—but their absence left the apartment feeling hollow.

And when they were around, things weren't much better. They never said it outright, but he could feel it—the way they talked about Bew, the way they mentioned Boun in passing with soft nostalgia. It wasn't malicious, but it made him feel small, guilty even, for being the reason they had lost touch with both of them.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. He was banned from going out. His coach had told him to rest, to stay home until the mess died down. But rest was impossible when your thoughts refused to leave you alone.

Just as he was considering scrolling aimlessly through his phone again, the doorbell rang.

He frowned, sitting up.

That was odd. His parents wouldn't be back this early. Sammy was at the postpartum center. Earth and Fluke were knee-deep in last-minute wedding prep. He couldn't think of a single person who would visit.

A jolt of unease rippled through him. What if his location had leaked? What if some crazy fan had tracked him down?

He walked to the door cautiously and glanced at the intercom screen.

The face staring back at him was the last one he had expected to see.

"James?" he muttered under his breath. Boun's secretary.

Confusion turned to alarm in seconds. He opened the door quickly. "What are you doing here? Is Hia or Bew hurt?"

James's eyes widened. "No, no, Khrab. They are fine! Both of them. I—uh—I came to see you."

Prem blinked. "Me?"

James nodded, his posture awkward. "If you don't mind, could I come in?"

Prem hesitated before forcing a polite chuckle. "Sure, yeah. Come in."

He stepped aside, letting the man enter. The air immediately felt charged, heavy with discomfort. Prem gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat. What do you want to drink? Juice? Coffee? Soft drinks?"

"Just water, please," James said with a small, nervous smile.

"Water it is."

Prem headed to the kitchen, filling a glass while sneaking glances at his guest. James sat on the couch stiffly, knees together, hands clasped. His eyes darted around the room as if searching for an escape route.

Prem placed the glass on the coffee table and took the opposite seat. "Alright. You can start talking now."

James hesitated, rubbing his palms on his knees. "How have you been?"

Prem frowned. "As you can see." His voice was flat. "Let's skip the small talk, shall we? Tell me why are you here?"

James swallowed hard. Then, before Prem could react, he dropped to his knees.