Autumn is a second spring

154. Live

Boston found Boun near the back corridor, half-hidden behind rolling racks of lighting equipment and cables. The staff bustled around them, voices overlapping as they prepared the set, but Boun stood still, hands in his pockets, eyes distant.

"Where did you disappear to, Boun?" Boston asked, already sounding tired.

Boun glanced instinctively toward the staff, lowering his voice. "Sorry, P' Ton. I  just went to meet Colt... to make some offerings."

Boston froze for a second, then dragged a hand down his face. "Why would you do that now? It's not his birthday. It's not his death anniversary."

Boun shifted his weight. "I just—" He cut himself off and smoothly changed direction. "Where is the script for the live, Phi?"

Boston's head snapped up. "You don't have it?"

"No," Boun said calmly. Too calmly. "I was briefed. I know what I need to say."

Boston stared at him like he was joking. "Boun, this isn't some casual fan meet."

"I know, Phi," Boun replied. "I just need to go through it once."

Boston exhaled sharply. "You are supposed to deny everything. Say the rumors aren't true. Say you and Prem are strictly on-screen partners. And—" He hesitated. "You announce that you are ending your on-screen collaboration because of the rumors."

Boun nodded. "I know."

They both knew what that meant. They had to lie. They had to make it look like the rumors were so toxic that continuing to work together had become impossible. They had to shoulder the blame and protect the brand, the sponsors, the future.

Boston studied Boun's face, searching for cracks. "Prem has already in makeup."

"Okay," Boun said. "Let's do it."

Boston turned and barked orders at the makeup team. "Get him ready. Quickly."

The staff moved at once. Someone handed Boun a garment bag. He accepted it with a quiet thank-you, his gaze drifting, against his will, to the other side of the room.

Prem was sitting in front of the mirror, eyes focused on his reflection as the makeup artist worked carefully on his face. He looked calm. Composed. Like this was just another schedule on an overfilled calendar.

Boun tore his eyes away and walked into the changing room, closing the door behind him.

The moment it shut, the air felt too thick.

He leaned back against the door, breathing out shakily. The suffocation returned—the same tightness that had sat on his chest all night, the same one that had driven him out of the house before sunrise.

That was why he had gone to Colt.

Not because it was an important date. Not because of tradition. But because he had needed somewhere to go. Someone to talk to.

And a tombstone had been the only place that didn't demand answers from him.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, fingers pressing into his eyes. It hadn't helped. Talking to stone never did.

Ever since the assault, Prem had been staying with him and Bew. Prem had stepped into the role effortlessly—making food, checking locks, soothing Bew when the nightmares came.

All three of them slept in the same bed now.

Bew always woke up crying, small hands clutching desperately, and it was always Prem the child reached for. Prem, who never complained. Prem, who whispered soft reassurances in the dark and stayed awake until Bew's breathing evened out again.