The first morning away from L&A, Vanic woke in Benthy's spare room — a shoebox really, filled with mismatched blankets, old posters, and the faint smell of lavender laundry detergent.
It was still dark when he cracked one eye open. For a moment, his mind tricked him into thinking he was back at his mother's house, fifteen again, safe under Beatrice's warm scolding and the faint scent of her garden herbs drifting in through the window.
Then the city noise caught up — car horns, a distant train, Benthy's old cat yowling in the hallway — and the illusion broke.
He turned over and buried his face in the pillow. His eyes ached, raw from crying more in one night than he had in years. But the worst ache was in his chest — that cold hollow behind his ribs where the memory of Lorenzo's voice, that glass wall of indifference, still lived.
He didn't want to see it again. Didn't want to feel how tiny he was in that man's world.
---
Benthy was waiting when he shuffled out an hour later, wearing her loudest pajamas — neon pink shorts and a vintage band tee with a hole in the collar. She'd made coffee strong enough to peel paint off the walls and stacked a plate with toast and scrambled eggs that looked suspiciously overcooked.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the wobbly kitchen stool.
Vanic obeyed, curling his hands around the mug for warmth. "You didn't have to—"
"Shut up and eat."
He managed half a slice before the lump in his throat made swallowing impossible.
Benthy watched him with that sharp, soft look only she could pull off. "You don't have to talk about it. Not yet."
He pushed the plate away gently. "Thank you."
She arched an eyebrow. "That's it? 'Thank you'? Van, he humiliated you. In your workplace. On purpose. You don't owe him politeness now."
Vanic flinched. "I know."
"You don't know," she snapped. "You're too nice for your own good. You're sitting there trying to figure out what you did wrong when all you did was— what? Exist? Breathe wrong? Put a decimal in the wrong spot?"
Vanic opened his mouth. Closed it.
Benthy leaned closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. "He does not get to break you, Vanic Rov. I won't let him."
"I'm not broken," he lied.
She laughed — a soft, sad sound. "You're cracked. But cracks don't mean ruined. We patch them. We grow around them."
He let her words sink in, warm and heavy in the hollow space that Lorenzo's cruelty had left behind.
---
For the rest of the day, Benthy made it her mission to keep him busy. They walked to the bodega on the corner for cheap coffee and overpriced cookies. She dragged him through the aisles of a dusty thrift store and made him try on three ugly jackets that didn't fit.
They sat on her tiny balcony that night, legs draped over the rusting metal railing, sharing a bottle of terrible wine she'd stolen from her brother's last house party.
"You ever think about quitting?" she asked after a long silence.
Vanic's head lolled back against the brick wall. "All the time."
"So do it."
He laughed softly, swirling the last sip of wine in his plastic cup. "It's not that simple."
Benthy tilted her head, her hair falling over one eye. "Why not? You're smart. You have a degree. You can work anywhere."
"I don't want to work anywhere."
"Then what do you want?" she pressed.
He didn't answer at first. Because the truth was stupid. The truth was dangerous.
The truth was him — the way Lorenzo Atlas looked leaning back in his chair, voice like a cold razor against Vanic's throat. The way one flicker of warmth — so rare, so fleeting — made Vanic ache to see it again, like maybe he could pull it out from under all that ice.
But he couldn't say that. He wouldn't.
So he just shrugged. "I don't know."
Benthy let it go. She leaned over and knocked their cups together with a dull clink. "Here's to figuring it out."
---
While Vanic drifted somewhere between anger and heartbreak, miles above the city floor Lorenzo Atlas sat alone behind his glass walls.
The office felt colder with Vanic gone — though he'd never admit that to anyone, least of all himself.
Claire stepped in on Friday morning, her calm smile carefully in place. "Mr. Rov is taking a personal day," she said simply.
Lorenzo didn't look up from the document in his hand. "He should get used to the idea of making it permanent."
Claire didn't flinch. But her voice, usually so measured, cooled by a single degree. "He's young. He's learning."
"He's incompetent."
"He's trying," she said, then caught herself — too bold, too familiar. She lowered her gaze. "Apologies, sir."
Lorenzo waved her away with an impatient flick of his fingers. But once she was gone, he found himself staring at the empty chair by his office door. The silence pressed at him, insistent. The paperwork felt heavier in his hands.
He typed out an email that never made it past the draft folder: Mr. Rov — you are expected back Monday. Do not waste my time.
But he didn't hit send. He closed it instead, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
---
That night, he found himself at Cole Stunner's club again — but this time he didn't touch anyone. Didn't crook a finger, didn't buy a drink.
He sat in the back corner, nursing a single glass of whiskey until the ice melted and the music got so loud it drowned out the memory of Vanic's eyes — wide and wet and shining like glass about to break.
Cole found him, of course. Cole always found him.
"You look miserable," Cole drawled, dropping into the seat across from him.
Lorenzo didn't answer. Just tipped the glass back and found it empty.
Cole leaned forward, grin wicked but eyes sharp. "Did you break your toy, Atlas? And now you're sulking because you liked it more than you should've?"
Lorenzo's glare could've frozen molten metal. "Don't you have someone else to bother?"
Cole barked a laugh. "Nope. Not tonight." He flicked a piece of melting ice at Lorenzo. "You know what your problem is?"
"Enlighten me."
"You think you can control everything. Even the parts of yourself you hate."
Lorenzo set the empty glass down with a sharp clink. "It's worked so far."
Cole's grin softened — just a crack. "Not this time."
Lorenzo stood abruptly, coat slung over his arm. "Stay out of it, Cole."
Cole leaned back, unbothered. "Be careful, Atlas. Some fires don't die just because you pretend they're not burning."
Lorenzo left without looking back.
---
By Saturday night, Vanic felt steadier.
Benthy had done her work well — drowning him in old movies, greasy food, a mountain of laundry that somehow needed folding at midnight. She made him laugh until his ribs hurt, and every time the thought of Lorenzo's cold eyes surfaced, she shoved it aside with another silly joke or a bad impression.
Beatrice called too, twice a day. Each time she asked when he'd come home for a proper dinner. Each time Vanic told her soon — though he wasn't sure when soon really was.
Late that night, lying curled on Benthy's lumpy couch, Vanic let his hand drift across his chest, palm pressed to the soft thud of his heart.
The ache was still there. The bruise of it. But the sharp edges were dulling — not gone, just softened by the warmth of someone who refused to let him drown alone.
For the first time in weeks, he drifted off without dreaming of glass towers and cold hands.
For the first time, he woke without wanting to be somewhere else.
---
Up in his penthouse, Lorenzo Atlas stared at the skyline, city lights blurring against the dark glass. He thought about unfinished emails, unsent messages. About an empty chair.
He told himself the silence was good. The emptiness was good. No distractions. No weakness.
And if he felt something twist behind his ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, he told himself it would pass.
He didn't know yet that some sparks wait. Some fires feed on silence.
Some cracks never seal shut.