Chapter Four: The Tightening Thread
1206 Words
Carson didn’t want to be seen that night.
That’s why he left the fashion house through the back entrance, hoodie drawn low, the hem of his jeans soaked in rainwater. He should’ve taken a car, called one of the company drivers. But he couldn’t stand the idea of sitting still in a space where Caleb might find him.
Where Caleb’s scent might linger.
Where his words could echo.
“I want truth. And scars. And stitching that almost didn’t hold.”
Carson had heard a lot of lines in his time. Clients, flings, liars. But Caleb didn’t speak like someone who wanted to be believed.
He spoke like someone who already believed — in Carson’s unraveling.
And he was too close to being right.
---
It had rained all day in Abuja. Not the pleasant kind. The ugly, spitting sort that carried dust and fog and heat in one breath. The city steamed. The roads gleamed with oily reflections, and horns blared into the wet night.
Carson pulled his hood tighter and walked faster through the alley beside the studio.
The streetlights flickered. Electricity had been unstable all week.
He didn’t see the shadow until it moved.
---
“Guy, abeg—just wait small—”
Carson turned. His heart dropped.
Two men. Young. Hooded. One held a pipe. The other already reaching into his shirt for something.
“Your phone. Quietly,” the one with the pipe said.
Carson’s mouth went dry.
This part of the district wasn’t exactly dangerous—but it was dark. Secluded. And he’d been stupid enough to walk alone.
He handed them the phone.
Then the wallet.
Then the studio keycard.
“Na fine guy like you dey waka alone?” the taller one said, grinning as he stepped closer. “You get luck say we just want your things.”
The other laughed. “Maybe him get other things we fit collect—”
Carson stepped back. Too fast.
The pipe cracked against his shoulder.
Pain shot through his collarbone.
He staggered, slipped, caught himself on the wall.
They advanced.
He didn’t have time to scream.
---
A car skidded into the alley.
Headlights blazed.
Tires screeched.
The thieves turned—
—and the driver’s door flung open.
A dark figure leapt out, moving fast, fluid—
Caleb.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He charged.
One of the men tried to swing the pipe again.
Caleb ducked, slammed his shoulder into the guy’s gut.
The other bolted.
The taller one crumpled under Caleb’s weight.
He groaned, tried to crawl, then screamed as Caleb twisted his arm behind his back with terrifying precision.
“I will shatter your radius,” Caleb hissed. “Let. Go.”
The thief dropped the pipe.
Caleb flung him aside like a sack of flour.
The man scrambled up and ran, limping, vanishing into the foggy dark.
---
Carson was frozen.
Soaked.
Breathing in short, shallow gasps.
Caleb turned.
His chest heaved. His eyes burned.
“Did they touch you?” he demanded.
Carson couldn’t speak.
Caleb stepped forward—and Carson flinched.
It was instinct. It wasn’t about Caleb. It was about everything. Years of fear. The wrong kind of touch. Wounds stitched up in silence.
But Caleb saw it.
And he stopped cold.
The rage on his face didn’t soften. It twisted.
Like he wanted to kill whoever made Carson afraid of being touched.
---
“Come,” Caleb said roughly. “My car. Now.”
Carson didn’t move.
He wanted to protest. To snap. To regain control of something.
But the moment he stepped forward, his knees buckled.
Caleb caught him.
Arms like a wall around him.
And just for a moment—
Carson let himself collapse.
---
Twenty minutes later, they were in Caleb’s penthouse suite.
Carson sat on the marble counter of the pristine kitchen while Caleb crouched before him with a first aid kit.
“You don’t have to—”
“Stop talking,” Caleb muttered, dabbing antiseptic on Carson’s shoulder.
Carson hissed.
Caleb glanced up, his voice softer. “Sorry.”
Carson’s pulse was erratic.
Not from the wound.
From this. From Caleb’s touch, careful and clinical. From the heat in the air. From the scent of expensive soap and something vaguely metallic.
“This was avoidable,” Caleb said finally, voice cold again. “You should have called someone. You knew the area was unsafe.”
“I didn’t ask you to play hero.”
“No, you didn’t,” Caleb said, meeting his eyes. “You never ask for anything. That’s your disease.”
Carson blinked.
Caleb reached for gauze.
“I grew up watching people bleed out because they were too proud to call an ambulance. Too ashamed to admit they were hurt. You think that’s strength? It’s suicide in slow motion.”
Carson clenched his jaw. “I’ve survived this long.”
Caleb wrapped the gauze around Carson’s shoulder.
“But you don’t sleep. You flinch when people walk behind you. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
“I don’t,” Caleb agreed, tightening the bandage. “But I want to.”
Carson looked away.
“You’re trying too hard,” he whispered.
“I’m not trying hard enough,” Caleb said, standing.
---
He walked to the fridge, pulled out a glass bottle of something clear.
“Drink.”
“What is it?”
“Water.”
Carson took it, swallowing without breaking his gaze.
Silence stretched between them.
“You think I’m obsessed with you,” Caleb said finally.
“I know you are.”
Caleb smiled. Not kindly.
“I am,” he said. “But not in the way you fear.”
“Then explain.”
Caleb stepped closer.
“You wear silence like armor. But it’s cracking. I want to know what’s underneath.”
Carson’s fingers curled around the bottle.
“I’m not a puzzle.”
“No,” Caleb said. “You’re a wound pretending to be a masterpiece.”
Carson stood.
His breathing sharpened.
“I should go.”
“Then go.”
Carson stared at him.
“But if you walk out now,” Caleb added, “you’ll dream of this moment every night. You’ll wonder what would’ve happened if you stayed.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No,” Caleb said. “It’s a truth. And truths always come back.”
---
Carson didn’t leave.
He walked to the window instead.
The city stretched below them. Lights like embers. Rain still falling.
He pressed his palm to the cold glass.
Behind him, Caleb watched.
No words.
Just a steady gaze. Unblinking. Unapologetic.
Carson could feel it.
Like a thread pulling taut between them.
---
Later, Caleb brought him a blanket.
A quiet offer.
Carson took it without looking.
He slept on the sofa that night.
Barely.
His dreams were strange.
Soft. Violent. Intimate.
He woke before sunrise, skin damp, heart racing.
In the kitchen, Caleb was already brewing coffee.
“You dream?” Caleb asked, not turning.
Carson didn’t reply.
But something had changed.
The thread was tighter now.
Not yet broken.
But pulling him closer than he’d ever wanted to be.
- Writer
