Chapter 19

The day Dante met Rhys for the second time, the summer heat had finally softened, chased away by a pleasant breeze. The sky, sliced into geometric fragments by the towering skyscrapers soaring above the city, was a clear, refreshing blue. Sunlight gathered on the glass windows, making them gleam as if they held the sea captive inside. Even to Dante, who had lived in the city all his life, New York looked unusually beautiful that day.

On that midsummer night when Rhys had caught him crying pathetically in Central Park and subsequently taken him out for drinks, Dante had blacked out. He woke up the next morning back in his own apartment in Chinatown. Tucked into the pocket of his pants was the handkerchief Rhys had given him, and on his phone was a text Rhys had left:

—Thank you for agreeing to model for me. Tell me which day works for you, Dante, and we’ll meet then to arrange the schedule.

Right. He had actually received an offer like that.

After sobering up and regaining his reason, Dante had spent several days seriously reconsidering his decision. Accepting an invitation like that from someone whose background he barely knew had been incredibly careless. Even though Dante was trained in emergency escape methods, lockpicking, self-defense, and similar survival skills, a person still shouldn’t trust strangers blindly in a massive city like this.

Of course, if anything bad had been going to happen, it probably would have happened the night he lost consciousness. Still.

Aside from situations where men picked fights with other men, or matters strictly related to work, Dante had never experienced a man approaching him like that. He simply could not fathom why someone like Rhys had initiated contact.

From Rhys’s perspective, Dante must have seemed a bit unhinged that night, too. If a grown man suddenly sat down beside you sobbing, wouldn’t most people avoid him? Why go out of your way to offer a handkerchief and even buy him a consolatory drink? Dante, who had never felt any particular sympathy or compassion toward members of the same sex, found the whole thing baffling.

Right. I’ll just refuse.

He reached that conclusion before long. To begin with, he had no idea what modeling for a sculptor actually involved. He had never done anything even remotely similar, and most of all, he hated the idea of sacrificing his precious days off to meet a man who wasn’t his girlfriend.

That was why his second meeting with Rhys had been arranged for the sole purpose of turning him down. In the third week of August, heading into what was originally supposed to be their final encounter, Dante arrived at the designated spot with Rhys’s freshly laundered handkerchief tucked into his back pocket.

The handkerchief he had defiled with tears and snot that night turned out, after a thorough washing, to have delicate embroidery beautifully stitched into the fabric. The blue iris looked as if it had just bloomed, perfectly mirroring the exact shade of Rhys’s eyes. Come to think of it, Rhys had mentioned his real name was Iris, but that he shortened it to Rhys. Among the blur of conversations Dante had mostly forgotten because of the alcohol, that single detail remained crystal clear.

Everything else was a haze. He remembered the vague impression that Rhys had been extraordinarily beautiful, but the precise shape of his features, his voice, his build, or anything of that nature eluded him.

Honestly, remembering even that much was an impressive feat for Dante. By nature, Dante possessed zero interest in anyone with XY chromosomes. Unless he interacted with them for work, he had a knack for immediately purging their information from his memory. Even with men he met on the job, he usually had to see them at least three times before he could remember their names.

I’ll buy him a coffee or something, hand him the handkerchief, and politely turn him down.

That was Dante’s exact game plan as he walked toward the Vessel near the High Line, where they had agreed to meet. It was a little annoying to haul himself all the way up to midtown Manhattan on a day off. Since he had bothered dressing up, he was already considering calling Lazzaro afterward to hang out and grab a drink. It might sound somewhat pathetic, but as far as Dante was concerned, the only things men could do together were drink and fool around.

Dante had been born in New York, but he wasn’t a “New Yorker” in the cultural sense. Exhibitions, performances, plays, and other refined hobbies were entirely foreign to him. Running in Central Park was about the most metropolitan, grown-man activity Dante could muster.

Instead of taking an interest in highbrow culture, he spent most of his free time at the training center doing heavy strength training, or playing shooting games on his Xbox until he was utterly destroyed by room-dwelling nerds barely old enough to shave, cooling his subsequent rage with a cold beer. If he still had time left over, he went to the Red Cross to donate blood, or stopped by the youth sports organization he frequented to teach kids basketball or swimming.

Dante was good at anything that involved physical exertion. As long as he didn’t have to use his brain, he was perfectly fine. He would rather suffer physically than think. That was Dante’s creed. It was also why he despised mulling over things for too long. If he spent more than five minutes worrying over a single topic, it meant he was dead serious about it.

Arriving at the meeting place with a plan that possessed absolutely no substance, Dante immediately sensed a strange atmosphere. Everyone walking near the Vessel kept glancing in the exact same direction. Some people openly stopped in their tracks, turning around to stare, while other groups whispered among themselves with faint smiles.

Because people of all genders were doing it, Dante briefly wondered, Did they spot a celebrity? Or is there some kind of event going on? He too turned his head toward the focal point of all the attention.

Not that there could possibly be anything that special.

“You’re here, Dante?”

Or so he thought.

The man standing in the exact spot everyone was staring at waved the moment Dante looked his way. Stretching one long arm out in an easy greeting, the man wore a dazzling smile. His brilliant blond hair looked as if the noon sunlight had been gathered and spun into fine thread, fluttering slightly in the wind. The snow-white face beneath it possessed the kind of beauty that seemed to exist only in high fantasy.

…Had Rhys always looked that incredible?

Even in Dante’s vague memory, the acknowledgment that Rhys was an outstanding beauty had lingered. But seeing him properly on a clear day, Rhys’s looks were striking enough to capture even Dante’s gaze, stingy as it typically was toward other men.

As Dante watched Rhys walk toward him with an exquisitely sweet, eye-crinkling smile—clearly delighted by his arrival—he had to admit it. The guy really was impressive. If he tried, he could probably seduce Jesus.

Was it because Dante had never seen anyone this beautiful in his entire life? His body completely froze in shock. Rhys kindly closed the distance first while Dante stood there blankly, forgetting even to return the greeting. The closer Rhys came, the clearer his fantastical face became.

Rhys in high-definition was even more devastating. A cruelly handsome man, more than capable of erasing the presence of every other male passing nearby, came to a halt right in front of Dante. Then, curving his pale pink lips, he smiled even brighter. Just then, the clouds drifting slowly overhead parted, and sunlight poured down over them. The sky became so blinding that Dante had to close his eyes for a moment.

Rhys checked the sky, then deliberately shifted his body to block the harsh sunlight, casting a protective shadow over Dante. Barely opening his eyes, Dante lifted his head to look up at him. Given that Dante stood at a little over six-foot-one, if he had to look up, then Rhys had to be at least two inches taller.

Ridiculously handsome, and he’s even tall.

“Was the trip here all right?” Rhys asked, his voice smooth. “Traffic seemed a little heavy.”

Why does his voice sound so good? And why does the way he talks make my skin tingle like that?

“…Yes, it was fine,” Dante managed.

Facing Rhys while completely sober, Dante felt as if he were being handed an overwhelming defeat as a fellow man. If there was a divine being that had created humans in the beginning, whether it was God or something else, then this man alone had clearly been crafted with delicate, painstaking care down to the exact number of hairs on his head.

Most male creatures instinctively ranked themselves by appearance and build. For Dante, who had never once thought he came up short in either department, the man before him was incredible enough to spark a faint tinge of frustration. It might be different if they stripped down, but somehow, Dante had a strong feeling Rhys possessed a great physique and was probably packing down there, too.

Just as an inexplicable sense of injustice and ugly jealousy began to faintly bloom inside him, Rhys let the ends of his brows droop. His golden-brown lashes, longer and more defined than extensions, fluttered up and down as genuine concern settled into those dreamlike eyes. Seen up close, Rhys’s eyes were a unique shade of blue—like gray-blue crystal scattered with pale violet petals.

“Are you tired, Dante? Did you perhaps come straight after work today?”

The moment Dante heard that cautious, worried tone, his body flinched involuntarily. His heart gave a small, ticklish flutter, and a sudden wave of heat washed over him. Was the sunlight too strong? Wetting his lips, which had gone dry before he even realized it, Dante shook his head.

“No. I’m off today. I came after getting some rest.”

The instinctive inferiority complex he had felt toward Rhys vanished in an instant. What mattered to Dante right now was figuring out why this absurdly beautiful person was making such a pitiful, downcast expression.

“Why do you look like that, Rhys?”

The moment Dante uttered his name, Rhys’s expression transformed completely. Dante hadn’t done anything particularly pleasing, yet the brows that had drooped sorrowfully returned to their proper place. Lifting the corners of his mouth shyly, Rhys looked at him with eyes sparkling full of light.

“I thought I might have asked to meet when you were exhausted… and I felt guilty.”

“Me? No way. I’m wide awake.” Dante raised his brows high in denial, flashing a refreshing smile to reassure him. His masculine face, which often looked somewhat intimidating because of his strong, sharp jawline, softened into pure kindness.

Rhys stared intently at Dante’s smile, then whispered softly, as if thoroughly relieved, “When I saw you last time, you spoke more casually… and smiled a lot… but just now, you were a little scary.”

Something very strange happened then. Judging by physique alone, Rhys was similar to Dante, if not taller, yet here he was lowering his voice and murmuring that Dante had seemed scary. For some reason, Dante didn’t find the comment irritating at all. If any other bastard—meaning a friend like Lazzaro or a colleague like Kirk—had said that, Dante would have asked if they had lost their minds. But when Rhys said it like that, Dante felt an urgent, burning need to explain himself.

“I think I was just a little surprised because you were so much more handsome than I remembered.” Dante usually never called another man handsome, but today, for some reason, he found himself becoming uncharacteristically generous.

“…I’m handsome?” Rhys asked, his lashes trembling faintly as if he truly couldn’t believe his ears.