And there he is.
Victor fills the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest like a bouncer denying entry. His biceps strain against his t-shirt sleeves, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate the view. His face is set in what he clearly hopes reads as annoyance, but I catch the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth—the tiniest betrayal of interest.
I push my door open and step out into the crisp morning air, raising the second coffee cup in silent offering. It’s still hot, steam curling from the small opening in the lid.
Victor stares at the cup, then at me, like he’s weighing the cost of this small surrender. Something shifts in his expression—resignation, maybe, or acceptance—and he walks over with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken.
He takes the coffee without a word, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment. The touch sends a current up my spine, but I maintain my composure, leaning back against my car.
We stand there on the pavement, drinking coffee at eleven in the morning. Not touching. Not talking. The silence between us feels charged, dangerous in its potential. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he takes a careful sip, his throat working as he swallows.
I’ve never worked this hard for anyone before. Never wanted to.
The minute stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying.
“You’re unhinged.” Victor’s voice is low, rough at the edges as he stares at me over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Completely,” I agree cheerfully, not bothering to deny what we both know is true. I take a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee, letting the moment stretch between us.
“Why?” The question is simple but loaded, hanging in the air with unexpected vulnerability.
I look at him sideways, taking in the hard lines of his profile, the tense set of his jaw. “Because you’re worth being unhinged about.”
Victor’s breath catches, a tiny hitch that most people would miss. But I’m not most people, and he’s not just anyone. His knuckles whiten around the coffee cup.
“I have fighters inside waiting,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step away.
“And yet here you are.” I shift slightly, letting my shoulder brush against his arm. The contact sends a visible shiver through him. “With me.”
His eyes darken. “This is a bad idea.”
“The best ones usually are.” I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I can still feel you, you know. From last time. Every time I sit down.”
A flush creeps up his neck, his pupils dilating. “Theo?—”
“I wonder if your fighters would recognize you,” I continue, enjoying the way he swallows hard. “If they could see what Daddy looks like when he’s buried inside his boy.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, glancing quickly toward the gym entrance. “You can’t say shit like that here.”
I grin, all innocence. “Why not? Afraid you might get hard in those gym shorts? Not much hiding place there, Daddy.”
Victor’s free hand shoots out, locking onto my hip. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Good thing I like getting burned.”
The air between us crackles as Victor’s hand remains locked on my hip, his grip tight enough to leave marks. I lean into it, enjoying the flash of conflict that passes across his face—desire warring with caution.
“What exactly is your endgame here?” he growls, voice dropping to a dangerous register that makes heat pool in my stomach.
“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” I reply, reaching up to brush an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder, letting my fingers linger against the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
Victor’s pupils expand as he tracks the movement. For a moment, I think he might kiss me right here in broad daylight. His body shifts infinitesimally closer, the coffee in his handforgotten as his attention narrows to the point where our bodies connect.
Then, abruptly, his head jerks up. A car pulls into the lot, and reality crashes back over him like a bucket of ice water.
He steps back, breaking our connection so suddenly I almost stumble forward.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. His eyes scan the parking lot, panic replacing desire. “You need to go.”