VICTOR
Igrip the steering wheel tighter, watching the clock on my dashboard tick from 10:04 to 10:05. Four minutes sitting here like some lovesick teenager. What the fuck am I doing?
Door’s open.
Those two words have been echoing in my head for the past hour. No hello, no explanation needed. Just the assumption that I’d come running. And here I am, proving him right.
I rub my hand over my face, feeling the stubble scratch against my palm. The Victor who runs fight clubs, who commands respect with a look, who built his reputation on being the toughest son of a bitch in the room—that guy wouldn’t be sitting outside another man’s apartment with his heart hammering against his ribs.
But the Victor who can’t stop thinking about Theo’s body, who wakes up hard from dreams of sliding into him, who checks his phone fifty times a day hoping for a message—that Victor is already reaching for the door handle.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, stepping out into the cool night air.
The walk to his building feels both too long and too short. My boots sound heavy on the pavement, each step carrying mefurther from familiar territory. I haven’t told a single person where I am tonight. Not Marco, not Ray. Nobody at the gym knows I disappear to the arts district several nights a week now.
In the elevator, I catch my reflection in the brushed metal doors. Same face. Same eyes. Same body that’s never hesitated to take what it wants.
So why does it feel like I’m shedding my skin with every floor I pass?
When I reach his door, I don’t knock. He said it would be open, and it is. I push it inward, stepping into the familiar space that smells like him—sandalwood and something distinctly Theo that I can’t name but would recognize anywhere.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I feel it again—that shift, that change that happens whenever I cross this threshold. Like I’m stepping out of one life and into another.
The bedroom door is ajar.
I push it open.
I stop.
My hand stays on the door frame. I don’t know when I grabbed it.
Theo is on the bed.
On his back, hips elevated on a pillow, legs hooked all the way back over his own shoulders with the ease of someone for whom this is completely natural—a flexibility that shouldn’t be possible and is, visibly, entirely comfortable. His spine curves. His cock—hard, flushed, glistening at the tip—is level with his own mouth.
And Theo’s mouth is open.
He’s taking himself in. Lips wrapped around his own head, tongue working, the quiet private sounds of someone doing something for their own pleasure in their own space.
His eyes are closed.
He hasn’t stopped.
Blood rushes in my ears. The room tilts. I blink hard, but the image doesn’t change.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life. I’ve watched men get their faces rearranged in my ring. I’ve seen every kind of sex act at Julian’s parties. But this—this stops my breath in my throat.
I should back away. Give him privacy. But my feet won’t move. My fingers dig into the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
The sounds he’s making—soft, wet, hungry—echo through my body, landing hard in my groin. My cock responds instantly, painfully, straining against denim.
There’s something about the arch of his back, the impossible geometry of his body, the self-contained circuit of pleasure that shouldn’t make me feel so fucking possessive. But it does. The realization that I hate seeing him pleasure himself. I hate that he doesn’t need me for this.
I hate that I’m standing here, struck dumb, watching instead of touching.
My breathing turns ragged. Loud enough that he should hear me, but he doesn’t. He’s lost in himself, eyes still closed, mouth still working, completely unaware of my presence.
I watch.