I let the rejection settle between us, taking a slow sip of my latte before shifting the conversation. “So how did Jenkins do in his qualifier last night?”
Victor’s relief is palpable, his shoulders relaxing as we move to safer territory. “Knocked the guy out in the second round. His ground game’s improving.”
We slip back into our rhythm—Victor describing the technical aspects of Jenkins’ fight while I ask questions that let him showcase his expertise. The tension gradually dissolves as we talk about his fighters, my upcoming DJ set,and a documentary we’ve both been watching about sound engineering in the seventies.
For nearly an hour, we exist in this bubble, where the world beyond our corner table doesn’t intrude. When Victor checks his watch and says he needs to get back for a training session, I nod and don’t suggest meeting up later.
“Next Thursday?” I ask as we stand.
“Same time,” he confirms, and I pretend that’s enough.
The gallery is packedby nine, Jasmine’s exhibition drawing the exact crowd she’d hoped for—art collectors with deep pockets, industry influencers, and enough genuine art lovers to make the conversations worthwhile. I’m nursing a gin and tonic by her centerpiece installation when my phone buzzes.
It’s a notification from Instagram—a mutual friend tagged in a post. I tap it without thinking and freeze.
The image shows Victor at The Final Round sports bar, arm slung casually around Marco’s shoulder, surrounded by fighters I recognize from his gym. Beers, wings, and a basketball game playing on the expansive screens behind them. The timestamp shows it was posted twenty minutes ago.
I enlarge the photo, studying Victor’s face—relaxed, smiling, completely at ease in public with his fighters. My throat tightens as I stare at the evidence.
He could have come here tonight. There was nothing at the gym. He just chose to go somewhere else—somewhere he wouldn’t have to feel conscious of why we’re together.
Looking closer at the photo, I study every detail of Victor’s easy smile. His arm is draped casually over Marco’s shoulder, his body relaxed in a way I’ve only seen in private moments.
The gin turns bitter on my tongue as I scroll through more photos in the set. Victor raises a beer in a toast. Victor is laughing at someone’s joke. Victor exists freely in the world without looking over his shoulder.
A fracture opens in my chest—a small, painful crack that sends spiderweb fissures through everything I thought we were building.
I’ve fallen for him. The realization hits me with staggering clarity as I stand surrounded by beautiful art and beautiful people. Somewhere between our coffee conversations and tangled sheets, between his unexpected vulnerability and the way he holds my hand when he thinks I’m sleeping—I’ve gone and done the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I thumb through the pictures again, a masochistic impulse I can’t resist. There it is: proof that Victor has a life—a public, normal life with friends and laughter and sports bars—that I’m not allowed to touch. A life where he doesn’t have to hide or whisper or check exits.
What am I to him, really? The thing he keeps locked away in private rooms and dark corners of clubs. The thing he does when no one’s looking.
My reflection in the gallery window shows a stranger—someone wide-eyed and wounded. This isn’t me. I don’t pine after unavailable men. I don’t settle for scraps of someone’s attention.
Yet here I stand, heart breaking over a man who can sit with me for an hour discussing our deepest fears but can’t bear the thought of being seen with me in public.
25
VICTOR
“We’re hoping to expand the program to include more at-risk youth next year,” Councilman Davis drones on, his handshake earlier as limp as his policy positions. “With sponsors like yourself, Mr. Kaine, we can really make a difference.”
I nod, nursing my whiskey while scanning the ballroom. The fundraiser’s drawn every power player in the city—perfect exposure for Kaine’s Fight Club. Five months since we opened the south side location, and memberships are through the roof. All I need tonight is a couple more sponsors for the youth program and maybe that vacant building on Jefferson?—
Dawson.
At the bar, half-turned away, talking with two men I don’t recognize. Suits expensive enough that I’d put them in finance or institutional money. The kind of money that doesn’t have to introduce itself. One of them gestures with a champagne flute. The other laughs at whatever Dawson just said. Dawson’s hand rests on his shoulder for a beat too long. Like they go back.
Of course he’s here. The youth program is the kind of optics every gym in the city is courting. Of course he’s been working the rooms I’ve been working.
I drag my attention back to Councilman Davis. File the sighting away. Deal with it Monday.
My heart stops.
Theo. Here. In a sleek charcoal suit that hugs his slim frame.
My glass freezes halfway to my lips as Julian Frost guides their entourage through the entrance—all high-end nightlife executives, all impossibly stylish. But I see only Theo, his hair slightly longer than when I last touched it two weeks ago.