Crank It Up !!

by MyalescaRox

Summary:

Aphelios Madden is everything I hate. A fucking recluse and a creep. But worst of all, my biggest rival on the track. Every time his ‘68 Mustang is ahead of me, I want to slam it into the wall—him included. Because I need that goddamn prize money to keep my head above water.

Sett Callahan is the worst kind of arrogant jock. Loud, shameless, and a shitty driver. If he thinks his Camaro is the best thing to hit dirt racing, he was born a few decades too late. The farther he stays behind me, the better. For both of us.
Unfortunately, he’s hot as fuck. And straight.

Tags will be update with every new chapter ;)

Notes:

Hey there, it's me again!

This time, I've tried something different for our two lovebirds—leaning into a Rivals to Lovers trope. I'll let you discover how it unfolds! It's also my first time writing in First Person PoV, so I hope you enjoy the change in perspective.

As for the title choice, there's a little story behind it. It comes from the American show Crank It Up! During races, the commentators go silent, and the director switches between cameras on the ground, the walls outside the track, and inside the cockpit. The goal? To crank up the sound, making the whole experience feel as if you're right there—living room vibrating, a powerful fan blowing, all that's missing is the smell of burning tires.

With the tension between Sett and Aphelios in this fic, I thought it was the perfect fit.

As for the inspiration, I've lately read the From Nothing Series from Nordika Night ;)

Anyway, enjoy the show—ah, I mean, the reading!

Chapter 1

Sett Callahan

“Madden, you fucking prick!” I shout, barely holding back my anger. If not for my best friend K’Sante locking me in a death grip by the shoulder, I’d already be swinging. The way that smug bastard is smirking—just because he won tonight—makes my skin crawl and my vision blur red.

“Hold your horses, Sett,” K mutters behind me. “Don’t let him get under your skin. You get banned for the season, and you’re fucked.”

He’s right. And thank fuck he’s already dragging me away from the shady-ass podium celebration before I do something I’ll regret. If the race commissioner catches me throwing another punch at a participant, I’m out. No next race, no prize money, no way to pay for—well, anything .

Sure, second place earned me three hundred bucks, just enough to cover rent on my trailer plot this month. But considering the beating my car took tonight, I needed that damn eight hundred. All because of that asshole Aphelios Madden—seriously, what kind of shitty name is Aphelios?—decided to fish-hook me on the last lap. To keep from eating the wall, I had to swing the ass end of my Camaro into another rival. It worked, but I snagged my rear bumper and lost a brake light in the dirt, limping over the finish line in second place.

So, yeah, rent’s covered. But the repairs? Not even close. And good luck finding parts for cheap. They cost a fortune , and if my car isn’t up to regulation by the next race, I can kiss my spot goodbye.

I play by the rules—I have to. Ain’t like every trailer park has its own dirt track. A shitty, run-down excuse for a NASCAR circuit, sure, but it’s still the only thing keeping my life from falling apart. And if I don’t get my Camaro back in shape, my garbage paycheck from my even shittier job won’t cover jack shit. Not the repairs, not my bills, not even the fucking hole in my trailer’s roof.

At least I don’t have accident insurance to worry about. As if I could fucking afford that, too.

Only because that fucking asshole played dirty. And he’s got the balls to ignore me like I’m not standing right here, seething, as he turns on his heel and leaves the pit. His sister trails after him, her hot ass swaying in that too-short, fake-leather white skirt.

What kind of loser doesn’t even party after a win?

Maybe Aphelios Madden is that kind. Never seen him stick around after a race. Always the same—cross the finish line, grab his winnings, and drive that way-too-expensive ‘68 Mustang straight out of the pit. No celebrations, no beer, no rubbing his victory in my face. Nothing.

Which only makes me wonder—what kind of recluse living in Navori's Trailer Park can even afford a car like that?

Not that I’d ever admit it out loud, but that Mustang is a fucking jewel . Almost as fine as his sister’s ass.

Unbelievable that either one belongs to him .

I was born in this trailer park, and one day, I’ll die here too. Life’s shit, and money rules everything, but we’ve got a goddamn community. A big, messy family where everyone’s got their own problems, but we stick together. I’ve got my best friend, who grew up right alongside me. And I’ve got the best damn mom on earth—Mari Callahan.

She’s my sunshine. My everything.

For her, I drag my ass out of bed every morning, scrub my teeth with the same shitty, overused toothbrush, choke down dry toast if we have any, and clock in at a job I fucking hate.

Because no matter how bad the day is, I know I’ll come home to her waiting for me, dinner on the table—whatever we could afford that week. She’ll kiss my temple, crack open a god-awful beer, and sit with me in the quiet. And somehow, that always makes it all worth it.

Unfortunately, she’s also the reason I need that prize money.

We live together in a trailer, and at twenty-six, I’m still looking after my mother. I owe her everything, and the least I can do is make sure she’s got a solid roof over her head. But Mom doesn’t work. Not anymore.

Not since my piece-of-shit father decided to walk out on us—leaving behind his debts, our empty cabinets, and a bullet in my mother’s hip.

That day is burned into my memory. The smell of blood. The way she looked at me, holding on—barely. If it weren’t for her , I’d have killed him with my own hands. Not with a gun. Like a man .

But I didn’t. And then the bastard took off with the last of our supplies.

I was shaking with rage, but Mom stayed calm . I don’t know how. That kind of strength— her kind of strength—kept me from losing my head. Instead, I ran to the neighbors for help. We had no money, no insurance, no car to get her to a hospital—because the bastard took off in our only truck, too.

At least he didn’t steal my Camaro. At least K lets me rent his garage for free. Otherwise, I really would’ve shot the fucker.

Soraka was the one who saved my mother that night. She’s a night-shift nurse in the ER, working her ass off for scraps, but she loves her job. She’s one of Mom’s closest friends, one of the few good people left in this place. If not for her, Mari would’ve bled out.

But that wound—combined with the chronic illness she’s had since she was young—never fully healed. On good days, she moves around fine. On bad days, when the air gets damp, she can barely stand.

But my mother is strong . She never complains, never lets herself slip into the same hole so many others around here have—wasting away on cheap booze and even cheaper pills.

And the only reason I haven’t gone after that bastard is because if I land in prison, it’ll break her.

My whole damn life has unfolded in this trailer park, but I’ve never seen Aphelios fucking Madden lurking around. The only Madden I ever run into at parties is his sister—Alune. His twin.

Always half-drunk, sprawled out on some random guy’s lap, making out with hardly enough fabric covering her divine body before she disappears with the poor bastard—probably getting railed.

I mean, that girl is hot as fuck . Perfect thighs, sweet little ass, godly tits. A solid C-cup—prime size, if you ask me. And that face? Fucking doll-like . Cute little nose, plump lips—ones I’ve heard fit perfectly around any cock.

The only thing that ruins the image is her hair. It’s always a mess , like she dipped it in paint buckets just to keep it looking like a goddamn rainbow. A real eyesore against that flawless body.

Not that it matters. Because she isn’t in my league. None of the chicks in this trailer park are.

I don’t dip my cock where I have to live. Too messy. Too complicated. If I need a warm nest, I take my business outside —far enough that I don’t risk crossing paths with a one-night stand while I’m grabbing beer at the gas station.

But more than that? 

She’s a Madden . And I’d rather fucking puke than let one of them touch me.

As I watch Aphelios fucking Madden leave the pit with his sister in tow, I catch the scowl he throws her way. She can barely stand on her own two feet.

Honestly, every time I see her, she’s never sober. It makes you wonder if she’s got a problem with alcohol. Not that it’s any of my business. Everyone’s got their shit .

Still, it makes me wonder—what’s my rival’s dark side? Because this guy? Despite the whole broody and silent act, always dressed in black like a washed-up emo, he looks perfect .

Always. That stupid black pilot’s suit of his—clean. Not a damn wrinkle. And when he takes off his helmet? His black-as-night hair falls perfectly around a face that’s too pale, too flawless. Like some rich family’s golden boy got dropped into this shithole by accident.

Another fucking eyesore .

The idea of following him, figuring out exactly where he parks his trailer, crosses my mind for half a second. I could take a piss on his door like a frustrated mutt—give him a taste of the same dirty trick he pulled today.

But that’s not me . I’d rather burn off my anger on the track. Or with my fists. Or my dick. I wonder what it’d feel like to drive my fist straight into his too-perfect nose.

Before that thought takes root, K’s voice cuts in. “Let’s take your babe back.”

The mention of my babe is enough to cool the fire under my skin. My fiery red Camaro.

My poor girl took a beating today, but she’s still perfect. She’s made me more money than I can count, and she deserves to rest at K’s shop tonight—safe—before I grope her back onto the track. If I can scrounge up the damn parts.

“Sure thing,” I answer, shaking off the last bit of red-hot rage over a fucking Madden. I turn to K with a grin, playing it off like I didn’t just have a mental deathmatch with Aphelios’ face. “Gotta hit my place first, check on Ma. Then I’ll head over. Get the booze ready—and please, not that piss from last time.”

K grins back, blinding me with a row of perfect teeth.

“Sup’,” he smirks. “Don’t worry. Had some rich jock bring in his bike the other day—dude was so happy with the job, he threw in a few extra bucks.”

“Damn, Sante.” I shoot him a look, my grin stretching wider. “So tonight’s like there’s no tomorrow , huh?”

"Sure shit," K laughs, waving me off before heading toward his truck, walking like he’s got all the time in the world.

I stand back, surrounded by a crowd I don’t want to celebrate with. They’re not my friends. They cheer for me, call my name—but they’re just fans . And I don’t race for fame . I do it for the money. Simple as that.

I like celebrating, sure—especially when I’m the one crossing that finish line first. But the real fun? It’s cracking open a good beer with K, talking shit, and kicking back after a long day. That’s the icing on the cake. No matter the outcome of a race, K and I always find a way to blow off steam. Tonight? Yeah, tonight’s gonna be good.

I watch as K—this massive wall of muscle—tries to wedge himself into his van, the sight making me smirk. He’s just as tall and broad as me, all muscle from years working in the shop. Being a mechanic isn’t a damn picnic—let me tell you, an engine block weighs a lot .

He’s dark-skinned, born down south but raised here, same as me. Never lost the accent, though. And I’ll never understand his obsession with those damn rastas . Always tied back in a ponytail, always looking like a bird’s nest. I don’t even wanna know what the hell lives in it.

Whenever he asks me to shave it off, I’m more than happy to take the razor to his head. But the moment he sees himself bald? Man looks depressed as hell , wearing that old Eagles cap he found at a flea market until his hair grows back. That part always cracks me up.

I let out a sigh, dragging my feet toward my Camaro. My hand runs over her roof—soft, careful—like she’s something precious. Because she is .

My baby. My real pride and joy.I slide into the seat, settling in, door shutting with a solid click.

When I turn the key, she purrs like a tigress, a deep, smooth growl that vibrates through my chest. I grip the wheel, trying to push down the frustration still buzzing under my skin.

Then I peel off , kicking up dirt as I leave the track behind.

My mom’s waiting at home. Well—not waiting . She’s already asleep by now. It’s past 11. She never comes to the races. Never liked them. And deep down, I know she worries . I can’t blame her. If the roles were reversed, I’d be worried too.

Though I gotta admit—if my mom ever did get behind the wheel, I bet she’d be a badass .

Lulled by the steady roar of my Camaro, I let her take me home. Straight back to Navori's Trailer Park.

---

Aphelios Madden

A race won. But the satisfaction of victory never comes. It never does. I don’t race for the thrill. I don’t race for fun. I race because I have to. Even though this Mustang isn’t mine, I bring it to the same place every time I leave the dirt track. Drop it off at that garage, leave the victory bonus, and walk back home— empty-handed .

Back to Navori's Trailer Park . Back to nothing .

But before that, there’s one last thing I need to do. My gaze shifts to the figure slumped in the seat beside me. My twin. My only family.

Half-conscious, reeking of alcohol. The stench disgusts me—not just the booze, but the sex .

It never ceases to amaze me that the one responsible thing she does is make sure they use a condom. It’s the only thing keeping her from completely destroying herself. And I pray she never stops.

The last thing I need is for her to drag home a kid she never wanted, a mistake she can’t erase, tied to some guy who won’t give a shit about either of them.

We can barely take care of ourselves. We can’t afford to bring another life into this mess.

The thought makes my grip tighten on the wheel.

I want to blame her for living like this—floating from one night to the next, letting men buy her drinks, letting them take her somewhere dark and warm before she lets herself drown in pleasure.

She thinks she’s happy. But I know better.

It's past eleven and it's quiet in this part of the camp when I park my Mustang next to one of the few trailers that has a well-kept lawn with even a vegetable garden and garden furniture chained up so no one can steal it. As if that would stop someone from coming along with a pair of pliers and taking them away. 

The light is still shining inside and I'm relieved to know that I won't be waking up the person I'm about to drop my bundle of worries off to. 

Switching off the engine, I get out of the car and walk around it, opening the passenger door to bend over and lift my sister into my arms. She weighs next to nothing, but what the hell she's shitting up makes me want to puke. Well, I don't think I'm supposed to feel any better, I've been sweating like a pig during this race in my trick and I'm really looking forward to being able to exchange this oven for an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. 

With Alune secure in my arms, I push through the gantry with my hips and climb the few flowerpot-covered steps before gently knocking on the metal door. 

“Who's there?” A pitch voice asks as I hear footsteps heading for the door. 

“It's me, Phel.” I reply calmly, adjusting my grip on the now unconscious bundle in my arms.

The trailer door opens and Aurora greets me, looking me up and down before her gaze settles on my sister's body. She doesn't need to say anything, I know what she's thinking. Again? 

Yes again, like everyday. Since… I shake my head, I don’t want to think about it. 

Aurora is Alune’s best friend. But I know there’s more to it than that. It’s written all over her face. The way she looks at Alune—it’s crystal clear.

Unlike me, Alune doesn’t put walls around her heart. She’s open to anything , as long as it brings her pleasure. But what pains me is knowing that nothing —not love, not warmth, not even someone like Aurora—can ever reach her through the haze of alcohol.

She drinks to forget . And when that need to drown herself becomes stronger than anything else, she doesn’t notice the people who are always there for her. People like Aurora .

I try to offer a small smile, but it probably looks just as tired as I feel. I don’t like dropping Alune off here, but I can’t drag her with me to the garage. Five kilometers with her dead weight on my shoulders? Not happening.

Aurora presses her lips together, frustration flashing in her eyes, but she sighs and steps back—a silent permission for me to come inside.

“On the couch?” I ask but she shakes her head.

“No. Bedroom.” Her tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it. “I was planning to finish my The Office marathon on Netflix. I don’t plan on spending it next to a corpse reeking of alcohol.”

I wince. Fair enough.

But I also know she’ll keep an eye on Alune tonight. That’s all that matters.

I owe her for this. Again.

“Don’t think about it,” she says, as if reading my mind, then gestures for me to follow.

And I do. I stop thinking and focus on the incoming task.

Aurora walks ahead, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt over a simple pair of panties. I catch a glimpse of the color— pink .

No bra. Her nipples press against the faded sky-blue fabric, the bunny emoji print peeling from too many washes when she turns to open the door to her bedroom for me and I walk in.

She’s pretty.

Long wavy red hair, tied back in a messy bun. Blue eyes hidden behind ugly glasses, one arm reinforced with sticky tape. Tanned skin, dotted with freckles, from working outside at that garden store in town.

I know when a girl is pretty. Even my sister is—despite her refusal to wear anything that could actually be considered clothes.

But I’ve never been attracted to women. Never have been. Never will be.

Carefully, I lay my sister on the bed in that cramped room, walls plastered with old, peeling posters of The Offspring and Sum 41 . Her head lolls to the side, lips parted, breath reeking of alcohol and regret.

I wince, she smells really awful. Gladly she hasn’t puked yet. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up with a hangover. Tomorrow, she’ll say she regrets it. But tomorrow won’t stop her from doing it all over again.

I sigh, trying to swallow the feeling of incapacity. As far as I wish I could help, there’s no money left for rehab. Therapy’s a luxury, not an option.

Denial is easier. If I let myself think too much, I’ll break . And I don’t have that privilege. My energy is already stretched thin, spent on keeping us afloat, keeping us out of the trouble that always finds us.

Keeping Alune from learning the real reason I race. From finding out why I never bring home a single cent, why we’re always broke, why we live off scraps in a crumbling trailer I’m sure we share with beetles . I can’t let her know. I won’t let her know.

That’s why I have to leave her here. Why I have to take the Mustang back to its real owner.

Honestly? Sometimes, I’m glad to part with my burdens for a few hours. And tonight is one of those days.

A hand on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts and I lift my head to see Aurora watching me. "You’ve got things to do, I imagine?"

"Yeah." My voice is flat. "Gotta return the car. Walk home. That’s why I’m leaving her here. I’ll pick her up when I get back."

Aurora sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. She tugs the blanket from beneath Alune’s body and drapes it over her. My sister doesn’t even stir.

"She’ll still be dead when you get back," Aurora mutters. Then, softer, "Don’t worry about her. Let her sober up here."

I hesitate. Just for a second then I murmur, " Thanks ."

I don’t wait for her to walk me out. I know the way. All these trailers look the same, anyway.

There is no jealousy I feel when the car I ignite hums back to life as I drove from Aurora’s place. It’s powerful, I almost feel bad to wake up sleeping randoms when I pass their trailer to leave the park.  And fuck that asshole Sett Callahan to believe is he thinks he’s a better driver. That guy infuriates me but I kicked his ass on the dirt today and I really loved the way his hateful gaze was on me tonight. 

He’s my rival. If I have an ounce of jealousy, then it’s towards his car. Because that asshole owns it. He’s a shitty driver though.

I'm twenty-three and drowning in debt. The joke in all this is that it's not even my debts, nor my sister's. It's our parents'. It's our parents, who abandoned us along with us, their own children. Our parents lived in lust, and so did we, but I hardly remember. One day everything collapsed and I don't know why. To save their necks, my parents got into debt with shady guys. Who knows if they’re still alive.

I can't even remember my parents, their faces or their names. It's as if a trauma has prevented me from doing so. But in reality, I'm relieved that this part of my past doesn't seem to want to stick in my memory. Either way, I’m better off. The only past that refuses to stay buried is the part that ruined Alune and the cause of her descent into alcohol. Despite the denial and the feelings I try to keep buried deep down, there's always an event that wants to resurface. And that part? That’s on me. 

What I can try to fix is the debt. Thirty-four grand, buried under the name of a man no one in their right mind would owe money to—Thresh Hawthorne. A loan shark, a debt collector, and a man with his hands in every dirty deal at the docks. Drugs, racketeering, extortion—you name it. But he’s untouchable, owns enough cops to keep his record clean. Everyone knows it.

The Mustang belongs to him. My wins go straight into his pockets. Eight hundred bucks per win. Three hundred for second place. Anything less? Not worth thinking about. And if I wreck the car, that’s on me too. Repairs come out of money I don’t have, stacking the debt higher.

And my job at the bookstore? It barely keeps the trailer lot paid. But in the end, it’s all I’ve got—this car that isn’t mine and a paycheck that barely covers two mouths.

That, and the sinking feeling that I’ll never climb out of this hole.

The road ahead is only five kilometers, but I take my time, savoring the silence—just the purr of the engine beneath me, steady and grounding. It helps me not to think, at least for a while. But the thoughts always creep in, tightening my grip on the wheel.

I don’t know what Thresh Hawthorne is playing at, but I know the rules. Either I run with his car, or he makes good on his threats and goes after Alune. No fucking way.

When I finally reach my destination, it’s like stepping into a different reality—one I don’t belong to. Clean streets, unblemished apartment buildings, street lamps glowing bright enough to erase the night. The private garage looms ahead, secured and lined with cameras, tracking my every move in case I get ideas. As if I could steal the car and sell it off to escape this life. As if anyone would dare buy a Mustang with Thresh Hawthorne’s name attached to it.

The metal gate hums open as I roll in, guiding the car to its designated spot. For a second, I let myself pretend—imagine cutting the engine and heading up to some high-rise apartment, a world where I own something that isn’t borrowed, where I don’t have to count every dollar. But the thought flickers out as quickly as it came. I’m not built for that kind of life. My imagination won’t even let me picture it.

I kill the engine, pop the glove compartment, and check the envelope inside. Eight hundred dollars. It barely dents the debt. I exhale through my nose. No point sticking around. This isn’t my world, and I don’t want it to be.

Stepping out of the car, I peel off the suit and toss it in the trunk next to my helmet. I swap it for my usual hoodie—full of holes, but still mine—and the same pair of shorts I’ve been running into the ground for years. My racing gear stays here. I don’t trust keeping it at home, not with the trailer door barely hanging on its hinges, impossible to lock even if I had a damn key.

I step out of the garage without looking back, making sure I’m clear before the mechanical door slides shut behind me. The last thing I want is to get locked in there like some dumbass.

The night air is thick, clinging to my skin like mildew. It hasn’t rained in days—hell, it’s been unbearably hot—but the air feels charged, like the sky is waiting for the right moment to split open. Just my luck. Five kilometers to walk back, alone with nothing but my thoughts.

And I’m fucking starving.

For some reason, my brain latches onto the image of Sett Callahan stuffing his face with pasta, his mother fussing over him with a homemade meal. I’ve seen them before, sitting outside their trailer—furnished, comfortable, like they actually live there instead of just surviving. I won’t even lie. I stopped in the shade of a nearby trailer once, watching like some kind of stalker. Not that it’s anything new—people already think that about me.

I don’t deny that Sett has his own problems. Everyone at Navori's Trailer Park does. But seeing him sit back with a beer, laughing with his mother, with a hot meal in front of him… Maybe it’s envy, because I rarely get moments like that. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, I hate the guy.

Him, his perfect little circle of friends, his easy life, his Camaro, his smug fucking arrogance.

And yeah, sure, he’s beaten me on the track a couple of times. Pure luck. It’s not like he’s actually talented. That Camaro’s wasted on him. And if he’s a sore loser when he gets second place, he’s even worse when he wins.

But I don’t know him. And I’m not him. We live in different worlds. I see it every time our eyes meet.

And I’m glad we only cross paths at the racetrack.

Because I have a feeling that idiot is going to be my downfall someday.

Not because of our rivalry on the circuit. Not because he lives in his perfect little bubble. Not because his best friend and I share a secret that would probably make him lose his goddamn mind—if he ever found out that K’Sante helps me out with cheap parts for the Mustang, sometimes even free repairs. That guy’s got a heart of gold, unlike that Callahan scumbag.

I could list a dozen reasons, and I still have miles to go before I make it home. But I don’t want to spend the walk thinking about him. My morals are already shot to hell, and the last thing I need is to spiral further—to step off the sidewalk and straight into the middle of the road, hoping for a passing car to put an end to all this.

I’m not ashamed to think about it. The idea of life stopping, taking my problems with it, doesn’t scare me. But I am ashamed of what it would mean for Alune—of leaving her behind in a world where she wouldn’t survive on her own. And maybe, more than anything, I’m ashamed that I don’t have the guts to find a way out of this abyss.

The docks stretch out ahead of me, leading toward the dim lights in the distance. They’re faint, scattered, but they mean home. Navori's Trailer Park. My feet know the way even when my mind is stuck somewhere else.

Or rather, on someone else.

Sett fucking Callahan.

And the real problem, the one I don’t say out loud?

I’m gay. I don’t hide it, but I don’t exactly wear it on my sleeve either. Not like it matters—socializing isn’t my thing, and random hook-ups have never interested me.

But attraction is what it is. I can recognize a pretty face when I see one.

And the truth, the absolute worst part of all of this?

Sett Callahan is perfect. He’s exactly my type. Dark crimson hair, always a little ruffled. Amber eyes, sharp and intense. A strong jaw with just enough stubble to make it unfairly attractive.

And he’s always sleeveless. Always. Even when he’s off the track, on the rare occasions I see him. Even his damn racing suit is sleeveless, like he knows exactly what he’s doing—showing off those perfectly sculpted arms, carved like they were meant to piss me off.

I should stop there. I still have an hour left to walk before I reach the park, and the last thing I need is my dick waking up over thoughts of that asshole.

Obviously too late.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Hey there, the next part is up! I'll keep this short. I still don't know how many chapters this story will have—I’m just going with the flow. But I do have a general idea of where it's headed.

Now, about Alune. I like her. The twins’ background in the canon universe is complex, and while she often comes across as a guiding force, she’s also the one pushing Aphelios to fight. So in this story, I don’t want to portray her as just a loving sister. After all, everyone has a dark side.

Enjoy this second part!

And… I’ll apologize in advance for—well, you’ll understand once you read it. ;)

Sett Callahan

Races happen every week on Saturdays, with a break every third weekend. Today’s the second Saturday in a row, one more left after that before the break, and I don’t want to think about last week’s race. That shit’s already erased from my record, a fleeting memory that doesn’t deserve space in my head. What matters is today. The eight hundred bucks waiting for me at the finish line.

Because I’m a winner. And I’ve only lost twice. To Aphelios fucking Madden.

That number ain’t turning to three.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, running a hand through my crimson hair. Looking good, as always. My eyes linger for a second on the long scar running over my nose—a reminder of my old man—before dropping lower. Through my sleeveless jumpsuit, I can tell I’ve put on more muscle. Perks of breaking my back at the construction site all week. If nothing else, at least the extra hours beefed me up. I’d go as far as to say I’m a real stadium god.

I smirk, then turn away, drawn by the smell of food. My stomach growls. Mom made me a winner’s breakfast—scrambled eggs, leftover pasta from yesterday, and some pastries our neighbor, Soraka, brought over this morning. She made them herself, and they’re still warm.

Not that anyone would notice, but I get nervous before every race. The anticipation coils in my gut like a spring, the itch to sit behind the wheel of my Camaro, to feel it roar under me, tires ripping against the dirt, my opponents fading in my rearview mirror. And today? I’m gonna have them all in my mirror. No exceptions.

The whole week’s been a grind. Busting my ass at the construction site, taking extra shifts ‘cause a few guys called in sick. But I don’t mind. More hours means more cash. And I needed it. My baby was in rough shape after last week’s race, but thanks to K, I got the parts I needed. Spent half my nights at his shop and emptied my wallet, putting her back together. Mom didn’t mind—she gets it. But like always, Mari Callahan made sure I had something to eat when I finally crawled back to the trailer, dead on my feet.

Not that I complain. My bed’s too short for me, but after a long week, crashing onto that lumpy mattress feels like heaven. And tonight, I plan on sleeping with a new win under my belt.

The eggs could use more salt, but I don’t complain. Salt’s expensive. A damn luxury, really. Whatever Mom cooks, it’s always good. It’s almost ridiculous how creative she gets with cheap ingredients—instant noodles, canned soup, whatever she can scrape together. Or maybe it’s just that food tastes better when she makes it.

“Are you winning today?” she asks, sipping from her mug of coffee. It smells awful, like every kind of coffee does. I can’t stand it. Coffee and June beetles. And anything that crawls, really—except spiders. They eat mosquitoes. They’re cool.

I scrape up the last of my eggs and turn to her with a grin. “You don’t even need to ask, Mom.”

She shifts, just a flicker in her face, but I know exactly what she’s thinking. And it throws me straight back to last week.

I was pissed. Even a night of good booze and K’s company didn’t change that. And when I got home Sunday, still pissed, I had two minutes of hot water before the tank ran empty, which made me even more pissed. Of course, Mom had already heard from the neighbors how the race went, but she didn’t say anything. Like she somehow blamed herself for me coming in second.

It wasn’t her fault.

It was Madden’s.

And I don’t want to think about his smug face and perfect ass right now. What a pity I can’t punch his face before the race, I’ll get disqualified.

Mom doesn’t dwell on it, and I’m glad, because it’s time for me to go. But just as I stand, she catches my face, pulling me down for a kiss—one on each cheek. “Go for it, champ.”

I grin and pack the still lukewarm pastry from Soraka in a napkin to take it with me. I’m always hungry after a race and this will help to fill my stomach later. “Of course! And tonight, pizza’s on me.”

She quirks a brow, still beautiful with her long gray hair braided over her shoulder, the same amber-colored eyes as mine, and that old favorite yellow dress I’ve patched up more times than I can count. “Not from Mundo’s, right?”

“Mom!” I groan. “You’ll get the extra-winning pizza. Not that cheap crap.”

What Mari Callahan doesn’t know yet is that, with the prize money in my pocket, I intend to make a beeline for the grocery store to fill our old, rusty fridge. After fixing the roof, replacing that fridge is definitely next on my to-do list for the trailer’s renovation.

With that, I hop out of the old, cheap plastic chair and head straight for my Camaro, which I picked up from the shop early this morning. I’m always up early on the morning of a race to take her for a quick ride before breakfast with Mom. It’s not like I fell off my too-small bed—it’s just another routine I’m used to.

My baby is shining, good as new, and it doesn’t take me ten minutes to reach the dirt track at the trailer park’s outskirts.

I pull into my designated starting position. Today, my name’s on the sixth today which sucks. Placement’s decided by draw, not skill—not my call, just race direction rules. Stepping out, I spot the usual car check for safety measures. No stress there. I’ve put in the work, and I know my baby’s ready to go.

Something feels off, but I can’t place it. Not all the participants are here yet, so there’s nothing to worry about. It’s still early.

When I catch sight of K trotting toward me, chewing on a damn toothpick like he’s got all the time in the world, I swear one day he’s gonna choke on it. But with that, I stop paying attention to anything else around me—except for the commissioner throwing me a thumbs-up. Green light to race today.

“Took your sweet time,” K drawls, smirking as he offers a fist bump.

I scoff, tugging on my gloves, the leather creaking as I flex my fingers. Can’t help mirroring his smirk. “Never late for my win.”

“Yeah, yeah. Big talk, pretty boy.” He flicks the toothpick into the dirt. “You ready for this?”

I roll my shoulders, crack my neck. “Always.”

We shoot the shit while I work my wrists, the leather worn thin at the thumb, peeling just enough to glimpse my skin beneath. More cars rumble onto the grid, the track filling up, the usual faces spilling into the standing rows—people from the trailer park, the local crowd, same old, same old.

Then K frowns, scanning the lineup. “Madden’s missing.”

My eyes snap to the fourth-place slot, my stomach twisting at the sight of the empty space. Midnight blue should be there—should be gleaming under the Saturday’s sun, ready to go. But Aphelios' Mustang isn’t there. My jaw tightens immediately as my fingers curl into fists.

Aphelios has never been late for a race. Ever. I don’t know what kind of shit life he’s got—not my business—but if there’s one thing I can count on, it’s him making my life hell on the dirt. And now? No Mustang. No smug bastard pulling up to fourth place.

Just fuel to the fire burning in my gut.

“That bastard,” I mutter.

“Easy win, easy money. What’s there to be mad about?” K shrugs, bumping my shoulder before handing me my helmet. Always got my back, always trying to keep me in check. And he’s right. I shouldn’t dwell on it.

But I do. I grip my helmet tighter. “I don’t like easy.”

The horn blares, signaling it’s time to get behind the wheel. I shove Aphelios Madden’s absence into a locked drawer in my head. Focus. Pizza with Mari Callahan tonight. That’s what matters.

Still seething, I shove the helmet on, securing the straps with sharp tugs before climbing into my Camaro. K taps the roof before heading to the stands. “Don’t crash, hotshot.”

I barely hear him, flipping him the bird in the rearview mirror—pretty damn sure he sees it. I ignite my baby, feeling the motor vibrate through me and my fingers twitch over the wheel, itching for the green light, but I can’t help myself. My eyes stay locked on that empty fourth-place spot on the grid.

Aphelios fucking Madden ditched. Just skipped out like it was nothing.

The thought eats at me more than I want to admit, but I force my focus forward. Easy win, easy money. K’s words loop in my head like a broken record, trying to drown out the frustration. There are still other drivers to beat, ones I can’t afford to underestimate. That’s enough to snap my attention back to the moment just as the final horn screeches through the air.

The race starts. Green light. My foot slams the gas. The Camaro roars beneath me as I push off from sixth place. The laps are short, the goal’s 200 miles, and this ain’t some official league—underdog rules mean anything can happen.

The weather’s not doing me any favors—no rain means no mud, no mud means less chaos to take advantage of. But the dust? It’s thick as hell, kicking up in swirls, stinging my eyes as I squint to see anything. I push the Camaro harder, gripping the wheel tight as the engine roars beneath me, spitting power into the track. I need to put the cars in front behind me—fast.

Soon enough, I’m tearing through a goddamn sandstorm, the dirt swirling in front of me, making every turn a fight for control. The vibrations rattle through my bones, the tires biting into the track as I push through. It only takes a few laps to overtake two cars, each one falling behind with a growl of my exhaust. With Madden out, there’s only one left between me and first place.

And I hate how easy it feels.

But I can’t stop thinking about it. Why the hell would Madden miss this? He never skips. Not when there’s money on the line, not when there’s pride to defend, and definitely not when it means giving me a free shot at the top spot.

Does that prick think I’m not worth his time? Like I’m not a real challenge? I’ve only lost to him twice—twice—and every other damn race, he was the one choking on my dust, forced to eat my Camaro’s tail lights. If he’s skipping out, it sure as hell isn’t because he thought I had him beat. No, it’s something else. But that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

The thought burns, distracting me enough that I nearly screw myself over—tires skidding in the silky dirt as I go in too hot, trying to pass the leader. I snarl, jaw tight, knuckles whitening around the wheel. Focus. No Madden means an easy win and I don’t want to crash my baby thinking about that fucking prick.

So why does it feel like shit ?

By the 23rd lap, I finally take the lead. I should be riding that high, feeling that rush of adrenaline, but it’s not hitting right. My mind drifts again, the absence gnawing at me. His sister’s not here either—the drunken loudmouth with My Little Pony rainbow hair and the attitude to match. She never misses his races. None of them do.

I hate that I care. Something’s wrong . That’s… weird.

I cross the finish line with a ridiculous lead. The race was too easy, and the win tastes bitter.

Skipping the podium, I only go up there long enough to snatch the cash. No hesitation nor shame. My next bills secured—trailer repairs, pizza, all covered. And damn, I can’t wait to get some new briefs. You can stretch one for two days if you flip it inside out, but with the construction site and the heat rolling in, I need a fresh pair daily. The ones I’ve got on now? More holes than I can stitch back.

K finds me after, grinning like he just won the damn race himself. “Ready to celebrate?”

“Hell yeah.” I flash a grin back, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. And we both head towards Garren’s together, bumping shoulders like two idiots, trying to push away the frustration that still clings on me.

The track’s bar is packed, the air thick with sweat, booze, and the high of adrenaline-fueled egos. Music pounds from a busted old speaker, and empty beer bottles clatter against the wooden tables as racers and their crews toast the afternoon away. Some guys are arm wrestling in the corner, bets being thrown over the noise, while others are reliving every damn lap like they didn’t just drive it themselves.

A girl slides onto my lap, all warm curves and heavy perfume. Strawberry silver curled hair draped over her shoulders, sharp-eyed light hazel, the kind of hot that would have had me taking her home in another life. If it wasn’t Qiyana Vance. The park owner’s daughter.

Her old man? Decent guy. Busts his ass to keep the park running, actually gives a damn about the people living here. But his daughter? Insufferable. Entitled, spoiled, walks around like she’s royalty just because her daddy owns a few acres of dirt and rusting trailers.

She’s hot, sure. But I don’t have the patience for someone who looks at people like they’re beneath her. Ain’t gonna stroke her ego just because she thinks she’s the queen of a kingdom made of busted fences and leaky roofs.

She runs a painted nail down my chest, smirking. “Didn’t even break a sweat out there, huh?”

I smirk back, playing the game for now, because why not? “Didn’t have to. No real competition.”

She laughs, tilting her head, lips close enough to brush my ear, pressing her tits against me. Qiyana wants me to take the bait. I could, real easy. But my mind ain’t in it. And anyway, she’s from the trailer park. Hooking up with someone I’ll have to see in the morning when I’m hauling groceries to the fridge? Nah. Not worth the trouble. Especially her.

It’s already a pain in the ass dodging her every time she shows up. Qiyana tries everything to get me to fuck her, and I know damn well why—just so she can brag about having bagged a Callahan. Like hell I’m getting involved with someone that shallow.

I ignore the way she’s practically draping herself over me and take a sip from the bottle in my hand—cheap beer, warm, tastes like piss. When K comes back with a fresh one, I don’t waste the opportunity. I shove her off my lap, no grace, no hesitation. 

“Fuck off, Qiyana. You and me? Never happening.” I tell her and I grab the cold bottle from K, my focus already back on the booze. She fumes, eyes burning holes through my skull.

“You’re an asshole, Callahan,” she spits before stomping off, her heels hammering the wooden floor.

I flip her the bird behind her back. In her dreams. Five minutes on my lap was more than she deserved.

K chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re a dead man, Sett.”

I couldn’t care less. She’s a nightmare wrapped in designer jeans, and I don’t need the headache. Shaking my head, I set the bottle down on the table and lean back in my seat. Still gotta drive later. I can hold my liquor, but I’m not about to push it tonight.

Besides, my mind’s not calm. Part of it is the frustration—I haven’t let my dick have any fun lately, but that doesn’t mean I’ll just bang anyone. The other part? Still stuck on the fact that Aphelios ditched the race today.

“You’re not in the mood, bud,” K says, lounging beside me, sipping his disgusting coke-beer mix. Yep. Sometimes, the guy just has awful taste.

He’s not looking at me, but I know he can sense my mood. He’s rarely wrong about me. Following his hungry gaze, I spot the guy he’s eyeing—red fitness shirt clinging to his frame, dark blue jeans so worn they’ve got tears flashing hints of his ass. And from the way he’s looking back at K, expectantly, I know my friend’s got plans tonight.

I smirk. “But you are, visibly.”

K grins, tipping his drink. “Well, I’m not the one who got ditched by his date.”

I should punch him for that unnecessary comment. Hell, I should punch myself for letting Aphelios fucking Madden take up space in my head.

Of course, K doesn’t let up. He leans in, dropping the one topic I don’t want to talk about.

“You think he didn’t show because of Hawthorne?”

I stiffen. Thresh Hawthorne. That name isn’t known for anything good. What the hell is he doing with Aphelios?

I grit my teeth. My deadbeat father might’ve been a piece of shit, but at least he did one right thing before skipping out—he paid off his debt to Hawthorne. Left my mom and me out of that mess. And I intend to keep it that way.

“Hawthorne?” I repeat, my voice flat. I’d seen the bastard in the crowd earlier, his face half-hidden behind those stupid black aviators and that shady-ass hat he always wears. He looked pissed. Jaw locked tight, shoulders tense, like something wasn’t going his way.

K nods, shifting like he doesn’t even want to be the one saying it. “I’ve heard he’s his sponsor. Or at least, that Mustang belongs to him.”

Watching my best friend, I notice the shift immediately. He looks uncomfortable. And I’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s hiding something.

K’s not the type to shit-talk or blindly believe rumors. Even though he knows Aphelios and I are rivals, that we hate each other enough to wish the other dead, I also know he secretly admires Madden’s driving. He’d never trash-talk him, and most of the time, he holds back from pissing me off about him.

“How do you know, Sante?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Don’t tell me you’re actually buying into the damn rumors flying in and out of your shop.”

For a fraction of a second, K’s expression goes unreadable before shifting into something hesitant. Like he’s not sure if he should say it.

“Don’t get mad, Sett,” he starts, locking eyes with me. He’s dead serious. And from the look on his face, he’s also sorry as hell for whatever he’s about to say.

“He told me. Madden.” K exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been looking after his car when you’re not around.”

I clench my fists, trying to push down the anger bubbling in my chest. That admission from my best friend? Feels like a damn betrayal.  

“Hope he pays well.” I huff, trying to keep my temper in check.

K hesitates, expression plastered by genuine guilt. “About that…”

I swear to god.

“The hell, Sante?” I hiss, lowering my voice so I don’t make a scene but it’s really hard right now. “Are you fucking telling me you’re doing it for free?!”

That doesn’t just feel like a betrayal—it is a fucking betrayal. And now I’m seeing red.

It’s not about the money. I pay for K’s work because it’s his damn job, and I don’t need anyone going easy on me. I don’t want free shit. Never have. Never will. K’Sante already does me enough favors.

But Madden? That prick getting shit for free from my best friends? That’s too much to stomach. Even for me.

And now it all makes sense. Aphelios Madden has debts. Big ones. Enough to get tangled with someone like Thresh Hawthorne.

Madden, you fucking idiot. I used to hate him as a rival—his skill, his arrogance, the way he pushed me on the track. Now? I don’t even have that. He’s not my rival anymore. Just a fucking disappointment.

I don’t say another word. Because, honestly? I don’t even know what to think.

My gaze is locked on K, my so-called best friend, and I wonder—if I were in deep shit, would I be entitled to that kind of favor too? Not that I’d take it. My life’s a mess, sure, but at least I fight my way out of it. No handouts. No debts.

My head’s spinning. My blood’s boiling. I need to let off steam. I can’t sit still in this shitty chair, in this shitty place, with K next to me acting like nothing’s wrong. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut, at least. Smart enough to know I’m seconds away from exploding.

And suddenly, I don’t give a damn about my victory tonight. Don’t give a damn about any of my wins. It’s like every drop of sweat I’ve poured into the track, every second behind the wheel of my Camaro, has been stripped of its meaning. Like the ground’s just been ripped out from under me.

For a split second, it feels like I’m back there—back in that tiny apartment, watching my bastard father pull a gun on my mom. The deafening crack of a gunshot. The way she crumpled to the floor, clutching her hip. The bastard bolting with our savings, leaving nothing but blood and a broken home behind.

I grit my teeth and shake it off. No fucking way I’m staying here. Not another second.

Without a word, I ditch the party. I don’t even look back. K doesn’t stop me—not that I expected him to. What’s more, he’s hooking up any time soon with that guy on the bar.

I’ve got a promise to keep. Pizza with Mom.

It’s surprising how easy it is, just thinking about her. One moment, I’m storming out of the party, and the next, I’m pulling into Valentino’s drive-in, ordering a double pepperoni with extra cheese like it’s second nature. The smell of fresh dough, melted cheese, and spicy pepperoni fills the car as I speed home, the familiar purr of my Camaro grounding me more than I’d like to admit.

By the time I push open the trailer door, Mari Callahan—my sunshine of a mother—is already waiting, turning toward me with that tired but warm smile of hers. The second she spots the pizza box in my hands, her eyes practically light up.

"Oho, now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” she teases, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Didn’t think my boy would remember his old lady tonight.”

I huff out a laugh, kicking the door shut behind me. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t pretend you’re happy to see me when I know it’s the pizza you’re after.”

“What? Can’t it be both?” She grins, taking the box off my hands before I can protest. “Besides, I raised you right. You always bring food when you win. Or you’re in trouble.”

She’s not wrong. Today it’s both, unfortunately.

We settle at the small kitchen table, the warm glow of the old pendant light flickering above us. I flip open the box, and steam wafts up, making my stomach growl. She hums in appreciation as she grabs a slice, taking that first slow, satisfying bite. "Mmmh. God, this is so bad for me.”

“Nah.” I sink my teeth into my own slice, the grease coating my fingers, the flavors melting in my mouth. “It’s called self-care.”

She chuckles, shaking her head, but there’s a weariness in her eyes that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s been creeping in more often lately, lingering in the lines around her face, in the way her shoulders sag when she thinks I’m not looking.

I chew slowly, debating whether to say something. But when I glance up, she’s already watching me, reading me like she always does.

“What’s that look for?” she asks, arching a brow.

I swallow and shake my head. “Nothin’.”

She doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go, reaching for another slice. "Eat up, champ. You look like you need it."

And maybe I do. Maybe, for tonight, sitting here with her, letting the warmth of home of this old trailer settle over me, I can push everything else aside.

But the weight of my thoughts lingers, even as I take another bite. Even when my mother kisses me goodnight, congratulating me on today’s win before retreating to her room, leaving me alone at the table with nothing but my own simmering frustration.

It creeps back slowly, slithering under my skin like a snake ready to strike. I need a distraction. A shower, maybe—I’m sure I reek under my racing suit. But instead of heading inside, my feet drag me toward the night air. The cool breeze brushes against my bare arms, but it doesn’t do shit to quiet my mind.

I should drive my Camaro back to the shop, make sure my baby’s safe for the night. I hate keeping her parked out in the lot, unsupervised. But that would mean seeing K, and right now, I still feel the sting of his betrayal.

And worse, I don’t want to think about Aphelios fucking Madden. About how he just skipped out on a race. About how he—

I grind my teeth, forcing myself to focus on the good things. My mother. My car. The money from my win, giving us a little more breathing room for the next week.

But then, a sound. A scuffle makes me stop pacing, ears sharpening as my gaze snaps toward the dim glow of the streetlamp. A figure stumbles into view near my trailer, right in front of my feet and the second I recognize him, it slams into me like a punch to the gut.

Madden.

And he looks like hell.

Blood streaks his face, dark and smeared, like someone wiped it away with shaky hands. His arm is clutched tight against his body, and even in the low light, I can see the nasty gash running along his left arm, fresh and oozing. His eyes—usually sharp, calculating—are unfocused. Hollow.

Seeing him like this should make me feel good. Should make me feel satisfied that the bastard finally got what was coming to him. Shame I wasn’t the one to give him that beating.

But instead, something twists in my chest. A flicker of something I can’t name, something I shouldn’t be feeling. His gaze lifts, and in that split second, when our eyes meet, I don’t know what I see. Fear? Horror? From seeing me? Or fleeing from someone else? Hawthorne maybe?

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Have you seen my sister?”

I stare at his pitiful existence. For a second—just a second—the rivalry, the frustration, the anger… it all blurs. I shouldn’t care. Not about him. Not about his missing sister.

But then he stumbles forward, barely keeping himself upright, like some half-dead puppy searching for home. And before I can think, I’m moving, reaching out, grabbing his arm—he flinches hard, sucking in a breath of pain.

“What happened?” I demand, my own voice steadier than I expect.

But before he can answer, another voice cuts through the night. “Where are you, Madden?! You fucking hiding fag?! ”

My blood turns to ice. And without another thought, the trailer door slams shut behind me, the sound too loud in the quiet night. Shit. Mom.

I glance toward her room, listening for any signs of stirring, but there’s nothing. Just the heavy silence between me and the pitiful figure kneeling on my floor, bleeding, and looking more broken than I’ve ever seen him.

 

---

Aphelios Madden

What the fuck am I doing in the Callahan’s trailer?

The hit to my head must have scrambled my brain, because somehow, I dragged myself to my nemesis’s place. Kill me, please. This Saturday can’t possibly get any worse.

And yet, here I am. Kneeling on the worn floor of his trailer while Sett Callahan stares daggers at me, like I’m a problem he never asked for.

He should’ve left me outside to deal with my shit. He could’ve shut the door, ignored me, let me fend for myself like always. But the second that voice outside started throwing homophobic slurs, he yanked me in without hesitation.

And now, I can barely move.

Every inch of my body screams in pain. My head pounds like a hammer against my skull, my ribs feel like they’ve been caved in, and my left arm is throbbing so badly I can’t tell if it’s broken or just fucked up beyond repair. I just want to find a hole, crawl into it, disappear. Close my eyes and sleep. Better if I never wake up.

Somewhere outside, the bastard who was chasing me is still shouting, his words distant and slurred in my half-conscious haze. But my focus stays locked on Sett. His expression is unreadable. Like he doesn’t even know what to do with me.

Then, after a long pause, he exhales sharply through his nose and turns away, shifting toward the window to check the lot.

“Bathroom,” he mutters, not even looking at me. “And keep quiet. Mom’s asleep.”

I don’t move. My head spins. My body refuses to cooperate. I just keep staring at him, dazed and lost, like my brain is a second behind reality.

Then his cold gaze flicks back to me, sharp as glass and I flinch.

Grimacing, I nod and force myself upright, biting down a scream as my body protests every movement.

Sett clicks his tongue. “Crazy you’re not bleeding everywhere. It’s a bitch to clean up.”

I want to roll my eyes so far back into my skull they never return—but the pain in my head is already unbearable.

Instead, I grit my teeth, turn away, and drag myself toward the bathroom.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

All the trailers in the park are the same. Standard model, same dull design. If you have a little more money, you can buy a bigger one, but the lots are still small. No one gets anything better, just bigger.

I don’t know what to make of the trailer I’m in—frankly, I don’t want to. All I care about is getting through the sliding bathroom door without dripping blood everywhere, just as Mr. Callahan so kindly asked.

Now I’m standing there, swaying slightly, staring at myself in the worn mirror under the half-light. I look like shit.

My hair is a mess, blood streaks my face. My right temple is swollen, and I can see a cut pissing blood down my cheek. My old gray T-shirt is torn, a long gash running down my left arm. My back burns like it’s been scraped raw, and my head throbs so badly I can barely think straight.

I try to remember what the hell happened.

Saturday is race day. Like always, I woke up Alune, and we ate some stale toast—overdone, dry, barely edible. I nearly cracked a tooth biting into it. Then we agreed to meet at the track a few hours later. That’s how it was supposed to go.

Except I never made it to the garage in time.

I took the docks to get back to my usual route, and that’s where I fucked up. Stumbling onto something I shouldn’t have—some guys dealing shit I don’t even want to name. Meth, coke, whatever. Not my world. Not my problem.

I wasn’t lucky enough to slip past unnoticed. And I didn’t get the chance to tell them I wasn’t a threat, that I didn’t care. Not like it would’ve mattered. Their brains were probably fried from the same garbage they were selling—but their adrenaline sure as hell wasn’t.

They chased me. Grabbed me. Beat the shit out of me like I deserved it. And afterwards, I must’ve blacked out.

When I woke up, I had no idea how much time had passed. I dragged myself to the garage, praying I wasn’t too late—but the gate was already shut. Locked. No access to the midnight blue Mustang.

The deal was simple: be on time, and the gate opens automatically.

I was late. Which means I’m screwed. I don’t even want to think about what Thresh Hawthorne is planning for me.

My head was heavy. My legs barely carried me. My body screamed at me to stop, to just collapse right there on the side of the road, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I found my sister.

The five miles back to Navori's Trailer Park stretched forever. Every step dragged like I was wading through mud. My brain felt fogged, sluggish, like someone had filled my skull with water and shaken it. I should have been thinking, coming up with a plan, but all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other. And hoping I didn’t run into the same bunch of assholes as before.

No access to my car. No race. No money. No way to pay off my debt to Thresh Hawthorne.

I forced myself to move faster. My body protested, aching from the beating I had taken, but fear kept me upright. I needed to find Alune. I had to find her. Too damn broken to own a cell phone. Or even to eat.

When I finally reached the track, my breath was ragged. My ribs burned. But she wasn’t there. Panic clawed up my throat.

I scanned the area, hoping— praying —that I would see her small frame somewhere in the crowd. But all I saw was Sett Callahan, that smug bastard, taking his prize money. He shouldn’t have been pissed; he had an easy win that night. But the way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around the cash, I knew something had him riled. Because I ditched him.

I didn’t have time to care and I was glad nobody noticed me. 

By the time night fell, I was running on nothing but desperation. My body ached, my head was pounding, and every step felt like it might be the one to finally drop me. I had spent the entire day searching—checking every possible spot, asking around, hoping for something, anything. But no one had seen her. No one knew where she was.

I kept my head down as I moved through the lot, ignoring the stares burning into me. People noticed. Of course, they did. I hadn’t shown up at the track, hadn’t been at the starting line. And now here I was, bloodied, dragging my feet like a dead man walking.

I knew what they were thinking. I didn’t give a fuck. The only damn fuck I had to give was to avoid Sett Callahan. 

Desperation clung to me so fucking hard I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get to my shitty little home. Maybe— maybe —she’d be there. Maybe she’d been waiting for me this whole time. Or she was already wasted somewhere, legs spread, letting some asshole fuck her for a couple of drinks and a good time.

But when I got there, hope died fast.

The door was wide open. The walls were tagged in thick, ugly black spray paint—slurs and threats I didn’t even need to read to understand. My stomach clenched, and the exhaustion pressing down on me twisted into something colder.

Two guys stood outside.

I recognized them—scum from the track. Always there, always watching, the kind that lingered too long when certain jokes were made. I had ignored them before, the way I ignored everything else, but now, standing in front of my wrecked home, I knew I wouldn’t be able to just walk past this time.

They told me they saw the way I looked at their champion and called me a fucking faggot.

My blood turned to ice. I fucked up—again. And I knew exactly who they were talking about. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I had never acted on it, never even let myself think about doing something so fucking reckless. But I should have known. The wrong kind of attention was a death sentence around here.

I turned to leave—two against one, and I was already beaten to pulp and exhausted. Right now, I’d rather be a coward than a dead man.

But it was too late. The first punch caught me in the ribs, sharp pain bursting through my side. The second hit cracked against my temple, sending me stumbling back against the trailer that I was fucking seeing stars. Then I felt the sharp sting of something colder and a blade caught my arm, not deep, but enough to tear through the fabric of my sleeve and set my skin on fire. My pulse pounded in my ears.

And I wanted to run, showing myself past them, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way my vision swam as my feet hit the gravel. I didn’t know where I was going, but anywhere was better than here.

And somehow, through the haze of blood and exhaustion, I found myself at his place.

The moment my flashback ends, Sett Callahan is standing next to me, peering at me coldly through the mirror, holding a damn first aid plastic box in his hands. He’s pissed and utterly disgusted to see me and to share the same breath as me in this sticky little bathroom.

The moment the past lets me go, dragging its claws out of my mind, I realize I’m not alone.

Sett Callahan is standing next to me, peering at me coldly through the mirror. A damn first aid box in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other. The look on his face is nothing short of pure fucking disgust, like just sharing the same air in this sticky little bathroom is a personal insult.

"Take off your shirt," he says. Flat. Matter-of-fact.

Like hell, I will.

"The fuck I am," I retort, my voice hoarse.

Sett doesn’t react beyond raising an eyebrow, like he expected that answer. Then he slams the first aid box onto the sink so hard it rattles. Now who said to stay silent to not wake his mother? "And you plan to reach the wound on your back, how, exactly?"

I meet his gaze in the mirror, but I already know I’m fucked. He’s right, with his goddamn severe expression behind crossed arms over his chest. I can barely lift my arms, let alone tend to my back. My whole body is screaming in protest, and I’m not even sure I have the energy left to peel my damn shirt off.

Sett sighs, all long-suffering, like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever had to deal with. "Just take it off."

I don’t move.

He lets out another sharp exhale, muttering something under his breath—probably some insult, wouldn’t be the first time—before setting the whiskey bottle down, without slamming it. Then, without warning, he grabs the hem of my shirt and yanks it upward.

Pain flares through my body like a live wire. I curse, jerking away, but Sett doesn’t let go.

"Hold still," he snaps. Sett appears as displeased as I am feeling.

I try to shove him off, but it's like trying to move a damn wall. I’m too weak, too hungry and he’s too fucking stubborn. He makes quick work of the fabric, peeling away my Falling In Reverse worn grey shirt from my skin, and when the cool air of the bathroom touches my back, I hear him suck in a breath.

"Shit," he mutters.

I don’t need to see his face to know it’s bad. The glimpse I catch in the mirror of my chest is enough—red patches already blooming into ugly bruises, spreading like ink under my skin. I don’t want to imagine what my back looks like. I shut my eyes, sick of staring at the pathetic reflection in front of me.

Then I hear the cap of the whiskey bottle twist off.

I crack my eyes open, catching Sett’s reflection in the mirror as he holds it out toward me.

"Here," he says. "It’ll take the edge off."

I stare at it. My fingers twitch, but I don’t move. My head is pounding, my body screaming for relief, but I can only shake my head. I can’t. I won’t. I know exactly where that road leads.

Not just because Alune’s an addict. But because I feel it. Like it’s wired into my blood, waiting for the right moment to take over.

Sett doesn’t push and I’m kind of glad he doesn’t, but something shifts in his expression. He sees it. He knows.

I expect some smart-ass remark, some jab about me being weak, but he just shrugs and takes a swig himself before setting the bottle down.

“You’re not your sister, Madden,” he just says, rummaging through the first aid kit. The remark hits deep, and I don’t know what the hell to do with it.

I keep my eyes on the mirror, but I don’t look at myself. Don’t want to see the damage, don’t want to see his expression. Instead, I focus on the way his hands move—quick, efficient, way more skilled than I expected. Sett Callahan is an asshole, not a fucking medic. But he handles the supplies like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m in no position to ask questions, and I have to admit—the less I bite back, the sooner this shit is over, and I can get the hell out of this cramped little place and away from my rival.

I flinch when he dabs at the cut on my temple, and he stills for half a second. I want to bark at him to fuck off, but the words stick in my throat when I catch my reflection in his pitiful gaze. I want to puke.

Is it because of the disappointment I can see written all over his face? The self-loathing that, out of everyone, it’s Sett patching me up? Or just the fact that I’m probably suffering from a damn concussion?

He continues, slower this time. His touch lulls me into a comfort I shouldn’t accept.

He’s too close. Too damn close. I focus on the pain to keep my mind from drifting into dangerous waters. I should be more on edge. Sett and I? We’re not friends. We’re not even on good terms. He’s the guy I see across the track, the one who pisses me off just by existing. And right now, he’s touching me like I’m some broken thing that needs fixing.

Silence stretches between us. Sett works without a word, and I let him, too fucking tired to fight anymore. He disinfects the worst of the wounds, moves around me, and presses a cloth against the cut on my left arm to stop the bleeding. I let my eyes slip shut for a second.

The silence presses in. Heavy. Suffocating. And when it becomes too much, I shove his hand away and hold the cloth myself.

Sett leans against the sink, arms crossed. "You ditch the race, asshole."

I let out a sharp laugh, rough and bitter. "No fucking shit, Callahan. Had other things to do."

I glance at him, the weight of the day pressing hard on my shoulders.

His gaze sharpens, like he’s trying to piece something together. He doesn’t ask. Good. He’s better off shutting the fuck up. Instead, he wraps a bandage around my last wound, hands firm but steady as he works on my left arm.

Something about his presence, his methodical movements, the heat of him so damn close—it unsettles me. My body’s still screaming in pain, but there’s something grounding about him, something steady in the way he moves. And I don’t fucking like it.

"Was it Hawthorne?" he eventually asks, and I swear I hear the disappointment in his voice.

I freeze, my heart hammering. Any second now, I might fucking pass out. How the hell does he know what kind of shit I’m in? I don’t want to talk to him about it. Don’t want him digging into my shitty life. He already looks pissed enough that his biggest rival on the track is just a piece of trash. Can’t blame him.

I huff out a breath, shaking my head. "None of your fucking business."

Sett ties off the last bandage a little too tight, like payback, then steps back, surveying his work. He’s really pissed. "You’re done. Don’t rip them open again unless you wanna bleed out on my lot."

I roll my shoulders, wincing as pain sparks through every muscle. Feels like I got hit by a truck, but unfortunately, I’m still breathing. "Didn’t ask for your help."

"No, you didn’t," Sett says. He picks up the whiskey bottle and takes another sip before tilting his head at me. "But you needed it."

I don’t have a response for that. Sett might be an asshole, but he’s right. I did need it. And I hate that.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other, something tense crackling in the air. Then Sett shakes his head, looking almost amused.

"You really are a stubborn bastard," he mutters before turning away. “Clean yourself up and then fuck off.”

I don’t move for a long time. Just stand there, staring at the mirror, at the fresh bandages, at the bottle of whiskey I’m not touching. But I can feel Sett still there, lingering, like he wants to make sure I actually do as he says and get the hell out. The sooner, the better.

“You’re not disgusted?” I ask, twisting the tap to wash my hands. I don’t look at him. Don’t want to see whatever fucking expression is on his face. Don’t even know why I asked. It’s like shoving myself straight into Satan’s pit.

“That you’re gay?” he says.

I nod, more to myself than to him.

“Whatever label you slap on yourself, I don’t give a shit. You still owe me a race, Madden.”

His answer blindsides me.

Of course he’s still hung up on the fucking race. Should’ve figured. He should be glad he got an easy win today. But there’s this weird pull in my chest, this uncomfortable weight I can’t quite shake. He doesn’t care. He touched me, patched me up, even pulled my damn shirt off, and he’s still standing here, like none of it fazed him.

I’m too fucking tired to let my beaten brain overthink it. I finish washing my hands. Time to fuck off and get the hell out of here.

My feet carry me out of the bathroom, pushing past Sett on autopilot.

“Got a place to stay?” he asks just as I’m about to push the trailer door open. My head snaps toward him, and I regret it instantly—pain slams through my skull like a hammer. I can’t read him. And he has a fucking talent for pissing me off, always poking exactly where it hurts.

“Those assholes cornered me at my place.” I shrug. “So right now, I guess I’m homeless.”

Sett grunts, his expression shifting like he already regrets what he’s about to say. “Bedroom on the left. But tomorrow, I don’t want to see your face anymore.”

I try not to look surprised. Not that I have the energy to argue—or to understand why the hell he’s acting like this. If he’s expecting a thank you, he’s not getting one. Still on autopilot, I turn and head toward the bedroom.

Before I can fully register that I’m standing in Sett fucking Callahan’s room, he’s already beside me, shoving a bottle of water, something wrapped in a napkin, and a strip of painkillers into my hands. I take them without thinking.

For someone who wants me out of his home, he sure is fucking clingy. But then, without another word, he turns away and slams the sliding door shut.

I don’t think. I just move and place the things Sett shoved into my hands onto the nightstand. The water bottle wobbles but stays upright. I stare at it for a second, like my brain is trying to process what to do next, but the exhaustion weighs too heavily on me.

With stiff fingers, I reach down and start wriggling out of my jeans. Every motion sends dull aches rippling through my body—reminders of the two beatings I’ve taken tonight, as if I could forget. My arms feel too heavy, my ribs too tight, but I force myself to keep going, stripping the ripped up and dirty denim away and letting it drop to the floor.

Only then do I glance at the napkin, curiosity flickering dimly in the haze of exhaustion. Sett had wrapped something inside. I unfold the corners with slow, fumbling movements, and a pastry is revealed. Simple. Unexpected. I tear off a piece and put it in my mouth, not really expecting much.

It tastes stupidly good.

Like I should be suspicious of it. But I’m too tired to care, too hungry to do anything but eat. The flaky layers melt on my tongue, buttery and rich, and I don’t even know how fast I finish it—just that by the time I register what I’m doing, there are only crumbs left on my fingers.

I pop one of the pills into my mouth, chase it with a gulp of water, and barely register the coolness of it sliding down my throat before I drag myself under the sheets. The fabric is soft, warm against my skin, and for the first time in what feels like forever, my body isn’t braced for impact.

The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m gone.

I wake up warm. Too warm and comfortable.

It takes a second to register why—that I’m not curled up on my shitty disagreeable couch, or passed out on my broken berth, or bracing for the cold seeping into my bones because our trailer is fucking permeable. I blink sluggishly at the ceiling, realizing I haven’t slept this well in a long time. Maybe not since before my life turned into this fucking mess.

I stir, shifting against the sheets, and my muscles protest immediately. Stiff, sore—but the deep, bone-aching pain from last night is mostly gone. 

I still haven’t found Alune.

Panic creeps in, trying to claw its way past the sluggish haze of sleep. She’s fine. She’s gotta be. I tell myself that, repeating it like a mantra. She probably just got wasted again, ended up in someone else’s bed. Stick to habit, baby girl. But what if she didn’t? What if Thresh Hawthorne found her first?

I press my palm against my forehead, trying to shove away the growing anxiety, and that’s when I realize something else.

Half-naked. I’m in his bed.

Sett fucking Callahan’s bed.

The realization hits so damn hard I feel like I might choke on it. I groan, rubbing my face, trying to wake up properly, but all I manage to do is become painfully aware of another issue.

A morning problem. A very hard one.

Fuck. 

And I know this isn’t just some natural reaction to high testosterone levels—because my dick is fully awake, throbbing painfully, knowing exactly where I’m lying right now. I groan silently, because honestly? I can’t even blame it. This isn’t the first time, and it sure as hell won’t be the last, not as long as I stay secretly fixated on my most hated rival—who, unfortunately, is hot as fuck.

I push my head back into the pillow, stare up at the ceiling, and weigh my options. Either I take care of this right here , in Sett’s damn bunk—a jerk who could absolutely kill me if he knew—or I walk out of this room and face him with a hard-on. And honestly? I’d rather die of shame than do the latter.

So, with a moment of self-indulgence, knowing I’ll never get another chance to be this close to this bed, I let my body take over and push the sheet away.

I reach into my briefs, pulling them down just enough. Stifling a moan, I cup my balls with one hand and start stroking my blood-gorged cock with the other.

I don’t think about anything else. Just the heat of my own palm, the sharp pulse of pleasure, the fact that Sett Callahan— my fucking rival slash crush —would lose his shit if he knew I was jerking off in his bed.

That thought alone nearly does it for me.

But then, the image shifts. Sett isn’t pissed anymore—he’s looking at me, watching me. And instead of throwing me out, he’s touching me back, pressing his body against mine, his rough hands gripping my hips.

Those seemingly never occurring images are more than enough to do the job.

I bite back a moan. My body shudders, muscles clenching, pleasure breaking over me like a violent tide. I come, thick and hot on my bruised stomach, panting through my nose and my hand keeps working itself through my orgasm.

It takes me a second to come back down. To remember where I am.

I look down at the mess I made, grimacing, and grab the crumpled napkin from last night’s pastry to wipe myself clean. It’s rough, but it does the job. I shove my briefs back up, pull my jeans on despite how much they stink, and force myself to move before I do something even dumber than what I just did, remembering Callahan’s words to get the hell out as fast as possible.

Stepping out of the bedroom just in time to see a woman leaving the lot through the trailer’s door, I recognize Mari, Callahan. Sett’s mom. She doesn’t notice me, and I don’t make a sound, just watch her through the window above the kitchen stove as she steps onto the lawn and walks away.

When I turn—and my breath catches.

Sett fucking Callahan is sprawled on the couch, sheet barely covering his bottom half, but completely shirtless. My stomach tightens. Fuck . I shouldn’t be looking. I should not be looking. But I do. I stare.

My damn eyes refuse to look away from the sight that some twisted fate is offering me, because when he shifts, the sheet slides to the floor.

There it is. The death of me.

His cock, thick, straining against the waistband of his hole-ridden briefs. The tip is peeking out, just barely visible, and I fucking gulp, my throat dry.

Sett’s eyes snap open and his gaze locks onto mine like a death sentence.

“I made myself clear ,” he growls, voice rough from sleep, dangerous . “Didn’t want to see your face anymore.”

I should shut up. I should back the fuck off. But my brain short-circuits before I can stop myself.

I tilt my head toward his crotch.

“Can help you with that.” I shrug.

Sett’s glare could kill a lesser man. And honestly? If this is the last thing I see before I die, I wouldn’t even be mad.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hi there!

Nothing much to say for this part just enjoy reading ;)

Sett Callahan

There’s a lot going on in my head right now, but mostly, it’s the fucking rage in my gut at seeing that swollen face first thing in the morning. The day after a race that made me want to punch a hole through a wall. A Sunday morning I should be spending in peace.

But I can’t. Because much to my fucking chagrin, my head hasn’t stopped spinning from the last twenty-four hours.

And it sure as hell doesn’t help that not only did I let Aphelios fucking Madden sleep in my bed while I crashed on the couch, but that he’s still here, standing there like a dumbass. Staring. Not at my face. 

No, his eyes are glued to my dick, to the very obvious morning wood straining against my briefs.

Maybe it’s the sheer audacity of it, or maybe it’s the way he fucking said it—so casual, like he’s asking for the time—that makes my blood burn hotter. That pisses me off more than anything else.

I should laugh. I should throw him out, remember that we’re rivals, that I hate his guts, that I don’t fucking trust him.

But my mouth? It moves before my brain can slam the brakes.

“On your knees, Madden,” I say, shifting upright on the couch. My voice is low, lazy, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “But don’t fucking regret it after.”

I expect him to bolt. I expect that sharp, venomous glare of his, the same one he throws my way at the tracks, right before he does something reckless.

What I don’t expect is for him to hesitate.

And fuck, I love what I see.

That flash of surprise—the kind I always get when people realize I don’t give a shit about gender, when they think they’ve got me all figured out and then, bam, I flip the fucking script.

I’ve never cared if it’s a man or a woman on their knees. Mouth’s a mouth. A good one knows what the hell they’re doing.

But this? This feels different.

Did I jump at the chance because I just found out he swings that way? Maybe. Did I do it because I know nothing in this world would piss him off more than lowering himself to me? Of course. And am I getting a sick thrill at the idea of Aphelios Madden, my biggest fucking headache, choking on my cock?

Absolutely.

But I doubt he’ll actually do it. He’s too proud, too stiff, too full of himself. He’ll bail in the next five seconds, leave me high and dry.

So I don’t bother getting my hopes up.

Except—he doesn’t move towards the door to escape. And for the first time this morning, I feel my own breath hitch.

"Are you sure, Callahan?" he asks, voice light, cocky. Like he’s got all the fucking control here. He shifts his weight on those long legs, wiggling like he’s stretching before a goddamn race. "You might not be able to think about anything else once I'm done with you."

I scoff. "You'd better put your big mouth to work, Madden." My voice is a low growl as I palm my cock through my boxers, watching his gaze flicker from my face down to what my hand is doing.

What I don’t expect—what I really don’t fucking expect—is for him to move.

And not just move.

That smug asshole actually strides forward, drops to his knees between my legs, and spreads them apart like he fucking belongs there.

My dick twitches, eager as hell, but I ignore it. Because whatever confidence he's wearing right now is gonna get wiped the fuck off his face once he realizes what he’s in for.

Because let’s be real. I'm built like a goddamn ox. Years of hauling cement bags at the construction site, tuning up the Camaro, throwing punches at guys who run their mouths too much—I'm all muscle.

And when it comes to this ?

Yeah. Mother Nature did me a solid.

A flicker of hesitation hits me as Aphelios' hands slide slow, deliberate, up my thighs. For half a second, my eyes dart to the door of my mother’s bedroom.

Aphelios catches it. And the bastard laughs .

"I saw her leave this morning," he says, casual as fuck. His voice is velvet-dipped amusement, and it makes my fists itch. "What’s wrong? Worried she'll walk in and find you in a compromising position with your rival ?"

The smugness in his tone makes my teeth clench.

That’s not it. I know my mother gives me my space every Sunday morning, that she’s off having coffee with the neighbor. We’re in the clear. I am in the clear.

"Shut up," I snap, voice sharp. "Or you're just stalling because you're scared?"

I watch his expression harden. That same look I’m used to seeing at the track. That confidence. That rage. That fucking hatred. Like this is just another challenge between us, another race he’s determined to win.

Well, if he thinks this is a competition, then I know he’s about to give it his all.

And when he pushes my briefs down, freeing my cock—fully hard now, heavy and aching—I swear his expression flickers. Just for a second. Like he’s thinking, Can’t believe I’m doing this.

Bastard.

Believe it. Because soon enough, you’re gonna be choking on it.

Before I can even wonder if he’s about to back out again, his lips are already on the head of my cock—and fuck , I groan. My eyes flutter shut.

Because it’s a damn good feeling.

Aphelios wastes no time, parting his lips wider around the head of my cock, sucking me in deeper, his tongue swirling as he works.

I need to see. Not his smug face. But the way my dick spreads his fucking mouth, the exact moment he gives up .

Fuck, this feels good. But I’m not about to admit it. Instead, I groan louder.

His movements are slow. Too slow. So I mash my hips forward, surging into his throat while gripping the back of his neck— forcefully .

Aphelios' dark, shimmering eyes snap up to mine, burning with something raw, something hateful . I see every fucking detail in his irises, and I’m already spiraling out of my goddamn mind.

He grunts around my cock, the vibrations sinking straight into my bones. It feels sublime .

So I do it again. Lifting my hips, I fuck into his mouth, thrusting deeper, harder, forcing him to take it—until he swallows around me.

His throat tightens like a vice, and my eyes roll back in my skull.

I’ve had plenty of guys and chicks suck my dick before. Not one of them holds a candle to the head asshole kneeling in front of me, sucking me off like it’s his fucking job .

Aphelios Madden’s mouth is lethal . Warm, wet—so goddamn wet—and that sucking? That dooming sucking?

I’d never admit it to his face, but this is hands down the best blowjob of my life.

I groan louder this time, almost forgetting where I am, lost in the sensation.

My fingers slide into his silky black hair, gripping it tight.

Glancing down at the head bobbing up and down on my cock—so hard it’s about to snap off —I think I can say with some level of certainty that, at the very least, Aphelios is having a hell of a time. Spit dribbles from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

Me too. The feeling of it, the look of it—everything he’s doing is out of this world . 

The way he’s slobbering on my dick like the most dedicated professional—

It throws me off a little. It shouldn’t .

“Choke on it.” I slam my hips forward, grip tightening around the back of his neck, both hands keeping him right there as I fuck his face harder. Rougher. He doesn’t even fight me.

The sounds—panting when he can, wet slurping and suction when he can’t —fill the trailer, echoing in my ears, drowning out any lingering doubt.

Then he fucking moans around my cock and I feel my orgasm looming closer, heat curling deep in my gut.

His eyes flick up, locking onto mine, glistening . Dizzy with lust.

I’m seeing a whole new side of Aphelios fucking Madden—

And fuck, I like it.

Right now, in this moment, I want to come down his throat more than I want to breathe.

It’s so good I hate it.

I spill my load straight down his throat, no warning. He doesn’t back off. Just takes it like a champion he isn’t. I come and groan. Come and groan. 

The sight of Aphelios’ mouth taking gallons of cum, swallowing it all without a chance to pull away—fuck. I ride out the longest climax of my shitty life in this trailer park, my body tensing, but I can’t stop . 

His lips are stretched so wide around my cock, flushed and slick with spit, his jaw trembling like he’s struggling but refusing to pull back. Not that he can anyway, my hands are still gripping his skull, keeping him there, making sure he takes all of it. His throat works around me, swallowing, and fuck—his lashes flutter, his brows pinch, like he’s dazed, lost in it. His cheeks hollow as he sucks me through the aftershocks, tongue pressed flat against the underside, milking everything I give him.

It’s filthy. It’s obscene. And it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Not one drop is wasted before I finally release his head and shove him off my spent dick, snapping out of my climax.

Aphelios grunts as he lands on his ass, dazed—until his expression twists into pure, pissed-off annoyance.

“Had your fill?” I demand, tucking myself back into my briefs, ignoring the way it suddenly feels lonely.

Not like I need an answer. A quick glance at his groin tells me everything I need to know—he’s rock hard in those old, worn-out jeans.

But I don’t give a shit. That’s his problem.

I just take what I’m given and move the fuck on. No point looking a gift horse in the mouth.

I’ve already wasted enough time on this schmuck. Time to throw him out and get rid of his damn perfect face.

“Asshole,” he snaps, standing like we just brawled on the track, his usual cold attitude snapping right back into place. Dark eyes drilling into me, daring me to react.

My fingers twitch . I could punch him for that smug fucking face alone.

Instead, I shrug, not bothering to move from my sprawled position on the couch. “You got your breakfast. Time for you to fuck off.”

He doesn’t say a word. Probably doesn’t even know what to say.

Good. Don’t need it anyway.

He just flips me off and stomps toward the door like a dumped chick, all wounded pride and bruised ego.

“You taste like shit , Callahan.” And then the door slams so hard it rattles.

What happened here? Meaningless. Just another mistake in a long list of them. I hate that guy. Nothing will change that. I hate the way he looks, the way he acts. The way he loved a little too much sucking on my dick. Okay, he's gay, he’s totally into dicks, but fuck—did he have to look like he was born to do it?

I already regret letting him do it. I had a rule—no hooking up with anyone from the trailer park. If you can even call that hooking up. Just a service, for free.

And now, of course, this is fucked up because I know I’ll see Aphelios at the track, in his midnight blue Mustang, trying to steal my wins.

If he’s gonna race again.

I don’t know what to think. Will he even be able to? If K is right, his car belongs to Hawthorne. And being involved with Thresh Hawthorne is never a good thing. Especially if he skipped the last race.

I finally move toward the bathroom, checking my face in the mirror. I grin. Still a fucking stud. Then my glance falls to the bathroom floor, and I see Aphelios’ torn and blood covered Falling In Reverse shirt. I love that band. They put out some damn good sound.

Unwanted memories flicker in my mind—the way Aphelios looked, stumbling onto my trailer lot in such a pitiful state, all cold and fight gone, panicked. Lost.

He’s always been a pain in my ass, all sharp edges and smug defiance, acting like he’s untouchable on the track. But last night? He looked anything but. Bruised, shirtless, dragging himself through the dirt like a stray dog looking for scraps. It’s not right. Not that I give a shit. Shouldn’t give a shit. But something about it sits wrong in my gut, like bad whiskey burning on the way down.

He’s not supposed to look like this. Aphelios Madden doesn’t lose. He doesn’t back down. He doesn’t show up at my trailer looking like he’s been chewed up and spit out by the world. 

I don’t know why I can’t erase them. It stirs something in me. Something I don’t want. Maybe it’s just hormones, my brain still swimming in the post-haze of a damn good blowjob.

I don’t think. I just grab a pair of sweatpants, tug them on, throw on a sleeveless hoodie—one I know I’ll regret later because it’s gonna be hot as hell today—then lace up my sneakers and lock the trailer behind me.

And for some cursed reason, my feet drag me past my Camaro, still parked safe after a night in the open. Because for some even more cursed reason, I need to follow Aphelios Madden—shirtless, an idiot with an empty stomach looking for his alcoholic sister, probably hungover somewhere.

Maybe it’s because, and this irks the hell out of me, no one else is allowed to touch my rival on the track except me. He’s my problem to deal with. And if Aphelios is out, I’ve got no real opponent. No one worth beating. No one to push me.

I swear to God, Aphelios is my problem to deal with.

I’m the one who’ll crash his midnight blue Mustang into the wall and force his forfeit. Not some homophobic assholes. Not Thresh Hawthorne. Me. Only me.

I catch a glimpse of his shirtless form. And here I am, watching him, following him, like some fucking idiot who actually cares.

I don’t.

I won’t.

But my feet keep moving anyway. At the same moment, my phone buzzes. I pray he hasn’t heard it as I glance at the old Nokia’s screen. Samira.

“Morning, fucker,” she chirps. I already hate her for how bright she sounds, but I love her too. Next to K, she’s my other best confidant. Speaking of K, I need to talk to him sooner rather than later. I was a dick yesterday.

“Sunshine,” I grunt, eyes still on my target. “What do you want?”

“I’m good, thanks for asking, oh my favorite morning person. ” I roll my eyes but smirk. “You good too? Because you sound pissed. Need to blow off some steam? Or get your dick sucked?”

Nope. Not happening. Not telling Samira I just got the best head of my life from Aphelios fucking Madden. At least, not sober. And that’s not why I’m pissed. Actually, I have no real clue why I’m feeling moody.

“Sorry, Sam, just some stuff going on. I’m fine,” I mutter, following Aphelios past the trailer park office, Old Vance’s rusted-out truck sitting in its usual spot.

“That why you asked about Madden’s sister last night?” she asks and I can clearly hear the amusement in her voice. Whatever she’s imagining, she seems entertained. I am not.

Great. Just fucking great.

And I regret that I’ve messaged her.

My fingers must’ve moved on their own when I texted about Alune after Aphelios showed up last night. Not gonna tell her that, though.

“I’ll explain later, Sam. I promise.” And I do—but I’ll need to be drunk again so I can ignore their look when I eventually drop the bomb. “You see her?”

She hums on the other end. “She’s stranded at Winston’s place. I was there visiting Senna—she’s due soon, by the way, her belly is huge. Alune was wasted, mumbling about how her brother was missing, ditched the race, then passed out. Winston took her in. She might still be there.”

The Winstons are nice—a middle-aged couple, Senna and Lucian. Lucian’s a solid guy, works his ass off at the sawmill. They’ve already got a couple of kids, and Senna’s expecting again. Makes sense, I guess, since she works in some school-like system for underdogs like us—no wonder she loves having kids. Still, I can’t wrap my head around how so many people squeeze into that tiny trailer.

“Can I ask you to call them? Just to keep an eye on her?” I say, not really thinking it through.

“Damn, fucker,” Sam giggles in the speaker. “You gonna bang her?”

Out of the question. I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling. She’s infuriating, but I love her anyway.

“Nah, I’ll leave her puss to you, Sam.” I grin, already picturing her face. She’s probably actually considering it. She’s like me, riding on a dual path—but she leans more pan than bi. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not homophobic, just not into trans folks. Sam, though? She likes everything. And that’s good.

Her cackling fills the line.

I’m still following Aphelios. He hasn’t noticed me—yet—when he turns left, heading toward the north side of Navori’s Trailer Park. I stay on his trail. The park is huge, easily big enough to fit a dozen football fields.

“What’s up, Sett? This have anything to do with K’s mood last night?” Sam asks, and I sigh.

“I fucked up with K. I’ll talk to him, I promise, but right—” I stop mid-sentence when I finally spot something.

Aphelios Madden stands frozen in front of a trailer.

If you could even call it that anymore. The thing is falling apart—windows shattered, door barely hanging on, the lot overgrown with weeds. But the worst part? The tags. Slurs scrawled over and over in thick, dark ink. FAGGOT smeared across the walls like someone wanted to make damn sure he saw it. A dick in a heart would’ve almost been funny if it weren’t so fucking disgusting.

“Fucker?” Sam’s voice snaps me out of my disgusted awe.

“Sorry, Sam, some shit’s going on here.” My eyes stay on Aphelios, watching as he struggles to yank the door open. “K’s shop later? I’ll talk to the big guy, then I’ll explain the whole nightmare.”

“Sure thing. See ya later.”

I end the call and step up behind Aphelios. He ignores me, but I know he’s noticed. I mean, I’m built like an ox—there’s no way in hell I go unnoticed.

Considering helping him, I shake my head, my eyes darting back to the slurs. They’re fresh—probably from last night’s shitshow. Nobody deserves to be bullied over their sexuality. Not even the asshole who just managed to force the door open and step inside.

I follow him in, like I’ve been invited.

“You live here?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Aphelios ignores me, slipping into the bathroom without a word.

I take in the trailer, and fuck—it’s bad. Worse than bad. The place isn’t just trashed, it’s barely livable. The cupboards hang open, their contents spilled across the floor. Dishes shattered, food scattered, like someone tore through it looking for anything worth taking. There’s a couch, but it’s so worn down the stuffing is spilling out, metal springs poking through the fabric like ribs through skin. The coffee table in front of it? Split clean in two.

Two doors lead to what I assume are bedrooms, the layout similar to mine. One door is closed. The other is open just enough for me to peek inside. The room is bare—a bunk bed shoved against the wall with nothing but a threadbare plaid blanket. No pillow. No sheets. Clothes are scattered on the floor, and on the wall, what used to be a poster. Or rather, what’s left of it. Torn nearly in half, but I recognize it—a Nascar race from Piltover, probably some limited-run print. This must be Aphelios’.

I knew trailer park life was shit, but this? Compared to this, I’m not living so bad after all.

I barely have time to process it before I hear Aphelios swear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

My feet move on their own, bringing me to the bathroom. Aphelios is kneeling in front of the vanity, face pale, eyes wide, his whole body rigid with panic. “It’s fucking gone!”

“What’s gone?” I ask, even though it’s obvious whatever it is has him spiraling.

“Our savings…” he mumbles.

Yeah, that sucks. “Was it much?” Not that I can do anything about it. And I won’t. It’s not my business. My own savings barely scrape past a grand—just enough to keep Mom and me afloat.

“Barely enough for next month’s loan.”

Aphelios sinks to the floor, ass hitting the tile with a dull thud.

That means it wasn’t much. And yet… I’m starting to wonder how the hell these two even survive. If you can call this survival.

But I’m not an idiot. Madden’s tangled up with Thresh, but this? This isn’t the loan shark’s style. Thresh doesn’t steal. He puts a gun to your head and tells you to pay up or else. This was random. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong people pissed off.

I can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now, but I don’t have to. The way his fingers dig into his jeans, the tension in his jaw—he’s barely keeping it together.

“I need to find my sister…” he grunts, pushing himself up. He brushes past me, shoulder hitting mine like I’m not standing right there.

Could’ve stepped aside. But I didn’t.

“She’s fine.”

That stops him cold. He turns, staring at me like I just performed some kind of damn miracle.

“How do you know?” His voice is sharp, searching—like he already doesn’t believe me.

“I asked Sam. She called me back—your sister’s stranded with the Winstons.” I shrug.

Aphelios’ expression shifts, like some invisible weight just lifted off his shoulders. But he still looks like fished out of some trashbin—dark denim torn and stained, still shirtless and bruised with dark blue and yellowish-green. I truly don’t like what I’m seeing.

He mumbles something I can’t catch, probably an apology he doesn’t want me to hear. Piece of shit. Instead, he says, “You can leave now, Callahan. I’ve seen enough of your ugly face.”

I don’t budge. But if he thinks he’ll get rid of me that easily, he’s in for a rude awakening. Even if I don’t know why I’m still here. I could be spending my Sunday doing literally anything else.

And, oh, he’s pissed. Annoyance clearly plastered all above his face.

Not that I expected him to throw himself at my feet in gratitude for help he didn’t ask for but clearly needed. The idiot would rather choke than admit it. The way he’s trying to push me out, refusing to let me linger—his pride won’t let him. It’s almost funny.

No. What’s funny is how damn stubborn he is.

I huff a laugh, leaning against the counter and pushing one of the open drawers closed with my hip. Crossing my arms, I fill my lungs. “And what exactly are you doing, asshole? Getting her back and returning to your…” I wave a hand vaguely around the trashed interior. “Well, I don’t know what you call this… place?”

I don’t say home. That word doesn’t fit.

Aphelios snaps, rage contorting his perfect face—except for the cut over his temple. “Shut up, Callahan! Since you seem so confident about my situation, then tell me—what the hell am I supposed to do? At least I still have a roof over my head!”

My eyes roll to the ceiling. Can this really be considered a roof? It looks more like a colander when I see moisture stains in practically every corner.

Aphelios must sense what I'm thinking, because he comes closer, straightening his shoulders, angrier than a stampeding boar. However much he tries to look imposing, he's still a few inches shorter than me.

“Get lost!” he yells. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

I don’t move. His fingers twitch—then his knuckles connect with my jaw. It fucking hurts. I’m actually surprised he had the guts to lash out. It’s not the first time, though. Casual talking isn’t our thing. We don’t give a shit about the weather or shopping. We communicate with our cars and our fists—whatever mood we’re in. And when I have to see his face? Bad. I’m usually the one with the short fuse—my fists are always itching for a fight. Madden? Not so much. He's more the responsive type—you give, he gives back. It’s rare for him to start a brawl.

“Feeling better?” I ask, ignoring the sting and keeping my eyes locked on him. Usually, I’d punch back without hesitation. Maybe he needs it, and even I can’t blame him. I’ll allow him this misstep—just this one.

He pulls back to throw another punch, but I catch his fist midair. He tries again with the other, but I stop that one too. And suddenly, he’s too damn close—so close that an image from this morning flashes in my mind. His lips around my dick. Those dark eyes glazed over.

Heat pulses low in my stomach, and I don’t like that reminder. I’m about to let go of his hands, but I won’t. There’s no way I flinch away and show him hesitation that could turn back on me.

“Let me go, Callahan,” he seethes, struggling in my grip. He looks like he wants to kill me.

“No.” I hold the stare, unwilling to back down. Don’t ask me what I’m doing—I don’t fucking know either. Nothing made a damn sense, I swear. “You’re not in your right state of mind.”

“Of course I’m not!” Aphelios snaps, voice cracking with misery. “My life’s shit, and we’re more broken than this shitty trailer. Actually, it’s not even worth liv—”

That pisses me off and I see red, driving my knee into his gut before he can finish that sentence. He grunts and stumbles back, but I don’t give him a chance to catch his breath, throwing myself at him. I don’t give a shit that he’s already injured. His desperation makes me sick with rage. This time, it’s my fist that collides with his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

“The hell, Madden?” I shout, barely containing myself as I shove his pitiful ass to the ground, furious. He’s such a whiny bitch, and it makes me sick to see just how disappointed I actually am.

I mean, we’re all damned to work our asses off and live a shit life. Welcome to the community in trailer park—we don’t get jackpots, just another day barely scraping by. But we don’t give up. At least, I won’t.

But this asshole? Right now, he’s giving off the vibe that he doesn’t even want a tomorrow. Like the relentless drive I’ve always known in him just up and vanished. Like he’s lost his fight for anything.

And it’s driving me fucking crazy.

He struggles, but I ignore the fact that I’m straddling his hips to keep him down. I want to punch him again, but I don’t. Instead, I clench my fists, force myself to breathe through the anger, and wrap one hand around his throat to keep him in check.

“You’re giving up without a fight?” I growl. “You’re a fucking coward!”

His face flushes red, veins bulging in his hands as he claws at my arm, trying to pry me off. His heels slam against the floor, knees jerking to hit my back, but I shift my weight—he’s got nothing on me. He tries to buck me off, twisting his hips, but I’m heavier, stronger.

Now it’s my turn to glare him down. He’s so fucking close. I can feel the frantic rise and fall of his bare chest, see the sharp lines of his nose, the curve of his lips, his clenched jaw. Every damn dimples.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and something about them unsettles me.

The fierceness from before—it’s fading. His grip on my wrist slackens.

My gut twists.

“What the hell are you waiting for, Madden?!” I yell, my voice cracking with frustration.

“I can’t fight a fucking debt over thirty grand with a shitty librarian job, an alcoholic sister, and not even a damn car to race!” he shouts back, angrily.

But the anger—it's not just rage anymore. It’s breaking apart, crumbling into something raw and ugly. Desperation. His voice shakes, and I swear—he’s… crying?

The hell? Aphelios fucking Madden is crying.

His arms slump to the ground, like he’s got nothing left to hold himself together. And I'm shocked, not really knowing if it's because of what I'm seeing or what I've just heard.

“Thirty thousand?” The number punches through my skull like a sledgehammer. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He’s got to be lying. He has to be. “How the hell did you screw yourself over like that, Madden?”

He flinches, averting his gaze when he tilts his head to the side. “Not me,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “My parents did.”

Something in my chest twists. My grip on his throat loosens—just an inch—but it’s enough. Aphelios shoves me off, and I let him. I don’t even react. I don’t know why.

But when I see him sit up, shoulders hunched, arms limp over his knees, I feel something almost like relief. He hasn’t given up entirely. Not yet. But he’s about.

So I shift back, sit against the cupboard, and just watch him.

Half-naked, shaking, fingers curled into his dark hair like he wants to rip it out. Tears streaking his face, breath uneven.

I’m trying to process the bomb he just dropped.

The fuck?

Money. It doesn’t bring happiness, but it sure as hell decides who gets to stay afloat and who drowns. And thirty grand? That’s not just debt—that’s a goddamn sentence.

I know numbers. I can do math. But this isn’t just some number. It’s a weight. A chain. A pit so deep you can’t see the bottom.

I don’t even know what to say.

This isn’t like paying off the lot’s loan or stocking up the fridge. This is different.

If it were me, I’d be panicking—wondering how long it would take to pay off, what I’d have to sacrifice. What would happen to Mom? Would I start resenting every hour I worked, knowing a huge chunk of my paycheck would vanish into a debt that wasn’t even mine? 

No way I’m selling my Camaro.

I mean, she’s my babe—that’s reason enough. But more than that, she’s barely a car at this point. She’s held together by more duct tape and prayers than actual metal. I got her for a few bucks and worked my ass off just to make her drivable again. She’s not worth much anymore—except to me.

And then, it clicks, hitting me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

I start to understand the misery Aphelios is trying to exist in. The weight pressing down on him. The slow, creeping surrender.

The want to give up.

“You must be disappointed.” His voice is barely there, wrecked and hollow but enough to draw my attention.

He lets out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half something bitter. “Well, sorry, not sorry. But this is my life. Or whatever the fuck you wanna call it.”

It’s worse than eating bad cow and being a shit lightning rod. Some people are just born under the worst possible star, and Aphelios? He got the shittiest draw in the universe. Nobody would willingly trade places with him. Not for a second.

I rub the back of my neck, still trying to process it. Thirty-thousand . No— over thirty-thousand. It’s a number so heavy it makes my stomach twist, like I’m the one drowning in debt.

“What happened yesterday?” My voice comes out rough, not because I’m pissed—though, yeah, I kinda am—but because this whole thing just doesn’t sit right with me.

Aphelios is slumped forward, arms resting on his knees, eyes glued to the floor. He doesn’t speak at first, and when he finally does, his voice is stiff, his jaw tight. He won’t look at me. Shame, I guess.

“I was late to get the car.” His fingers twitch against the fabric of his jeans, and I can tell there’s more, but I hold my tongue. Let him get there. “I ran into some dealers—wrong place, wrong time. They weren’t happy to see me. Beat the hell out of me. By the time I woke up, I was already too late. The garage was locked, and the Mustang was behind closed doors.”

I exhale through my nose, feeling that same itch in my fists that never really goes away. He’s talking like it was just a shitty inconvenience—like he missed a bus or something. But I can see the bruises, the way he keeps shifting like his ribs ache.

“It’s Hawthorne’s car, right?” I ask, and for once, I keep my voice even. No point kicking him when he’s already down.

His eyes flicker to mine for half a second before he nods. “That’s the deal. His car, my race, and I chip away at the debt. Check-in time at the garage—doors open, I get the keys. Only rule? Be on time. Another? I scratch or crash the car, I pay for it.” A bitter smirk barely ghosts across his face before disappearing. “Anyway, I wasn’t on time. So I came back to find Alune, but she wasn’t home. I ended up here instead, and… well. You can imagine the rest.”

I can. Too well.

“You got cornered by those homophobic assholes,” I mutter, jaw tightening at the memory of last night. “Didn’t even know you were gay, Madden. How did they?”

His whole body tenses. His lips press into a thin, bloodless line. He looks anywhere but at me.

Yeah. He doesn’t want to answer that.

I let it drop, not prodding. Whatever he does with his dick is his problem, not mine. Maybe he should just be more careful next time.

Sighing, I drag a hand down my face. I don’t even know why I’m still here. This whole mess is shocking enough, but what’s even worse is the absolute bullshit coming out of my own mouth in the next seconds. “Pack your things. You’re staying at my place.”

The second the words leave me, I freeze. Aphelios freezes too. We just…stare at each other. What the hell am I doing?

His brows furrow, like he’s trying to figure out if he misheard me. “Are you pitying me, Callahan?”

Am I pitying him? I don’t think so. It’s just that imagining the next races without a midnight-blue Mustang taunting me on the dirt track doesn’t sit right. It’s stupidly fucked to think like that, but Aphelios has been a constant thorn in my side—one I have to admit has fueled my determination to drive. To push myself harder.

He’s the twisted carrot, and I’m the hungry horse.

Aphelios is my rival on the track. No one’s taking him away before I get the chance to kick his ass on the podium again. 

Not even himself. If I have to drag Madden out by the collar, so be it.

“God, spare me. Someone should pity me for putting up with your plain face and empty brain,” I mutter, still trying to process what the hell is happening—still failing to stop the words from spilling out. “You need to get your ass out of this shithole, Madden. Tell Old Vance you’re moving out, save some damn money, and talk to Hawthorne. Try to get your spot back.”

Aphelios lets out a bitter scoff. “Yeah, because Hawthorne’s just gonna forgive and forget. Let me back in like nothing happened.”

“You don’t know that,” I shrug, like this whole thing isn’t making my stomach twist, especially his bare chest. “But that loan shark wants his money, and the only way you’re getting it is by racing. Or are you hiding some kind of miraculous back-up up your nonexistent sleeve?”

Silence. Of course, he doesn’t have a plan. His back’s against the wall, and he should just take the damn offer. Which, honestly, I already regret—but I’m not the kind of guy who takes back his word that easily.

Then, without a word, Aphelios gets up and drags himself toward the bedroom. I stand and follow, like some dumbass stray dog, watching as he starts grabbing clothes and stuffing them into a battered backpack.

“Why are you helping me?” His voice is quiet, but his hands don’t stop moving. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps his head down, fingers curling tight around the fabric of a worn-out hoodie like he’s half-expecting me to change my mind.

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorway, watching as he shoves more clothes into that old, battered EastPak—his entire life reduced to faded fabric and broken zippers. His movements are tense, shoulders drawn in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The bruises mottling his ribs shift with every breath, dark smudges against pale skin, and I wonder if it hurts when he moves like that, so stiffly, so careful. So not Aphelios Madden at all.

“You owe me a race, asshole.” The words come easy, like muscle memory. It’s the safest excuse I can give, the one that keeps me from thinking too hard about why I’m actually here.

But fuck me—I’m still standing here, watching him. Watching the way his knuckles blanch around the strap of that bag, the way his jaw tenses when he exhales, the way his whole damn existence fits into something that looks one bad stitch away from falling apart.

---

Aphelios Madden

Can you believe I’ll be squatting my loathed rival’s trailer? Because I sure as hell can’t. Shit. Of all people, Sett Callahan is the last person I’d want witnessing me at rock bottom, let alone helping me. And yet, fate—being the cruel, twisted bitch she is—decided to serve up my miserable life on a platter directly to him.

I’m so screwed.

I could’ve avoided this. All I had to do was open my damn mouth, shove him away, tell him to fuck off. But I didn’t. And I don’t know why.

Logically, I get it—his help came at just the right time. He was there, offering his hand, even though I could see how much he hated doing it. So why did I accept? Because I want to watch him struggle with lowering himself to my level? Or because I actually need the help?

Not that it matters. It’s not like I have anything left to lose.

Nothing to gain, either.

Except maybe a chronic headache and a future ulcer.

A Callahan and a Madden under the same roof. This will be the death of me. I’m honestly shocked we survived the first night. But there’s no way this lasts.

And I have to remember this morning. My stomach is making summersault and blood pulses right down my groin. Again.

I expected him to push me away, to be disgusted. Not just because I’m gay, but because of what I’ve proposed to do. What I’ve done. I literally got down on my knees for Sett fucking Callahan and sucked him off like a desperate animal.

And it was damn good.

Even now, his taste lingers on my tongue, sharp and masculine, and I fucking blush. In my wildest, most ridiculous dreams, I never imagined he’d taste this good. Never imagined he’d fuck my mouth like that—like he couldn’t help himself. And the worst part? I wanted it. I wanted to grind against him, get myself off, lose myself in it completely.

Of course, some pathetic survival instinct kept me from pushing too far. Since I’ve already crossed a line I shouldn’t have.

But there’s still that sliver of hope.

That impossible, stupid hope that maybe— maybe —it could happen again.

Sett liked it. That’s undeniable. His rival had his mouth on him, and he came down my throat. Undisputed.

I sigh. There’s no point in dwelling on it. I’m the one with a crush on Sett, not the other way around. If he came, it’s not because of me—it’s just biology. I’m a man, I know how we work. I know exactly where to press my tongue on a dick, how much pressure to use, how to make it feel good . In the end, it was just a reaction.

Sett isn’t gay, after all.

“What’s with you, Sweet Tooth?” Alune’s voice pulls me back, and I finally tear my gaze away from the sea to meet her knowing stare. Her lips curl in that familiar, mischievous way—like she already knows exactly what’s on my mind.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but there’s no bite to it.

She’s called me that since we were kids, all because of my love for pastries. They used to say my eyes would sparkle every time I ate something sweet, and Alune latched onto the name like a secret joke between us. Too bad it’s rare I get to eat anything that isn’t stale bread or overcooked saltless pasta these days.

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” she teases, her grin widening as I mirror her expression, remembering some rare good times. “And judging by the way your face is heating up, I’d say you must’ve tasted something real good recently.”

I freeze. Blushing? No way.

…Okay, maybe.

But she doesn’t need to know if it’s because of Sett or the pastry he gave me.

"Don't fuck with me."

I look away, pretending to find interest in the way my hole-ridden sneakers sink into the sand. Each grain scrapes against my bare toes, a faint irritation I focus on instead of her . I’m not even wearing socks. But at least I managed to grab one of my shirts.

“I’m not blushing,” I murmur.

Alune bursts out laughing, and before I can flinch away, she lifts a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from my face. Her fingers are cool, gentle—lingering just a second too long near the wound on my temple.

“No, it’s true," she muses. "You got beat and missed a race. By all logic, you should be on the brink. But right now? You look like a lovesick damsel, like the most beautiful thing in the world just happened to you.”

I roll my eyes. Hard. So hard my head throbs.

I’m not about to admit she’s right. That I slept in Callahan’s bed. That I sucked him off and got hard again in less than thirty minutes. That I woke up to the best morning of my life, forgetting—for just a moment—about the shitshow of Saturday and the race I missed. Forgetting my entire damn situation.

My stomach twists, looping itself into knots as I remember the way he cared . The way he touched my wounds. Touched me . He didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge me for being gay.

And that’s not good.

I can’t let this stupid crush fester into something worse, but I can’t get his smug face out of my head. It sucks. I thought getting away, spending time with Alune, would clear my mind. But the waves aren’t drowning out shit.

After dropping off what little I own at Sett’s place, he took off in his Camaro and left me stranded. I wasn’t about to just stand there in a house I knew I wasn’t wanted in. And I had to find Alune.

Except Sett took care of that too.

And I never even asked him to. But I’m glad he did.

So I went to pick up my sister from the Winstons, thanked them for watching over Alune, and ignored their pitying looks. I needed a change of scenery.

On the way to the beach near Navori’s Trailer Park, we took a detour to avoid the docks while I filled Alune in on what had happened—the reason I missed the race. I left out any mention of Sett and the help I accepted.

The help I accepted.

I know I needed it. I took it out of desperation. But I didn’t think beyond that moment, and now it’s sinking in. My brain must be fried, because even if this makes things easier for me , there’s still Alune —who’s soon to be homeless.

I haven’t talked to old Vance yet. But Sett’s right: even if staying at his place is temporary, at least it buys me time. Lets me save something .

We have nothing left.

Alune doesn’t show it like I do. Outwardly, she’s even more indifferent than me. But I know, deep down, she’s hurting just as much. That’s the only reason she indulges in a life of fleeting comforts, letting whoever pays distract her from the reality we’re drowning in. Like me, she’s lost beneath the surface.

I hesitate before speaking. “Someone offered me a way out of this mess,” I start slowly, dragging my finger through the sand, tracing a mindless circle as I try to steady myself. Careful. Don’t let her know who. “I’m going to talk to Hawthorne. Ask him to let me keep racing.”

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Alune mutters, the sharp edge of her voice cutting through the salty air, her previous amusement vanishing.

I can’t even blame her. The thought of begging that bastard makes my stomach turn.

“I know, but my salary alone isn’t enough to keep us afloat, Alune. I need to race.” I sigh, forcing myself not to bring up her joblessness. “If I can find us a place to stay for free—or at least for less than what we’re paying now—I can go to old Vance and ask him to sell the plot. We won’t make much, but at least we can put something away instead of bleeding money on rent every month.”

Alune watches me for a beat before catching a lock of her colorful hair between her fingers, twisting it into a braid. She does that when she’s thinking—when she’s lost in her own thoughts, just as negative as mine. I can’t blame her. I just told her we’re probably going to lose our home and that I might not come back alive from facing Thresh Hawthorne. Well, I didn’t exactly say that, but I know she’s thinking it.

She keeps braiding, then finally asks, “And do you have an idea?”

I hesitate. Yeah, I have an idea. Sort of. And knowing my sister, she’s not going to like it.

My eyes drift over her hair, noticing she’s got even more multicolored braids than before. I should’ve noticed sooner. I should be there for her more, but I can barely deal with my own shit, and the weight of my guilt keeps me from being the brother she deserves. She’s like that because of me after all. She saw something she shouldn’t have.

And right now, the only idea I have? It isn’t finding us a place to live together . It’s pushing her to stay with someone else—somewhere safe—while I figure out the rest. 

“I was planning to ask Aurora if you could crash at her place until things settle down and I get the car back,” I say, bracing myself for the inevitable pushback.

“I’m not going to her place.” Her voice is firm, final.

I exhale through my nose, not at all surprised. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about me.” She looks away, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. “Sell the plot. I’ll figure something out. But I’m not staying with Aurora.”

“She loves you, Alune.” The words come out sharper than I intend, frustration creeping in. “Why are you pushing her away?”

She sighs, long and tired. “Phel.”

“Seriously, answer me.” I lean in, refusing to let this slide. “What’s the problem?”

She hesitates, then finally says, “What can I offer her?” She gestures vaguely at herself, her voice quiet but cutting. “I spread my thighs for anyone who’ll pay fun for a good night. I drown myself in alcohol just to forget. I don’t have a job. And now I find out I’m about to be homeless. How do you expect me to feel about Aurora? I’m a fucking mess. She deserves better.”

“She doesn’t seem to care,” I say with a shrug, keeping my gaze steady on her.

Alune laughs—hollow, bitter. “Maybe she should.”

A silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant crash of waves.

This is our life. We’re dogs. We don’t expect a future.

After everything that happened, Alune and I dropped out of the school our parents paid good money for, where we were supposed to learn how to function in society. What a joke. School doesn’t teach you how to survive when you don’t have a diploma to land a job. It doesn’t teach you how to scrape by when you’re drowning in debt with no way out.

If Living Happily had been a course, I would have signed up in a heartbeat. But no, all I remember is sitting through useless math theorems and literature classes that debated whether God exists. Blasphemy.

I don’t expect anything from life—just enough strength to wake up, drag myself to the bookstore, and barely make enough to keep going.

If I could afford a dream—if I had the luxury to want something—it would be to see my sister happy. I know she’s not indifferent to Aurora’s feelings. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. Those glances say everything.

But in our situation, I get why she won’t let herself have that. We’re already burdens. Why drag someone else down with us?

Still, I hope—just a little—that she’ll let herself go, in the right way. But her mind and emotions are wrecked. And I’m trying to take on as much as I can for both of us, but I’m falling apart too.

Dreams like a stable life, even in this community, are too expensive for people like us.

Alune turns the tables on me. “And you ? Where are you staying?”

I should’ve seen that coming. Alune has a way of deflecting when she doesn’t want to talk about herself, and she knows I can’t ignore a direct question.

My eyes drift back to the sea, the sun hanging high in a cloudless sky. The water glistens, waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic laps. A few people are scattered along the shore, their laughter carried by the breeze. It’s a beautiful day, but my chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe right.

I sigh, finally turning back to face her.

"Callahan’s..." I mumble, and the moment Alune’s eyes widen, I know I should have kept my damn mouth shut. The nagging grimace returns to her lips, sharp and unforgiving. But at least it pulls her out of that dark cloud in her mind.

“Sett fucking Callahan is the one who swooped in to save your ass?” She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I don’t answer her.

“Phel, seriously?” She pushes, shifting on her knees to face me, her eyes alight with a curiosity that makes my skin crawl. “Your crush just happens to show up on the road and offers to be your knight in shining armor?”

“He’s not my fucking crush,” I mutter, but my mind betrays me, flicking back to images of Sett—hard in his briefs, barely contained. Then, pouring his cum into my throat. Sweaty. Breathless. And I try not to think about his freaking hot body.

Alune practically doubles over, howling with laughter like a lunatic.

“Oh, come on ,” she cackles. “You expect me to believe that? The sexual tension between you two is unbearable.”

“Fuck off,” I snap, my voice cold and gape at her. Is it too much to ask for her to focus on her own shitty crush instead of dragging me into this conversation I don’t want to have?

But Alune isn’t getting it. “I’m serious! It’s like watching two wolves ready to tear each other apart. Every time, I can’t help imagining you naked, fighting it out—dicks out, no brakes, just—”

“ Shut up! ” I cut her off, my stomach twisting in disgust.

“Oh, please .” She smirks, waggling her eyebrows. “You know there’s a very thin line between love and hate, right? And the way he devours you with his eyes every time? Phel, I swear, it makes me wet just thinking about it.”

I flinch at that. My sister—my fucking twin—getting off on my misery. She’s out of her mind with this twisted kink. Her stupid, antagonistic voyeurism. I know people like that exist, but hell, I never wanted my sex life—or lack of one—to be her dirty fantasy. Too late, obviously.

Actually, it’s not even her fantasy that unsettles me the most. It’s the reminder that whatever she hopes should unfold between Sett and me is never going to happen. We could never be a thing, and I really need to get that through my thick skull. But my stupid heart still clings to some delusion of a happily ever after.

Sett doesn’t want me. He wants to destroy me. That’s the only reason he’s here and helping me to get back behind a wheel. He hates me, and he proves it every time he hits the track, gunning for me like a wolf locked on its prey. And I won’t deny it—he’s good. Arrogant as hell, but good.

But fuck if I ever admit that out loud.

“So, what really happened between you that made you accept his help?” Alune presses, and she has more obstinate determination than anyone I know. 

“Nothing…” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Because if something did happen, it didn’t mean anything. “He offered, and I accepted, like a stupid idiot.”

She stares at me, skeptical. She isn’t speaking, but her dark eyes bore into me, demanding the truth. Our eyes are nearly identical, but hers have a touch of grey that makes them softer somehow—deceptively gentle.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I growl.

“I don’t believe you, Phel.” She laughs, that knowing, taunting lilt in her voice. “You’re blushing. Something happened. Spill.”

Of course something happened. And the moment the images flash in my mind, I can feel the heat rising in my body again, dragging blood from my brain straight to my crotch. I’m cursed. No way in hell will I ever be able to erase this from my head.

“I gave him head…” I finally admit, maybe to satisfy her curiosity, maybe just to say it out loud—to make it real.

“You what ?” Her eyes widen, mouth agape. Yeah, don’t worry, sis, I still can’t believe it either. The fact that I’m still breathing after it is a miracle.

“I sucked him off,” I say, and gods, I must really be deranged to be telling her this. “I was about to leave and he was still sleeping. He had a damn wood in his briefs. It was… an incredible sight.” I swallow. “He caught me staring and so I offered to help out, kind of. Figured if he beat me to a pulp for my audacity, well… that’d be fair.”

“And he accepted ?” she practically screeches, giddy like a damn schoolgirl.

I nod.

“How was it?” she asks, her eyes sparkling now.

I hesitate, but the memory slips out of me in a breath. The memory of my lips around his thick prick, my tongue lapping along its taunt underside is still vivid. “Better than I imagined.” I feel the corner of my lips twitch—gods help me, but I smile .

“That’s hot, Sweet Tooth.” She grins at me like she’s already crafting some filthy fanfiction in her head. “He must’ve been so dazzled by your talents, he’s falling head over heels for you.”

In your dreams, Alune. I’m not fooled.

I’m not blind. Because I can see his looks. The way he’s always looking at her than me. He’d rather screw my sister than find any interest in me. If he hasn’t yet, maybe it’s just because we’re Maddens. Period. And this morning? Just a favor. Nothing more. No meaning behind it.

And if I had to justify it? I’m broke. He helped me tonight. I thanked him the only way I could. Maybe my mouth is my best currency.

Thinking that what happened has no meaning doesn’t sit right with me. But before I start spiraling, I need to clear my mind.

With something.

Something I don’t want to do—but have to. The sooner, the better.

“That’s enough. I’m off.” I push myself up, brushing the sand off my jeans. Some of it slips through the rips, gritty and uncomfortable. I shake my legs out, trying to get rid of the worst of it. I should clean up before I head to my new home —assuming I make it there in one piece.

I glance down at my twin one last time. “Think it over and go talk to Aurora. Crash at her place for a few days until I figure this shit out.”

Alune’s gaze darkens. The look stings, and I hate that I’m being selfish. But we don’t have many people to turn to. We can count our friends on one hand. Aurora won’t refuse to help, not for a few days, but that doesn’t mean it’s fair to dump our problems onto her.

Alune says nothing. Just turns her gaze to the ocean.

I sigh and drag my feet through the sand.

I’m starving. I think my sister is too. Though I doubt the Winstons would have let her go hungry—they’re good people, after all.

So it’s just me and my hunger. The hope that Alune will listen. The fact that I still have no real solution for her. And the cold, twisting fear in my gut as I head toward the docks.

Thresh Hawthorne territory.

I hate to admit it, but Sett was right about so much . I should be ashamed. I haven’t even tried to find out if I’m still allowed to drive the Mustang. And if Hawthorne really wasn’t after the money, then I should already be dead.

It’s ridiculous that I’m about to grovel to the man who made my life hell. After my parents, of course.

But if Hawthorne refuses me—then everything I’m about to do is pointless. 

I need this car. Not just to make Sett’s life on the trailer park’s track a living hell—but because I depend on it.

Something he probably doesn’t know. I’m competing in two more races. The victory bonus is smaller—barely two hundred and fifty bucks—but it’s better than nothing. They run every last Friday of the month, and I always take first place. Every single time.

It’s not because Callahan isn’t there. It’s because these races are on tarmac . And that’s what I’m built for.

I’m so damn sure of my skill that if I ever have to race Sett on the smooth roads, the only thing he’ll see is my Mustang’s ass. He likes dust, after all.

Without realizing it, my feet carry me straight to the docks. I immediately regret it.

Hawthorne’s boys are already looking at me. Staring. Sizing me up like a pack of half-starved mutts that just caught the scent of something bleeding.

My stomach clenches, but I force myself to keep moving, gaze locked on the cracked concrete beneath my feet. I know where I have to go. I don’t need to look around, don’t need to meet their eyes, don’t need to get involved in whatever shady shit is going down today.

I have enough of my own problems. Still, I can feel their attention crawling over my skin. The heavy silence is worse than if they’d just heckle me outright.

A few yards ahead, two of them lean into each other, muttering. One nods, then peels off toward the warehouse. I don’t need to be a genius to know what that means.

He’s gone to warn the boss.

I stop in my tracks. I’m not stepping inside that place alone. I may be desperate, but I’m not stupid . The last thing I need is to get a bullet in my gut just for showing up uninvited.

The air here is thick—salty, metallic, tainted with the lingering stink of gasoline and something rotting . Probably fish. Or bodies. Not my business.

Years ago, this place was alive. Tourists docking their yachts, rich assholes sipping champagne on their decks, fishermen offloading their hauls in the early mornings. But all that died when the owner went bankrupt.

Now the docks belong to Thresh Hawthorne. A few rusting boats still bob in the water, but they aren’t there for leisure. They’re there for business . For moving things in and out of the city across the waters.

And whatever Hawthorne’s got his hands in? It’s definitely not legal.

But none of that matters right now.

I just need my— Hawthorne’s car.

The lack of tourists isn’t just because of the scum lurking around. When you hear gang feuds and gunshots in the distance, you don’t come here. You don’t even think about it. Unless you have to.

Like me.

I stand there, waiting. Stomach twisted so tight it feels like it might snap. The kind of fear that makes you want to die just to get it over with. Makes you want to puke, even though there’s nothing in your gut to bring up.

My palms are clammy. My shirt sticks to my back, sweat gathering in places I don’t want to think about. But I have to keep my cool.

No weakness. Weakness means they’ll sniff it out. And once they do? They’ll see me as something to use. I refuse to get tangled in whatever the fuck Hawthorne’s got going on.

I’m here for one reason—to get the car back and pay my debt. That’s it.

I know I screwed up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hawthorne wants something extra in return. He doesn’t care that it wasn’t my fault.

At best, I walk out of here with a bullet in my head. At worst…

No. I’m not going there. I’d rather— fuck , I’d rather sell my damn soul and suck dicks for cash than get pulled into his shady business.

I mean, come on . I screwed up once . How the hell does that already warrant a death sentence?

But who the fuck am I to wish for anything?

Footsteps yank me from my thoughts. I tear my gaze away from the coastline—the peaceful side of the city, the side where normal people live—and turn to see the guy who went to warn Hawthorne.

He looks like a walking threat.

Not dirty in the wrong way, but he’s got that look . Square jaw, unshaven face full of scars, the kind of dead-eyed stare that says he’s done worse than just rough people up. The kind of guy you don’t want to be friends with.

And when I catch the pistol handle sticking out of the waistband of his jeans, my throat tightens.

“Boss is ready to see you, you disappointment,” he grumbles.

Yeah, hi, nice to see you too, asshole. I keep my retort to myself. The last thing I need is to be this guy’s personal punching bag. Instead, I just nod and follow him inside.

Fuck. I really don’t want to be here.

Following the guy inside the main building—let’s call him Jerry, because he has the kind of face that has to be a Jerry, don’t ask me why—I try to keep my dread buried beneath something useful. Like focus. Like not wanting to run away.

The warehouse isn’t a real warehouse. It’s a glorified storage unit, a boat repair house that reeks of rust, salt, and fuel. The floor is slick in some places, dark stains bleeding into the concrete, and stacks of crates line the walls, their contents hidden beneath heavy tarpaulins. A boat sits abandoned on a rusting scaffold, untouched for years. A jagged hole in the hull exposes its hollow, rotting interior.

It hasn’t changed since the last time I was here.

Since everything began.

Since Thresh Hawthorne pressed a fake driver’s license into my palm with a grin sharp enough to carve me open and told me I had two choices—drive or die. And leave Alune in his hands.

Back then, I’d never even been behind the wheel of a car. And fuck , you can imagine the panic of being shoved into the driver’s seat of a souped-up Mustang worth more than my entire existence, told to floor it . 

But I had no other choice. So I gritted my teeth and swore that if I was going to survive this, Alune would be off-limits . Especially after what he did.

To us.

To me.

Hawthorne agreed, oddly enough. But he’s not a man you ever trust.

The start was brutal—I lost my first race, then the next, and the ones after that. Learning to drive is one thing, especially shitting myself to scratch the car. Competing against faster, more experienced racers is another. The car wasn’t the problem—I was. But I had no choice. I kept racing, swallowing my frustration with every loss.

Then, one day, I finally made it onto the podium. There was no prize money—those Friday races only paid for first place. But standing on that third-place podium lit a fire in me. The next month, I took first place. Finally.

Two hundred and fifty dollars I never even touched—Hawthorne took it before I could.

But I trusted myself and it seems I got the kick for it. For two years straight, I dominated every tarmac race... Driving became my second nature. I’m skilled at it. But I never enjoyed it. I would never. Because the six thousand dollars I earned in two years barely made a dent in my debt.

Until Hawthorne challenged me to race on the dirt track. The day I met Sett Callahan’s arrogant personality.

The metal staircase creaks under our steps, every sound grinding against my nerves. I feel like I’m climbing to my own execution.

At the top, there’s a door. Jerry knocks once. A deep voice calls out, smooth but laced with impatience. "Come in."

Jerry turns to me, his head tilting ever so slightly. A silent go ahead.

My body refuses.

I don’t piss myself, but I get close . If Callahan saw me right now, I’d be his laughingstock. My feet root to the floor, my stomach twists, and my eyes dart to the gun at Jerry’s hip. His scowl deepens.

I gulp. Swallow down whatever’s clogging my throat and force my hand to push the door open. I step inside Thresh Hawthorne's office, and Jerry slams the door shut. I almost flinch, my heart beating way too fast for my liking.

And I don’t know what to think of the place.

The office is larger than anyone expected, but somehow smaller than it should feel.

Maybe it’s the way the sunlight filters weakly through the grimy windows, failing to chase away the thick stench of stale cigars and dust clinging to the walls. Or maybe it’s just him .

Thresh Hawthorne sits behind a desk made of dark wood, battered at the edges, cluttered with paperwork that I doubt he actually reads. The only thing pristine about it is the gun lying within arm’s reach. Polished. Loaded. Waiting.

The man himself is built like a predator that long ago learned it doesn’t need to chase its prey—it just waits. Sunlight spills through the windows, glinting off the aviator glasses perched on his nose, obscuring his eyes but not the weight of his gaze. The light sharpens the angles of his face, emphasizing the cut of his cheekbones and the cruel line of his mouth. His hair is slicked back, gray at the temples, and his suit, though tailored, has a looseness to it, like he’s just comfortable enough to not give a damn.

He leans back in his chair, eyes dragging over me like I’m an insect he’s debating whether to crush. I can’t help but swallow the thick lump in my dry throat.

"So." His voice is all gravel and slow amusement. "You’ve got some nerve showing your face here, kid. "

Kid? I’m fucking twenty-three ! My stomach twists, but I stand my ground.

"I came to get the car back." My voice is hoarse. Too dry.

Hawthorne exhales a laugh, the kind that makes my skin crawl. He taps his fingers against the desk, deliberate. It only makes my pulse race even more.

"The car? Oh, that’s rich. After the stunt you pulled?" His expression darkens. "You’re lucky to be breathing right now."

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

His chair creaks as he leans forward, eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Madden—what makes you think you deserve another shot?"

I swallow hard. My pulse thuds in my ears. 

I want to scream what’s really on my mind. The words are crystal clear in my head, but it’s hard to stay grounded. That being late wasn’t my fault—some gangs were stirring up trouble in his territory and beat the shit out of me. That keeping me behind the wheel of that damn Mustang only makes him richer, keeps his name circulating. Because he’s my damn forced sponsor, and everyone knows it. And I’ve never screwed up. Not once. Not since he made me drive.

I just want to scream the truth about that fucked-up Saturday.

"I won’t mess up again." It’s barely above a whisper. Because I have no right to blame Hawthorne—it’ll only backfire. Because if I don’t drive, I’m nothing. Because if I don’t drive, I don’t survive.

Hawthorne watches me behind his aviator glasses, the silence stretching too long. I wish I could see his eyes, could read even a fraction of what he’s thinking. But then he just clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Words are cheap. Prove it."

He gestures lazily with one hand. "Strip."

Cold rushes through me like a shock to the system, freezing my limbs in place. My feet won’t move. My brain won’t work. My breath stutters, caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Did I mishear him? My lips part, dry and useless, before I manage to force out a strangled, staring at Hawthorne like a deer caught in the headlights. "What?"

"You heard me. Get those clothes off ." He picks up his gun, running his fingers along the barrel like it’s just an afterthought. "Or I’ll do it for you."

I feel myself start to shake. The past crashes into me, suffocating. A past I want to forget at all cost. The same man but a different room, a different command, a different threat—

And Alune. Her panicked face, her voice screaming my name and her tears staining her cheeks. Her helplessness during that very moment.

I force myself to breathe. I force myself to move. Every instinct in me is screaming to run, to drag my feet toward the door and bolt like my life depends on it—because it does. But if I do, what happens to Alune? Can I really outrun Thresh Hawthorne? Outrun a bullet?

I don’t know what’s worse: knowing what’s coming next, or the weight of the gun in that bastard’s hand, its barrel like a finger pressed against my fate.

Toeing off my shoes first, my movements are stiff, jerky. My fingers find the hem of my shirt, but they’re shaking so badly I can barely grip the fabric. I yank it over my head anyway, swallowing the hiss that rises when bruised muscles protest. The shirt falls to the floor, forgotten.

The button of my ripped jeans is next. I fumble with it, my hands unsteady, but I get them undone, shoving them down. They pool at my feet, and I step out, feeling the cold air knife against my skin. Sand clings to my legs, grit scraping against raw flesh.

I stop at my briefs.

My body locks up. I don’t want this. I want to scream. But my throat stays closed. My breath staggers in my chest, caught between terror and silence.

Hawthorne doesn’t seem to care.

"Good boy," he muses, eventually rising to his feet. He tilts the barrel of the gun toward the back of the room, and I flinch before I can stop myself. My eyes flick toward where he’s pointing—past a set of open glass doors leading to a deck. "Now step outside."

Confusion knots my stomach, but with the gun still resting in his grip—loose, but ready—I can only nod and force my legs to move.

The doors open to a narrow deck overlooking the ocean. Below, the dock stretches out over the water, waves lapping slow and steady against the pylons. The sun is still shining, its golden light scattering across the sea.

It’s too beautiful. Too fucking beautiful.

I take a step forward. Then another. The wood is rough beneath my bare feet, splintered and worn. The sea breeze licks over my exposed skin, raising goosebumps. I don’t dare look back, but I can feel it—the weight of his presence, the gun still trained on me.

There’s no railing.

Another step, and my toes curl over the edge. Nothing but open air below.

"Turn around," Thresh Hawthorne orders.

And I obey.

Hawthorne watches me, head tilted, studying me from behind his stupid aviator glasses. Up and down. Then up again. I know he’s cataloging every bruise, every mark, every weakness. The fucking bastard almost revels in it before his lips curl into a grin.

Scenarios flash through my mind too fast to stop.

This is it. This is where I die. Half-naked, staring down the barrel of a gun, with nothing behind me but open air and the cold water waiting to swallow my corpse.

A sting burns behind my eyes. I want to cry. But I can’t. I won’t let him see me crack. If I’m going to die, I’ll do it with my head held high, clutching the last scrap of pride in this pitiful life where I achieved nothing.

"Do you still have the right to drive for me?" he asks.

My throat tightens.

The only thing I have left is hope. Do I?

"Yes."

I close my eyes.

I wait for the flood of regret, for my life to flash before my eyes. But there’s nothing. No warmth, no nostalgia, no last-minute clarity—just the frozen image of a cruel smirk, a gun aimed straight at me.

The moment fractures into slow motion. I see the bullet, impossibly small, impossibly fast, splitting the air between us. I watch it punch into my chest, a dull bloom of impact before pain can even register. My body jerks backward, weightless. And the world I see tilts.

The sky rushes past me, flipping upside down. Then the ocean swallows my vision—vast, endless, waiting. My back shatters through the waves, the cold like a vice sinking its teeth into my skin.

Will it hurt?

The gun goes off.

The explosion splits the air, a deafening crack and my heart stops .

Heat grazes past my right ear—a searing, invisible blade slicing through the space beside me. My breath catches. A sharp ringing erupts in my skull, drowning out the crash of the waves below.

For a second, I don’t understand. When I realize I should be falling.

But I’m still here, heels teetering over the edge, staring at the fucking bastard standing in front of me. My lungs burn, but I don’t know if it’s from forgetting to breathe or from the sheer shock still locking up my body. My pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

Hawthorne exhales through his nose, slow, unimpressed. He tucks the gun away, already pulling out a cigarette instead. Like this was just another errand to cross off his list. The flame of his lighter flickers in the breeze as he takes a drag, the embers glowing, the scent of burning tobacco mixing with salt and gunpowder.

"First and last time you screw up a race." His voice is lazy, bored, like he wasn’t a second away from putting a bullet through my skull.

Then he turns his back on me, stepping inside without another glance. "Take your shit and get lost before I change my mind."

The moment my brain registers the words, I don’t hesitate and rush into the office. I snatch up my clothes and run.

Down the stairs. Out of the repair house. Past Hawthorne’s guys, who turn to stare—because yeah, I’m sprinting like a lunatic in just my fucking briefs, but I don’t care. Let them gawk. Let them whisper.

There’s no room for shame.

I got my right to drive again. Hawthorne didn’t say the words, but I know. So I feel just relief. 

A short-lived, razor-thin relief. Because the bullet that grazed my ear wasn’t just a fucking warning —just a reminder that next time, Hawthorne won’t miss.

Terror still clings to me, winding tight around my ribs, refusing to let go.

I don’t stop running until the docks are a distant blur, my lungs burning, my pulse hammering so hard it drowns out the world. People throw me startled glances as I shove past them, but I don’t acknowledge them. I can’t.

Only when I’m sure I’m far enough do I finally stop. My fingers loosen, and my clothes drop to the ground, forgotten. The adrenaline drains from my limbs, leaving behind a trembling, empty shell. Fear releases its grip, but it doesn’t disappear—it just settles deeper, curling like smoke in the pit of my stomach.

I taunted death. And I survived the damn trial.

A sharp noise rips from my throat before I realize it’s laughter.

Laughter that’s jagged, breathless. Too loud, too raw, verging on something unhinged. I press a shaking hand to my face, but I can’t stop it. It bubbles up, sharp and wild, slipping between my teeth like a crack in glass spreading too fast to contain.

Because what else can I do? I’m still alive.

And fuck, I loathe the days I used to wish for death. Loathe the moments I wanted to throw myself into traffic, to get crushed by a truck, to just—end.

When I finally regain control of myself and wrestle my way back into my clothes, I hear laughter.

It’s distant at first, just another noise blending into the afternoon hum, but as I take in my surroundings, I realize where my feet have carried me—almost all the way back to Navori’s Trailer Park. I’m not far from K’Sante’s shop.

And that’s when I see them.

Sett Callahan, lounging on the terrace of K’Sante’s shop, surrounded by his friends—Samira and K’Sante—beer cans resting on the table, their voices spilling into the warm air. The late afternoon sun filters through the awning, casting soft shadows over them. Laughter rings out, light and easy, the kind that comes with good company and nothing to worry about.

Of course, the guy is shirtless.

I catch myself staring.

They’re relaxing, caught up in their own moment, completely unaware of what just unfolded at the docks. Unaware that not long ago, I was standing on the edge of a deck with a gun pointed at my chest, my life hanging by a thread.

I shouldn’t care. But envy grips me, sharp and unexpected.

Because for them, this is just another ordinary afternoon. For me, it’s another day I survived. Without friends.

And damn, I wish I could pretend that was enough.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hey there~

Here’s the next scorching chapter of our favorite feuding rivals. I’m still not sure how many chapters this arc will take—I’m just rolling with their story and letting their development unfold naturally. Hope you’ll stick around for the ride until the very end!

Sett Callahan

The last two weeks had been weird. Not that I should be surprised, considering I—still don’t know why—invited Madden to crash at my place. Where should I even start?

Sunday had been about damage control. First, forgetting whatever the hell happened that morning. Then, making up with K because I’d been a complete asshole to my best friend. After a whole day of doing nothing but hanging out, I was in such a good mood, drinking with Sam and K, that I completely forgot one crucial detail.

A big detail.

A detail who was sitting at the table with my mother, eating pasta with chopped-up sausages and ketchup.

And she was thrilled. Because apparently, she'd heard so much about him. From me. Raging about his stupid face.

That was the moment I realized I’d made a mistake. What the hell had I been thinking, dragging my so-called rival into my home? Out of pity? Out of selfishness? Just to make him my problem instead of letting him be someone else’s?

After all, Aphelios is my toenail. My own personal irritation.

But things only got worse when I explained the situation—gave my mom the simple version about Madden’s trailer being unlivable. Because instead of letting him crash on the sofa like a normal guest, she put her foot down.

No, apparently, Aphelios needed to sleep in my room. On an old, lumpy air mattress.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt like my life was this shitty until now.

And I can’t tell if it’s because I have to deal with his cheesy face twenty four seven or because living with him is actual hell. The only thing keeping me sane is that, thankfully, he doesn’t snore. 

But he leaves his crap everywhere. Which is impressive, considering he barely owns anything. Okay, fine, living in a trailer means we’re all crammed together—we don’t exactly have the luxury of personal space. Three of us, no less. But this guy? He’s an absolute pain in the ass.

He sleeps in like a log, but somehow still manages to snake into the bathroom before me, just to make sure I’m late for work. He hogs all the hot water, which means I have to rush my showers to save some for my mom. But worst of all?

He uses my toothbrush.

Like it’s nothing. No permission, no shame. Just sticks it in his mouth like he pays rent here. And I don’t even have a spare, which means I still have to use it after him. Because, hygiene.

And as if he wasn’t making my life hell enough, my mother just had to make it worse.

Mari Callahan, I love you, but why the hell did you decide I should be Aphelios fucking Madden’s personal chauffeur just because the bookstore he works at is “on my way”?!

The only time I used to get a break from putting up with idiots was when I was driving my truck—K sold it to me for a crate of beer, and it doesn’t even have a radio. But it runs on diesel, which is way cheaper than gas, so I don’t use my Camaro for town runs. First, because I don’t want to waste its fuel. And second, and most importantly, I don’t want some asshole scratching it up or stealing my baby.

But now? Now my mornings are spent stressing about getting ready, scarfing down my toast too fast, driving my unwanted guest to work, and then booking it to the construction site before my boss yells at me. And when my shift’s finally over? I have to sit around like a dumbass, waiting thirty whole minutes for that rat to finish his job so I can drive his ass home.

And as if putting up with his face wasn’t bad enough, now I have to deal with his mouth too.

Fuck, I liked him better when he was getting his ass kicked—at least then he knew how to shut up.

But no, thanks to my mother again , I can’t even enjoy the simple misery of grocery shopping without him tagging along. Normally, I do the shopping with Mom, but she was feeling tired and, because we’re Callahans —good people, better people than my damn father—she figured Aphelios should come along to help. And, of course, to buy him some things.

The problem? We don’t have the money for that.

Sure, I pocketed one last win before the weekend break at the dirt track, which gave us a bit of breathing room. And hell, I still don’t know how Aphelios got the Mustang back, but that money? That’s our supply, not his. If he’d at least helped patch up the crack in the roof, maybe I’d have turned a blind eye and thrown in a damn toothbrush. But no. Yesterday, the only thing he contributed was getting on my nerves.

And as for the prize money from his second-place finish? All it did was clear his fucking debt . He hasn’t gotten that damn loan for the bookstore yet, which means he’s still got nothing. And on top of that, we—because somehow, I got roped into this—had to go to Old Vance’s office to cancel his lot, and what little he got back got eaten up cleaning out the wreck that used to be his trailer and paying off troubleshooting fees.

So now, here I am. Wandering the aisles with a Madden I’d love to punch straight in the face, stuck in the soap aisle because he can’t pick a damn lotion.

And I’m staring. All the time. Like my eyes have nothing better to do. Because they remember Sunday morning. And not just my eyes—my cock does too. Dirty fucking traitor.

I ditch Aphelios in the hygiene aisle, abandoning him to his impossible lotion crisis, and move on with the list, grabbing only the necessities. A pack of toothbrushes on sale—those are mine . He can keep the old one. Serves him right.

The real problem? I can’t stop thinking about him.

And it pisses me off, because ever since Sunday, something feels wrong with me. Like my brain is stuck on a glitch, replaying the same damn images over and over. Those lips. Wrapped around me. Sucking like a starving man.

And fuck, I have to admit—it felt good.

And I hate that I have to admit that. Hate that my body reacts. Too much. Too often.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m bisexual. It’s not about that. I’ve never had a problem getting my dick sucked by a guy or wrecking a man's ass the same way I would a woman’s cunt. But him ?

When he’s stepping out of the bathroom, steam rolling behind him, towel slung low on his hips, water still trailing down his chest, soaking the floor—I should be mad. I should yell at him for being a disrespectful ass.

But I don’t.

Because I’m stuck .

Because the sight of him twists something deep in my gut. Because my blood surges straight to my cock before I can stop it.

Almost every fucking morning.

And when I go to jerk off in the bathroom, trying to scrub him out of my head, trying to think about anyone else —

I can’t.

All I get is him. That fucking mouth. That fucking Sunday morning.

“Callahan, are you fucking listening to me?” Aphelios steps to the cart, finally tossing in the damn lotion he spent forever choosing, then looks at me like I owe him something.

I don’t.

“Got better things to do than listen to your annoying voice,” I mutter, shoving the cart forward and turning into another aisle.

The guy scoffs. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like finishing this damn shopping trip so I can go five minutes without you breathing down my neck,” I snap, yanking a six-pack of shitty beer off the shelf and dumping it into the cart. Maybe I should grab another. I’ll definitely need it.

“Not my fault your mom invited me.” He shrugs, trailing behind me like a stray with nowhere better to be.

My grip on the cart handle tightens. Maybe I should ditch the beer and go straight for a bottle of cheap whiskey instead.

He could’ve said no. He could’ve refused to stick to me like gum on pavement. But nope—here he is. Still here. Wearing an old white shirt that’s turned gray with time and those jeans with more rips than actual fabric.  

“Yeah? Well, I regret it.” I don’t even mean to say it—at least not like that—but it flies out before I can stop it. And the moment it does, Aphelios stops walking.

I don’t slow down, just keep pushing the cart toward the checkout, but I can hear him behind me, hear the soft huff of breath through his nose. He’s not chasing after me, but I know he’s still there. He’s stuck with me, I have the keys to drive us back.

I dump a bag of rice and a few more cans of soup into the cart. Grab the cheapest bread on the shelf. My stomach is in knots, and I tell myself it’s just because I don’t want to go over budget—not because of him . Not because of the silence behind me.

I reach for a carton of eggs, and that’s when I hear him again. “I got that. You’ve been acting like a bitch about it the whole trip.”

I slam the carton down so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break the eggs inside.

The fuck did he just say?

I spin around so fast the cart rattles. Aphelios is standing a few steps behind me, hands tucked in his pockets, his face as blank as ever, but his eyes—they’re challenging. Daring me.

Stepping towards him, I square my shoulders. “You got a real shitty way of saying thank you, Madden.”

Aphelios mutters something under his breath, too low for me to catch, and looks away. I’m this close to snapping, but I grit my teeth and shove the cart forward, forcing myself to focus on finishing this damn shopping trip.

We make it to the checkout in tense silence. The conveyor belt rattles as I drop our shit onto it—food, cans, care utensils, and that stupid lotion he wasted time picking. Aphelios, for once, doesn’t say anything. He does absolutely nothing. Just stands beside me, arms crossed, jaw tight.

The cashier—a woman in her late thirties with tired eyes—glances between us. Her gaze lingers, her lips twitch like she’s holding back a comment. I don’t like the way she looks at us. Like we’re something . Like we’re a couple in the middle of a lovers’ spat.

“Separate or together?” she asks, scanning the first item.

Aphelios tenses beside me. So am I.

Together? Like hell.

“Together,” I grit out, because I know he doesn’t have the cash, and if I have to stand here any longer while he digs through empty pockets, I might lose it.

He says nothing, just looks away in shame.

I shove my hand into my pocket, yank out a couple of bills, and slap them onto the counter. The cashier hums, eyes flicking between us as she bags the groceries. I know that look.

That pitying look.

Like she’s wondering why the hell we’re still standing next to each other if we obviously can’t stand each other. As if I wanted this. Well—okay, it’s my fault, but no use blaming my brain for short-circuiting that day. I just have to live with the consequences and kick him out as soon as possible. Maybe I should buy him a tent, toss him outside, and reclaim my damn room.

Not gonna happen. Too much cash to waste on that prick.

I snatch the receipt out of her hand before she can say anything and grab the bags, muscles tense. Without hesitation, I shove them into Madden’s arms. He looks at me, surprised at first—then his gaze darkens, turning pissed.

“Not your errand boy,” Aphelios hisses.

Oh, fuck off .

My blood boils and I snap. “Yeah? Then get the fuck out of my trailer if you’re too good to carry groceries. Because the stuff I bought is partly for you, too, so do your fucking part of the job.”

The words are sharp, final. And I don’t care anymore. The second they land, something shifts.

Aphelios doesn’t react right away. His expression barely changes, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—too fast to catch, too quiet to name. His fingers tighten around the grocery bags, one in each hand.

He exhales, slow, his gaze trailing past me like he’s looking at something that isn’t even there. And that silence? That heavy, unbearable silence? It’s worse than if he’d fought back. There he is again—the lost puppy, too prideful to utter a damn thank you. Just useful enough to be an ungrateful leech. And that pisses me off even more.

I scowl, dig into my pocket, and yank out my keys. 

“You know what? Here. ” Before he can react, I throw them at him. His hands are full, so they bounce off his chest and clatter to the ground. He just stares at me, like I’ve ripped his heart out.

“Drive yourself home,” I snap, shoving past him. “I’m sick of looking at your face.”

I don’t look back. I don’t want to know if he’s still standing there. I just stomp out of the store, fists clenched, fury thrumming in my bones.

I just know I’ll see him back at the trailer when I get home. And I don’t know if that pisses me off more… or if it makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t want to name . 

Anyway, I need to blow off some steam, and since I'm already here, I might as well take a little detour. It's still early in the afternoon, but maybe I can find someone to hook up. A quick fix, something easy, something to get my head straight.

Half an hour later, my steps bring me to a bar—The Pit Stop. I know this place well, mostly because it’s tied to the town’s race track. But it’s all cement, and I don’t care for it. I grew up in the dirt; the track at Navori’s Trailer Park is home.

Besides, the prize money here is shit, and they only hold races twice a month, two every last Friday—which usually lines up with a Saturday race on my home track. I know my skills, but I don’t trust some dumbass wrecking into my car and screwing me over before a real race. So I’d rather skip that shit.

I step inside and head straight for the counter, sliding onto a stool. First thing first—I order a beer. I’m not driving home tonight, and I need to unwind. The park’s only three miles away, so I can walk back or call K if I get too wasted.

The first sip reminds me how much better this stuff is than the piss they serve at our track.

I don’t even get halfway through my second drink before a chick slides onto the stool next to me. Blonde with green eyes. Her teal-colored top is too tight and definitely no bra underneath, and its paired with a black skirt short enough to show off long legs. And hey, who am I not to appreciate a beauty? She’s pretty, all too eager to flirt. Someone I don’t know, which makes it even better.

Her hand finds my forearm as she laughs at something I barely remember saying, and I let it happen, let the moment pull me along—until we’re in the restroom, and she’s on her knees, her pink lips around my dick.

Unfortunately, fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting alone at that bar again, waiting for my best friend to pick me up. In my infinite wisdom, I threw my keys at Madden just to get rid of him. But he’s like a fucking curse, following me even when he isn’t here.

That’s the problem.

I should be relaxed. I should have been fucking satisfied. Instead, I’m still tense, still pissed off, and my brain is stuck replaying something I don’t want to think about. I tap my fingers against my glass, glaring at the bottom.

I groaned his name. Like a fucking idiot.

The chick had been into it, all soft curves and warm hands, and it should’ve been fine. She knew what she was doing, understood one of my rules—no kissing. Just mutual satisfaction. But the second things got good, my mind betrayed me. And the moment Madden’s name slipped past my lips, everything stopped. She froze—went stiff like I’d slapped her. Then her eyes flicked up, something sharp in her gaze, like she knew exactly who I’d just fucked up thinking about and pulled of my dick. My stomach twisted. I muttered some excuse, zipped up, and got the fuck out before I could embarrass myself more.

She left the bar without a second glance, like I was just some nobody. Now, I just feel like an idiot. And worse? I don’t even know why it happened.

A car horn yanks me out of my thoughts. Placing cash on the counter, I push off the bar stool and head outside, where K’s beat-up truck is idling. He leans over to pop the door open. “Yo. You look like shit.”

"Feels like it," I grumble, climbing in and immediately rolling down the window for some fresh air. K’s car is like a damn sauna, and it’s been scorching all day.

K pulls away from the curb, glancing at me before shifting gears. “You drinking or hooking up?”

I run a hand through my hair and exhale sharply. “Drinking. Hookup didn’t work out.”

I sense my best friend lifts a brow but he keeps his focus on the road. “Not like you.”

"Yeah, well, it's not working, so I wanna leave," I grumble, leaning my arm on the frame and letting the wind hit my face to cool off, but it does nothing to calm my brooding mood.

K hums, not pushing it. And I’m grateful for that. He can read me too easily, and I know I can always confide in him—but right now, I don’t feel like it. Something in me insists I need to get my shit together. Especially after the way I acted with K’Sante two weeks ago.

Would you believe he wasn’t even mad at me for being a childish prick? He just laughed it off, then bragged about the guy he hooked up with that night. I was relieved I hadn’t screwed up his chances. Sometimes, I wish I had even a fraction of K’s easy-going attitude.

After a moment, he finally asks, “You wanna go home?”

I hesitate. Home means the trailer. Home means him. And I don’t want to face him yet, not when I’m this close to snapping. I just hope he did his part and put the damn groceries away after I left him standing in that store.

K catches my silence. “So, that’s a no.”

“Just drop me at your place,” I say, forcing a grin. “Got fresh beer?”

The smirk he shoots me before turning back to the road tells me all I need to know—tonight’s gonna be a good one with my best friend.

As Freestyler starts playing on the radio, I crank up the volume and start rapping along. Damn, this song still has the vibe—never gets old. K joins in, and I let the drive toward Navori’s Trailer Park lull me into a comfortable ease.

Pulling into the parking lot of his shop, K kills the engine of his beat-up baby blue truck and turns to me. “Terrace is free. Grab a seat, I’ll get us something.”

I grin like an idiot and step onto the wooden terrace behind the store. It’s quiet, just the buzz of insects and the distant hum of waves. Having the beach so close to the park is a bonus—my third favorite place, right behind the track and home with Mom.

I push away the thought of the parasite currently lurking in my space, refusing to let his presence there—his not -presence here—ruin the mood I’ve barely recovered.

K comes back with two beers, handing me one before leaning against the railing. He’s dressed in his usual laid-back style—teal-colored jeans, an orange open hemd hanging loose over his bare chest, showing off the solid muscle underneath sun-kissed skin. His white sneakers are scuffed but clean, and his rastas hang free, swaying slightly as he moves. Built like a damn bull. We should probably go for a friendly brawl again sometime. Been a while.

“Alright,” he says after a few swigs. “Something’s up.”

And just like that, my barely recovered mood pops like a balloon meeting a needle.

I crack open the can of Kirin—moderate good stuff that K swears by—and take a long sip, nearly draining half of it in one go.

I scoff. “No shit.”

He turns and bumps my shoulder, leaning into me in that easy way only best friends do. I lean back, settling into the quiet. It reminds me of a few years ago, when K had been down because some asshole fucked up his life.

K always had a plan—run the shop, build something steady, marry the person who mattered most. No dreams of riches, just a life lived day by day with the one he loved. But after years of saving up, after finally gathering the courage to get on one knee with a damn ring in hand, the asshole—whose name I don’t even remember—pushed him away and left.

We stood here that afternoon too, on this same deck, when he told me about his broken heart.

“Wanna talk about it?” K asks now, taking another sip of his beer.

I don’t answer, just watch the sun dip lower in the west, casting warm streaks of light over the beach half a mile away. People still wander up and down the shoreline, soaking in the last of the day.

K waits, patient and annoying as ever, giving me space to either retreat or spill my guts.

I haven’t told him about the last two weeks of nightmares. Haven’t wanted to. Last Saturday, after my win, we had beers, but K had his eye on some guy he’d clearly already banged before, and I let him have his fun. Brushed all my shit under the rug. Didn’t want to deal with my own self-inflicted plague—Aphelios fucking Madden.

But maybe tonight, I could let out just enough. Explain the situation. Get a neutral opinion.

I drag a hand down my face and mutter, “Madden’s crashing at my place.”

K nearly chokes on his drink and I almost laugh at his stupid expression. “ What? ”

“Yeah.” I take a long swig of my beer as the radio hums in the background, Post Malone’s A Thousand Bad Times playing—fitting as hell.

So, I lay it out for K. Everything. From the moment I saw Aphelios show up, beaten to shit and chased by homophobic assholes, to finding his place wrecked beyond livability. And how—against my better judgment—I let him stay.

Except for the part where I shoved my dick in his perfect mouth. I’m not telling K that… yet. Damn it, when will I stop thinking about that?

I let out a frustrated breath. “Mom wouldn’t let him sleep on the couch, so now he’s in my fucking room.”

K shakes his head, clearly baffled. “And you let that happen?”

I turn to him with a scowl. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. It’s Saint Mari Callahan’s decision, and who am I to go against Mom’s authority at twenty-six?”

K whistles, clearly holding back from rubbing it in that I’m still under my mother’s rules. “Okay. That explains why you’re tense. But it doesn’t explain why you’re—” he waves a hand at me, eyes sharp. “—extra weird tonight.”

I stare at my beer, debating. But it’s K. If I don’t say it now, he’ll keep digging, especially since he already knows Aphelios staying at my place isn’t the real problem. It’s something else.

I exhale hard, running a hand over the back of my neck. “I went to blow off steam, right? Just… get my mind off things.”

“And?” He nods at me.

I grip my beer tighter, crushing the can in my palm since it’s empty. “And it didn’t work. Because the second things got heated, I thought about him. ”

“...Him?” K blinks, then his hazel eyes light up with understanding. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Holy shit. You moaned Madden’s name, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.” I groan and drop my head onto my forearms. “I hate you.”

“Nah Hotshot, you don't.” My best friend bursts out laughing—actually laughing. “ Getting a blowie from some stranger, and all you’re thinking about is your rival. Oh, man. This is golden.”

“This is a nightmare.” I turn my head just in time to see him nearly double over, clutching his stomach as beer spills from his Kirin can. Damn, what a slow drinker. And what a stupid best friend to mock me. I mean, okay, if it were someone else, I’d be laughing too. But it’s not. It’s me. And I can’t just brush this off. The frustration rises again, bubbling under my skin.

K’s grin softens into something more thoughtful. “Now you’re just being a drama queen. That guy is gorgeously fuckable. Nothing wrong with that.”

I open my mouth to argue, but K is already sliding off the terrace, leaving me alone for a moment. I exhale sharply, running a hand over my face. Damn it. Yeah, Aphelios is gorgeous. Stupidly gorgeous. But he’s also the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.

K returns a second later, tossing me a fresh can of Kirin. “So,” he says, cracking open his own. “What are you gonna do?”

I straighten up, chucking my empty can into the bin—bull’s-eye—before popping the tab on the new one. “What do you think? There’s nothing to do. I’m pissed off, I’m confused, and I just need him out of my place so I can get my head back on straight. But if I throw him out, Mom’ll have my ass.”

Telling him to get the fuck out of my place? That’s easy. Maybe he’d fight back, and honestly, the thought makes my fists itch in anticipation. A good brawl might help take the edge off since he’s the reason I’m so wound up in the first place.

But whatever. That’s not the real problem.

If I actually go through with throwing him out, where the hell is he supposed to go? He’s got nothing. Nowhere. I can’t lie to my mom about why I suddenly don’t want him to stay at our place anymore.  And lying to Mari Callahan? Yeah. That’s just not an option.

K watches me for a long moment, then takes another sip of his beer. “Sure,” he says, not sounding convinced. “Whatever you say. ”

I scowl but let it drop. Can’t think about it too much, or I’ll just keep going in circles. This situation sucks, and deep down, I know I’m not an asshole. I may hate Aphelios fucking Madden, and yeah, he’s making my life hell, but his life sucks too. Does he really have nobody else besides his sister to turn to?

The radio crackles as the announcer starts the 7 PM news, but I’m already tuning it out. Bored of just staying around, I get up and head toward the sitting corner. I like it—K and I built it ourselves, using old pallets and cushions he scavenged from the Sunday flea market in the next town over. Cheap, sturdy, comfortable. I’ve been meaning to do the same for the trailer, just need to find someone willing to part with pallets for dirt cheap.

Leaning back, I exhale and take another swig of beer. K swirls his own, lounging like he’s got all the time in the world. The conversation drifts, shifting away from my frustration into easier, neutral ground. We talk about work—my boss just signed another contract to expand the construction site, adding a second apartment complex to the district. Definitely, I won't be out of a job anytime soon. 

Then we get to the last dumb thing Sam did. She’s never been one for rules, especially the ones she thinks are stupid. She got herself kicked out of a queer bar lately—apparently, getting caught fucking in the bathroom tends to have that effect. Shame, too, since one of the bar’s only real rules was ‘ No sex in the john’.

The conversation eventually shifts to K’s latest attempts at fixing up his bike. He can’t wait to show it to me, and yeah, maybe he’s right—we could use some time off the trailer park. Maybe go hiking, camping for a while. Could be a good change of scenery for the next break on the track.

We keep talking engines, throwing around ideas for how to stabilize my Camaro’s back axle. Beers flow easy, and for once, I’m grateful. K doesn’t pry too much about my problem with Aphelios, not making it weird. 

But then the clock ticked forward, and the air shifted. My best friend glances at his watch, then back at me. "You wanna crash here tonight?"

I hesitate. The offer is tempting, but the idea of avoiding my own trailer, of dodging Madden like I’m afraid of something, didn’t sit right. I scoff, shaking my head. "What, you think I'm a coward? I need to go home."

Not to mention, I’m getting hungry, and I’ve taken advantage of my best friend’s hospitality long enough for one evening. Besides, judging by how often his phone keeps pinging—and the way he grins every time he checks the screen—K probably has other plans for tonight.

My best friend studies me, the corner of his mouth quirking. "I think your fixation on Madden isn’t just about hating his guts."

My whole body goes rigid. “What the fuck does that mean?”

K just shrugs, way too casual. “Maybe you’re attracted to him.”

Okay, fuck you, Cupid. I don’t have to have this conversation with him. I don’t like where he’s going with this and I’ll be damned if I admit the only thing that attracts me is how his tongue skillfully lapped my dick like a fucking ice cream.

“Bullshit,” I mutter, staring into my can like it might have answers at the bottom.

But the words stick. My mind drags me back—unbidden—to the night I found Aphelios beaten to hell. The bruises have long since faded, the cuts healed over. I’ve seen it myself, without meaning to. And then there was his half-exposed body when I forced him to take off his shirt. Medium build, low body fat. Broad shoulders, defined chest, strong arms and legs. If he worked out more or had healthier meals, he’d be—what the hell am I even thinking?

The memory sits heavy, but I shove it away. K’s spouting nonsense. If anything, this is just physical. Too bad his personality is absolute shit.

“You’re overthinking it,” I say, draining the last of my drink and standing. I roll my shoulders. Three cans of Kirin, but the stuff isn’t heavy, even on an empty stomach. And I can hold my liquor—years of training my liver.

K chuckles but lets it go, bumping his fist against mine before pulling me into our usual bro hug. “Yeah, sure, hotshot. Overthinking.”

The walk home is quiet, the twenty-minute trek passing in a blink. I spot my truck parked at his usual place.

Inside, the trailer is dark except for the soft blue glow of the electric fly trap. I flick on the light. Mom’s already gone to bed, but when I check the fridge, there’s a plate waiting for me, wrapped in plastic. My chest tightens. She made sure I had something to eat, even this late. Love you, Mari Callahan.

And—of course—Madden did his part, fortunately for him. The groceries are put away, neat and tidy. At least the guy’s been useful today. But there’s no sign of him now. Probably asleep, out of sight. Fine by me.

I sit at the small kitchen table and dig in, forcing my mind to stay blank. No point overthinking. The chicken fettuccine is good, and my stomach thanks both the prize money and my driving skills. And my mother’s cooking skills, too.

By the time I finish, exhaustion weighs heavy on me. It’s not even midnight when I glance at the microwave’s flickering light, but I’ve got no better ideas for the night. Maybe just crash and pretend there’s no asshole lurking in my space. Just me, my bed, and a soft pillow to lull me to sleep.

After a quick stop in the bathroom—piss, wash my hands and face, brush my teeth with my new toothbrush—I head for my room, already pulling my ‘ I still play with car ’ grey tank top off as I step inside.

The dim glow from the lonely streetlight barely illuminates the space, but my eyes land on Aphelios immediately. He’s nestled sideways on the air mattress, breathing slow, peaceful.

I toss my shirt aside, fingers undoing the button of my jeans. As I move to drag the zipper down, something catches my eye—a shift, a movement. I freeze and my eyes are glued to the sleeping form, not knowing why I should be afraid of waking Madden up.

My gaze locks onto the sleeping form across the room, my body going rigid for no reason other than the sheer wrongness of what I’m seeing.

Aphelios’ hand drifts over his crotch, fingers twitching. The sheet is pooled low around his legs, baring his firm hips, the smooth rise and fall of his chest. His face is slack, lips slightly parted, breath slow and deep. Then, in the quiet of the room, he lets out the softest moan, his palm pressing over the bulge tenting his black briefs.

A fucking wet dream.

Heat spikes through me, burning straight down to my gut. And my dick—traitorous bastard—twitches, suddenly interested.

No. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.

My fists clench, nails biting into my palms as if pain might ground me. The asshole has the nerve —

And then he murmurs something in his sleep. It’s barely audible. Just a whisper but I hear it anyway.

My. Fucking. Name.

My brain flatlines. For a second, I stand there, frozen, everything short-circuiting at once. My pulse jackhammers, ears ringing, the realization slamming into me with the force of a freight train.

Then my body moves before my brain can stop it. My fist swings down, landing a solid punch against Aphelios’ bare stomach. "Wake the fuck up, Madden, you sick freak!"

Aphelios jolts awake with a sharp gasp, eyes flying open as he curls in on himself, gripping his stomach. He blinks blearily, lips parting—but no words come. Just confusion, disoriented and raw, before his gaze lands on me.

His expression shifts, catching up to reality.

Then his brows furrow, and he spits, “The fuck is wrong with you?”

His voice grates against my nerves like sandpaper. My knuckles ache. My chest is heaving. But none of it drowns out the roaring in my head.

I sneer, fists still clenched, ignoring the fire licking up my spine. Because I can’t unhear it. I can’t unhear him moaning my goddamn name in his filthy little dream.

"You’re telling me ?” I snap, voice ice cold. “Who the fuck do you think you are, moaning my name in your sick fantasy ?”

Even in the dim light, I swear to god, the bastard blushes.

---

Aphelios Madden

Ow, shit.

I blink away the crust of sleep as my eyes flick down, and—yeah. There it is.

Even in the dim glow from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, I don’t need more light to see it. I feel it too.

Awareness slams into me like a bucket of ice-cold water. My pulse jumps from my frantic heart straight down to my dick, which—fantastic—is not getting the memo to stand down .

My stomach clenching—not from the punch, but from the realization creeping over me in slow, dawning horror.

I. Had. A. Wet. Dream.

Okay. Not the end of the world. This happens. Normal human stuff. Nothing to dig a hole over and disappear forever, right? Except…I visibly moaned his name and Sett is seething .

Why the fuck is he looking at me like I’ve committed some unspeakable crime? The way his nostrils flare, the way his fists are still clenched—hell, you’d think I stole his Camaro and crashed it into a ditch.

The problem? I can’t remember what the hell my stupid brain was imagining before I woke up forcefully. Surely the dream must have sucked for my consciousness to keep it from saving it.

Sett’s glare burns through me, and suddenly, doubt creeps in. Maybe I did. Maybe, in the depths of my subconscious, I was dreaming about—

No. Fuck off, brain.

“Sorry not sorry?” I offer, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Like I don’t feel his eyes drilling into me.

Like I don’t feel the traitorous throb of my dick, very much still at attention.

It doesn’t help that Sett looks like that —all sharp angles and raw power, the cold light from outside throwing shadows that carve out every inch of muscle. His bare chest, the solid cut of his pecs, the ridges of his abs leading down to the deep, defined V disappearing into his unbuttoned jeans—

I’m staring. Fuck.

Of course I am. Of course this is happening. And my stomach swoops in the weirdest ways.

But I’m also pissed.

Whatever the dream was— whatever made me mutter his goddamn name—it could’ve been anything . Maybe I was dreaming about racing him. Maybe I was kicking his ass on the track.

He didn’t have to deck me awake like this. I’ve barely healed from the last round of bullshit life threw at me, and now I get another bruise for the collection. Thanks, Callahan. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Sett’s voice is a low snarl, his expression twisting into something almost feral—even in the dim light, I can see the rage burning in his eyes. My throat bobs with a dry swallow. “Keep me out of your disgusting fantasies and get the hell out of here.”

And that —that pisses me off.

My jaw clenches, pulse hammering in my ears. This is just stupid. I get being embarrassed, but acting like I’ve done something disgusting? Like I’ve somehow violated him?

Maybe I just bruised his fragile straight ego .

But who the hell is he kidding? The last time I was on my knees for him, he sure as fuck wasn’t complaining.

“Thought you liked my mouth on your dick last time.” The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp and deliberate. Maybe not the wisest choice, considering I have nowhere else to go tonight. No guarantee he’ll even let me crash on the goddamn couch .

But I don’t care. If Sett’s gonna wake me up with a fucking punch , he can deal with me pressing a few buttons in return.

His body goes rigid, fists clenching.

“You fucking fuck! ” His voice cracks like a whip. “ Nothing happened last time. Get that through your gay-ass brain.”

And that —that does something ugly to me.

It shouldn’t. I knew there was nothing to hope for, no point in clinging to some ridiculous, half-formed wish. Sett Callahan is an asshole, through and through. He’s not some homophobic piece of shit, sure, but he’s definitely not gay.

And yet, the rejection burns .

Fucking idiot. That’ll teach me to even entertain the idea of something more.

Being gay sucks. Not because I hate it—I don’t. It’s just the way I am. I didn’t choose this, and I’m sure as hell not changing to fit into some neat little moral box. But I know what it means. I know what it costs .

I’ve never been the type to hook up. Never wasted time looking for someone. First, because my life is a fucking dumpster fire, and I wouldn’t drag anyone into that mess. And second—

To avoid getting trampled by people like Sett fucking Callahan .

“Yeah,” I mutter, gripping the sheet and pulling it over my lap—not out of shame, just… exhausted. My dick finally deflates, giving me some reprieve. But my chest? That still fucking hurts .

I force a smirk, even as my insides churn. “At least give me some credit—I did a damn good job sucking you off.”

Sett scoffs, jaw tightening, nostrils flaring. His fists are still clenched like he’s barely holding himself back. And I think he's holding back out of respect for not waking his mother, because I know for a fact he wants to beat the shit out of me.

“You really think you’re hot shit , huh?” His voice is low, cutting, but there’s something else under it—something rough and uncertain. “Like I’d actually let someone like you get in my head?”

I open my mouth—probably to throw another smartass remark—when Sett moves.

Not away. Closer. Something in my brain screams that I should run, but my body won’t move. I’m frozen, locked in place, like a deer in the headlights.

My breath catches, the space between us shrinking before I can even process what’s happening. The air mattress creaks, the sound disgustingly loud, as Sett lunges —one hand snapping around my throat.

Air cuts short in my lungs and I freeze.

He’s straddling me and his grip is iron, fingers flexing just enough to make me feel the warning beneath them. He’s not choking me out—not yet—but the message is clear. Stay where you are. His face is inches from mine, molten caramel eyes boring into me, intense. Unreadable.

I swallow hard, fingers instinctively wrapping around his wrist, unsure if I’m trying to push him away or anchor myself. “The… fuck…” I rasp, but my voice betrays me.

Not just because of the pressure against my throat.

But because my cock twitches.

Heat surges through me, burning low in my gut. Shame should follow, I should be humiliated—but fuck , my body has a mind of its own. Why does being manhandled by this arrogant bastard have me so—?

No. No.

I should feel afraid. I am afraid. But not of him hurting me. No, the real fear twists deep inside my chest, settling right where I don’t want it. The real fear is that I don’t want him to stop.

Sett’s hands don’t slacken. If anything, his grip tightens , muscles coiled like a beast ready to snap, his entire body thrumming with something barely restrained. He’s too close—his breath scalds my skin, his scent fills my lungs, all sweat and faint leather and something him . It makes my head swim, makes me press my fingers harder into his wrist, as if grounding myself against the inevitable.

I do the only thing I can think of. I hit him.

Knuckles connecting with his jaw, sharp and sudden, rattling through my bones. Sett barely flinches. Taking the hit like a champion.

Fuck.

And before I can move again, he retaliates .

I barely register the shift before I’m shoved back into the air mattress, the force so strong I swear the thing’s about to burst . One of Sett’s hands keeps my throat locked in place while his other fist slams into my jaw, pain exploding through my skull.

I should be dizzy. Reeling from the blow.

But all I register is the press of his body. The way the shift of him grinds his crotch against mine—

And the sound that leaves my lips is pure instinct.

A moan.

Loud, desperate. Fucking telling.

Sett freezes . But his grip doesn’t loosen.

I blink up at him, dazed, my pulse hammering in my ears. His expression is impossible to read. Tension ripples through his body, his nostrils flaring, his jaw clenched like he’s fighting a war with himself.

My stomach flips, my breath coming short. Sett isn’t just looking. He’s staring . At my mouth first, his lips parting slightly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he’s wrestling with something inside himself.

My heart skips and I'm transfixed. It’s fucking cute .

Then his gaze flickers—locks onto mine for half a second before dropping to my mouth again. My entire body tightens, hope flickering dangerously. Is he—? No. No, don’t even think it. But I can see it. He’s so close . If I just—

But his gaze drops once more, my eyes following what he’s looking at.

And this time, he glares . Not at my face. Not at my bruised jaw. Not at my exposed collarbone.

At my cock .

Or rather—at himself .

Because Sett is hard too. And it’s a damn good feeling .

My stomach does a fucking somersault. Sett’s thick length is pressed against mine through layers of fabric, heat searing through. He’s breathing heavier now, his nostrils flaring, hands trembling just slightly. He's as worked up as I am.

Then his eyes snap back up to mine. And his voice is gravel, low and guttural. “Take it out.”

My brain stalls . “What?”

Sett leans in, breath hot against my face, his grip tightening around my throat just enough to make my pulse jump. “Take. Your. Fucking. Dick. Out.”

There’s no room for debate. No hesitation. The way he orders me—rough, demanding— sets something off inside me, something I don’t want to name. I try to ignore the little voice whispering that I love it.

My hands move on instinct, slipping under the waistband of my briefs. The moment I free myself, my cock slaps against my stomach, the cool air hitting me like a shockwave. I bite back a moan, my entire body twitching from the sudden relief.

My knuckles brush against Sett’s crotch. I didn’t do it on purpose. I think. But the second I feel the thick, rigid heat of him, a sharp hiss leaves his lips, and the fingers around my throat tighten .

My cock spasms . A pulse of pleasure shoots through me, and wetness beads at the tip, leaking against my skin.

Sett notices.

His expression darkens, molten eyes burning into mine, his voice dropping to something even lower, rougher— deadly .

“You’re really fucking sick,” he murmurs, voice sliding under my skin like a slow drag of fire. “Does it turn you on that much to be manhandled like this?”

Bastard. It’s not the manhandling. It’s him. He is the problem.

And I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

So instead—

And really, I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m not thinking at this point. I jerk my hips up.

Maybe to prove a point that I’m not the only one sick right now. Maybe to drag him down into this mess with me. Maybe because I want to feel him react.

And fuck , he does.

Sett doesn’t hesitate. One second, his fingers are pressing into my throat. The next, his other hand is wrapped around my cock—calloused, firm, rough —and he jerks me off .

Hard.

Fast. Like he’s punishing me for something I don’t even know I did.

And it’s driving me insane. My body jerks at the sudden friction, a gasp escaping before I can swallow it down. Oh, fuck—

This is wrong .

I know it’s wrong. Sett hates me. He woke me up with a punch . This isn’t a moment. This isn’t real .

But fuck , it feels good .

Heat coils in my gut, thighs tensing under his grip. My breath stutters, my hips twitching into his fist despite myself. Sett’s movements are rough, almost angry —like this is some kind of punishment. Or a challenge.

Or maybe just him blowing off steam in the worst, messiest, most fucked up way possible.

And me?

I’m not stopping him.

Why the hell would I? Haven’t I been wishing for this? A warning bell rings somewhere in the fog of my pleasure-filled brain, but I’m too far gone to listen. Too far gone to care.

But then— Sett stops.

Not entirely.

Just long enough to shove his jeans lower, just enough to free his cock. And fuck— fuck —as it slaps against mine, hot and thick, I nearly lose it right then and there.

His grip on my throat is still firm, but he’s no longer holding me down. I could slip away. I should slip away. But that would be another me, in another life—one where I’m not completely at his savage mercy .

His hand wraps around both of us, fingers rough and unrelenting, and my back arches against the creaking mattress.

Fucking hell.

It’s not gentle. Not at all. It’s brutal. Raw. A fast, punishing rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through me.

And fuck—I hate how much I love it. And the moans that escape my lips don't stop.

Sett’s hand is firm, squeezing, dragging over my slick, swollen cock, rubbing it against his own, and I can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein, every twitch of his muscles as he gets himself off at my expense.

The air between us is thick, filled with filthy sounds. My eyes fight to stay open, to watch him, to catch him slipping . And I do. And I want to stroke the damn scar that runs along his nose.

For a second—just a second—his mask cracks.

That golden gaze glistens, half-lidded and dark with something dangerously close to pleasure. His lips part, then press into a thin line, as if denying himself the sound . Denying me the satisfaction of knowing he feels just as fucking good as I do.

And that— that —is what sends me over the edge.

I come hard , my body seizing up as hot ropes of cum splatter across my abs and his fist. My vision whites out, my toes curling into the mattress, my hips jerking into his ruthless grip. And I summon every ounce of self-control to keep from moaning his fucking name as I cum

But Sett doesn’t stop. He keeps going . Keeps using me. Until his body tenses above me. Until his cock throbs against mine. Until he groans —deep, guttural— and fuck , that sound alone could break me all over again.

His release spills between us, mixing with mine, hot and sticky. He strokes us through it, milking himself dry, until finally— finally —he stills.

And then—

Nothing. Just us. Breathing. Panting. Swimming in the aftershock of whatever the fuck this was.

The moment stretches, thick and suffocating before Sett moves eventually. He tucks himself back into his jeans, his expression shifting— hardening —before I can even think of speaking. I observe how his jaw clenches, his lip curls.

And then, in a single motion, he presses down— hard —on the fucking air valve of the mattress.

A sharp hiss fills the room, yanking me out of the post-haze like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. I jolt as I start sinking , the mattress rapidly deflating beneath me, dragging me down , until I’m left sprawled on the goddamn floor.

“You fucking asshole ,” I hiss, propping myself up on my elbows.

But Sett gives me nothing . No gloating. No smirk. No smartass remark. I can’t read him and it’s unsettling. Just a glare.

A warning .

He stands, his fists flexing at his sides, looming over me like a final blow. And I swear  he’s holding back right now.

“Get the fuck out of my room.” His voice is low, razor-sharp.

I don’t argue. I don’t dare .

Silently, I tug my briefs back up, ignoring the mess streaking down my stomach, sticky and cooling. My hands itch to wipe it away, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Instead, I grab my sheet. My pillow. And I leave the damn room, feeling the cum rolling off my skin. I want to slide the door shut hard enough to rattle it, but I’m a nice person—I won’t wake his mother up, even if that asshole is grating on my nerves.

Dragging myself to the couch, I flop onto it, my body heavy, sore, used .

I should go to the bathroom. Should clean up. But— fuck it . I don’t have the energy. So I do the next worst thing. I drag my sheet over me, rub it against my abs with a lazy swipe, and let it be .

It’s filthy. I’m filthy. 

But exhaustion pulls me under fast, dragging me into sleep before I can even begin to process what the fuck just happened.

And I don’t even have time to process it.

This hasn’t just happened once. Not even twice. But fucking several times.

It’s been weeks now, and we barely speak—unless it’s to swear at each other like an old married couple ready to gut each other, or to try and kill each other on the track. The bastard had the fucking audacity to scratch Hawthorne’s Mustang, and when I finally got my shitty loan from the bookstore, half of it went to paying for a fresh coat of midnight blue lacquer.

I know Sett wants to throw me out. And he’s stuck. And he fucking hates it.

He’s only keeping me here because of his mother, doing his duty like a good son—helping out the poor wreck that is me, so he doesn’t turn into the same kind of asshole his father was. I don’t know the old Callahan. I don’t give a fuck about him.

What I do care about? I still don’t have the damn money to stand on my own feet, to take care of Alune and myself. I’m stuck sleeping on the couch. Stuck with him. Stuck dealing with his shitty remarks, his hateful glares—stuck being his fucking jerking buddy whenever he’s about to snap.

It’s always the same. Sett throws me against the trailer wall, one hand around my throat, jerking us both off until he gets what he needs. Or he shoves me down on my knees, fists tangled in my hair, fucking my throat like I owe him something. And the worst part? I let him.

I fucking seethe about it, but I still do it.

I should get the fuck out. Should walk away. But it’s like my dick has a mind of its own, chasing Sett’s toxicity like a starved dog.

Truly, there’s a sick part of me that enjoys this. Not the rough, desperate, frustrating mess of it. But the way Sett fights it. The way he tries so damn hard to pretend he isn’t enjoying it, to convince himself that he’s still straight, that this doesn’t mean anything.

And maybe that’s what makes it so fucking good.

It’s not just about getting off anymore. It’s about watching him crack. Watching his resolve crumble every time he shoves me against a wall, every time his hands shake when he fists my cock, every time he fucks my mouth like it’s a punishment—like he needs to prove something to himself.

I’m almost reveling in it.

Not just because I’m getting my own fun out of it, but because I can push his buttons. Because I know exactly what to say, exactly how to look at him, exactly how to make him snap.

And when he does?

That’s when he finally stops pretending. And it feels so damn good.

I grab a slice of toast and one of those delicious pastries—leftovers from Mari Callahan’s visit to the neighbor yesterday. It’s a small thing, but it matters. The fact that my stomach is full before a race isn’t thanks to Sett. It’s Mari Callahan looking out for me.

She doesn’t have to, but she does.

And that realization spreads through me in a way I can’t quite name. It’s unfamiliar, almost unsettling. Like a warmth I don’t know how to hold. Like unbiased acceptance.

I finish my breakfast in the quiet of the trailer. Sett and his mother are still asleep, and the only sound is the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the metal roof. It’s way too early, but I need to get moving. The Mustang’s waiting for me at the usual place, and the track won’t wait either.

The problem? I’d have to walk there. In this downpour.

The moment of comfort evaporates, replaced by the familiar weight of inconvenience. Today’s going to be shit, I already know it.

I kneel by the sofa, unzipping my bag containing my whole life. Ever since Sett threw me out of his room, I’ve been crashing on this piece of furniture that lulls my ass into sleep. It’s not the worst, but it’s hard to ignore the look his mother gives me sometimes—soft, almost guilty—when she wakes up before her son has the chance to shake me awake with a fist. Like she’s trying to shield me from whatever mood he wakes up in. Mari Callahan is really too kind for this world but I can sense that there’s something going on. She seems tired lately.

I dig through my bag until my fingers close around the envelope. My paycheck was barely mine before I split it—repairs for the Mustang took the first cut, a few purchases for Alune and me, and this… this is for Mari.

She won’t take it. She’s already refused, telling me I need it more. And yeah, I do. But I refuse to keep taking without giving something back. I won’t be a parasite to her.

And I sure as hell won’t give it to Sett.

Taking advantage of the fact that I’m alone, I shove the envelope beneath one of the couch cushions before heading to the bathroom for a quick piss and a half-assed attempt at brushing my teeth.

By the time I step outside, the sky is a dull, wet gray. The rain soaks through my clothes almost instantly, cold fabric sticking to my skin like a second layer.

Perfect.

It’s ten by the time I hit the track, the Mustang roaring beneath me as I pull into my usual spot. The dirt’s a fucking mess—slick, red mud stretching across the track, pooling in places deep enough to swallow a tire whole.

I’m starting at position eight today. A shitty spot, on a shitty day. 

I don’t like starting on the outside row.

There’s still time before the race, so I kill the engine. With no power, the wipers stop, and rain immediately coats the windshield, blurring everything outside.

Through the downpour, I catch a flash of pink. It moves closer, and a second later, a tap echoes against my side window. I grin as I roll it down, already knowing who it is. Alune’s holding a pink umbrella above the window, keeping the rain from sneaking inside. “Hey, Champ,” she greets, flashing a grin just like mine.

I scan her face instinctively. She looks better than she has in weeks, which is a relief. I wasn’t sure how she’d handle crashing at Aurora’s, but it seems to be helping. I want to hug her, but my racing suit is dry, and I’d rather not sit in damp fabric for the next few hours. Instead, we bump fists.

“Hey, ‘Lunie,” I say, still studying her. She’s wearing her so-called lucky outfit—her go-to for cheering me on and for getting laid. White faux-leather skirt, pink V-neck top, perfectly matching her umbrella and her colorful braids. “What’s up?”

She’s still grinning. And I know that look. Something’s up.

At least it’s something good, because I don’t catch a whiff of alcohol on her. Lately, when I stop by Aurora’s, she’s not there. Aurora never says where she is, just that she’s fine . She’s an adult, yeah, but I’m her twin—I can’t help worrying. But I also trust Aurora, she would tell me if there was a problem with my sister.

“Well, you know…” she drawls, playing it up, and I get a sinking feeling she’s about to drop something major. Or, worse, tease me about my rival-to-lover situation with Sett fucking Callahan. “I got a job.”

“You what ?” Good thing I’m already sitting, because that nearly knocks me off my ass. “Where?”

“There.” She gestures behind my car, and I twist to look, pretty sure she’s pointing at Garren’s.

“At the track bar,” she clarifies. “Garren’s wife needed help—she’s pregnant and doesn’t want to work in all that smoke anymore. When she heard from Senna that I was jobless, she asked if I wanted to give it a try.”

That’s… actually good news. For Garren’s wife, sure, but mostly for Alune. She needs this. And for once, it’s something she chose for herself.

“That’s awesome, Rainbow Dash !” I smirk, and she groans. Yeah, I’m not the only one with a dumb nickname. I didn’t have to dig deep for this one—she really does look like that damn My Little Pony character with all those bright-colored braids.

But I mean it. I really am happy for her. It makes the shitty weather a little easier to ignore.

“Yeah, about time I did something useful,” she sighs, but there’s something flickering behind her expression. A shadow of guilt. “I had to lose our roof to realize I needed to get my head out of my ass.”

I don’t blame her. I never blamed her. And I won’t let her blame herself either. She’s not the one responsible for our shitty life in this trailer park. Lifting a hand, I flick the crease between her brows. She blinks, then giggles, swatting me away.

The track horn blares, signaling it’s time to get ready.

“Hey, could you maybe grab me a dry set of clothes and a damn umbrella?” I ask. “Don’t want to drown if this rain keeps up on my way back tonight.”

She nods, then leans into the car, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. And —I swear to god—deliberately sticks her ass out while doing it.

“Meet me at the bar later,” she says. “I’ll get you some stuff. Good luck, kick his ass in the dirt today.”

I grin so hard I’m pretty sure it reaches my eyes. I hate dirt racing. But if I can make Callahan’s life hell and push his buttons just right?

Maybe I am a masochist. But damn, I will enjoy it.

Alune leaves, and I roll the window up before any more rain sneaks in. I pull on my helmet and gloves, then fire up the Mustang. She purrs. And she’s not mine, but I treat her like she was.

When Sett’s red Camaro pulls into position behind me—tenth place—I tighten my grip on the wheel. The familiar thrill starts creeping in despite the shit weather.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hi there!

First of all, wow, I didn't expect so many warm comments! Thank you all <3
And I won't let you guys wait any longer, I wish you a damn good race!

Ah yes, I apologize, I notice that sometimes Ao3 doesn't take into account certain syntax or formatting, I apologize in advance. I'm usually a perfectionist, but I'm just lazy lol

Sett Callahan 

My focus is locked on the track ahead. Nothing else exists—not the roar of the crowd, not the rain hammering my windshield, not even the familiar weight pressing at the back of my mind. This race is pure adrenaline, and I can’t afford a single distraction.

I’ve clawed my way up to fourth place, but that’s not good enough. First is the only place that matters. Three cars stand between me and that checkered flag, their tires churning through the mud like they’re wading through quicksand. The rain hasn’t let up, turning the track into a slick, treacherous battlefield where one wrong move could cost me everything.

The nose of my Camaro nearly kisses the Chevrolet’s rear bumper as we tear down the straightaway. Every vibration rattles through my seat, my grip firm on the wheel as I time my next move. Precision is everything. Too fast, and I’ll rear-end him. Too slow, and I’ll lose momentum. I have one shot.

Now.

I jerk the wheel, shifting gears in perfect sync as my Camaro snarls to life beneath me. The tires grip just enough, my acceleration timed to the second, and I slingshot past the Chevy, leaving nothing but rain and exhaust in my wake. Third place. Two more to go.

My windshield is a mess, rain and mud streaking across the glass while my wipers struggle to keep up. The world blurs past in flashes of red mud and flashing lights, but I don’t dare look back. This race is a massacre—less a clean-cut competition, more a goddamn demolition derby. And I’m not here to lose.

Spare parts litter the track, wrecked cars haphazardly shoved against the barriers—obstacles I can’t afford to hit. One moment of hesitation, one second of lost focus, and I won’t make it to the finish line.

I know he’s behind me. I don’t need to check my mirrors to confirm that mud-covered Mustang glued to my ass, clinging to my slipstream like a goddamn leech. I made sure to put Madden behind me early in the race, and I’ve noticed something—he hates this kind of terrain. Good. Not that it matters, since he’s still right there. Always.

The rain begins to ease, but instead of relief, it’s a problem. The mud clings to my windshield like thick soot, and my wipers smear it into an even worse mess. Visibility is turning to shit. I hit the cleaning jets, barely registering another car in my periphery as I surge past, knowing Aphelios is right on my tail.

But I don’t care.

Right now, there’s only me and my Camaro, moving as one. The second I slip past the final opponent, taking the lead, a rush of raw satisfaction surges through me. This is what I live for. The precision, the chaos, the pure fury of racing—it sharpens every sense, sends fire through my veins, and fuels the unshakable instinct that I was made for this. And the damn prize money for our next camping trip with K’Sante and Samira.

I need to know where he is. The plague of my existence, the bastard who refuses to give me a moment’s peace. I catch him in my periphery, inching closer, trying to overtake.

“In your dreams, Madden,” I grit out, gripping the inside line, cutting off his advance.

But in holding my ground, I miscalculate. A chunk of debris looms too late to avoid—my Camaro clips it hard, the jolt rattling through my bones. The Mustang stays behind, but I don’t gain any ground. Lap after lap, he’s still there, stuck to my ass like a curse I can’t outrun.

The rain has stopped, but it doesn’t make things any better. The air turns thick and suffocating, my suit clinging to my skin like a second layer of filth. Sweat beads down the back of my neck, itching beneath my helmet, but I can’t do a damn thing about it.

I try the water jets again—nothing. The reservoir’s dry, leaving my wipers to smear mud across my windshield, making my vision worse. Damn it. But I know this track, every turn, every shift in the terrain. I don’t need perfect visibility—just enough to keep my lead. The real threat isn’t the track. It’s him.

And now he’s right there.

Aphelios’ Mustang pulls up level with me, door to door, challenging me to the last breath of this race. I stomp the gas, metal screaming, the line between control and destruction razor-thin and I'm sure I'll ram the pedal through the bodywork if I keep going. If I push harder, I’ll send him into the wall.

The finish line barrels toward us.

Side by side, we cross it.

And I’m fucking furious—because I don’t know if I won. The decision is up to race control, but in my gut, I know I beat the bastard. I had to.

I pull into the designated area for participating cars, cutting the engine with a heavy sigh. The moment I rip off my helmet, the thick, humid air hits me like a slap. Sweat trickles down my temples as I toss the worn-out gloves onto the dash, running a hand through my soaked crimson hair to air out my fried brain. Feels like I just burned through every calorie from lunch in the last two hours.

Stepping out, I finally get a good look at my Camaro. She’s a damn mess—coated in thick layers of mud, streaked with grime, and dripping with the aftermath of that hellish track. I know she needs a deep clean, but there’s a sinking feeling in my gut. Under all that filth, I’m bound to find something my wallet won’t be happy about. NASCAR, my ass. That debris I hit back there? No way I got off damage-free.

Before I can assess the damage, two familiar figures push through the crowd. Sam’s got that post-race energy, all broad strides and shit-eating grins, while K’s dragging behind with the smug satisfaction of someone who just watched a damn good show.

“Yo, that was insane!” Sam reaches me first, fist already raised. I bump it, still too drenched in sweat for anything more. She slaps my shoulder anyway, hard enough to sting. That person is more man than woman sometimes and she’s damn hot with her long scar running above her left green eye and wild brown hair. “You were flying out there, man. Thought you were gonna send Madden straight into the dirt.”

I snort, because the idea is an appealing one. “Should’ve.”

Next to her, my best friend tilts his head, eyes flicking over my Camaro before snapping back to me and offering me another fist bump. “You look like shit, pretty boy.”

“Gee, thanks.” I wave a hand toward my car. “More worried about her, to be honest. Pretty sure that debris knocked something loose.”

“Well, you did ram through it like a battering ram, so yeah, no shit.” K’Sante whistles, bending down to inspect the front fender. “Damn, you might need to realign this. And I think you got a nice little dent on the undercarriage. How’s she handling?”

“She was fine,” I say, stretching out my shoulders. “But I felt something off toward the last few laps. Might’ve knocked the alignment out. Gotta check under the hood.”

The only upside to blowing my dollars on car repairs is getting to spend hours with my best friend, losing myself in grease-stained hands and heavy lifting—no bullshit, no distractions.

K smirks. “Or you could admit Madden actually made you sweat.”

“Madden can eat shit.” I roll my eyes. And placing second for that matter.

Samira barks out a laugh. “Well, he’s right there, so you might wanna say that to his face.”

Not gonna happen. The less I see his face, the better I feel. I groan, already regretting everything as I turn my head.

Aphelios pulls his Mustang next to mine—not because he wants to, but because he has to. Sam’s talking, but I’m not listening. My damn eyes are glued to him , to the way he steps out of his car and yanks off his helmet, black hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Then he runs a hand through it, slicking it back into place like some effortless model, and it pisses me off. I hate his perfect look.

He hasn’t caught me staring—good. Because for some goddamn reason, I can’t look away as he pops the top button on his racing suit and drags the zipper down, just a few inches. Collarbone, pale as hell against black fabric. And for one sick second, some part of me wants him to keep going, to peel it lower and—fuck. A jolt of heat shoots straight south, and I shift my weight, doing my best to adjust my half-hard dick without drawing attention to the problem.

“Close your mouth, Hotshot, you’re drooling .” K’s voice jolts me out of my own head, and I roll my eyes, masking whatever the hell just happened behind my usual arrogant smirk. No way in hell I’m letting him have that ammo.

“He’s yours,” I shrug, like I don’t give a damn. “Not interested in that prick.”

K bumps my shoulder, grinning like he knows exactly what’s up. “Nah, I’ve got my hands full already. And trust me, I wouldn’t steal my bro’s lover.”

Sam practically wheezes with laughter, doubling over and shoving into my side. “So it’s true then? All that glaring across the track is just hidden love?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I groan, yanking open my turtelneck because Jesus , it’s hot—and not because of him . “Get that shit out of your head, or I swear we’re not gonna be friends.”

Both of them are looking at me with that damn knowing expression, the kind that crawls under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. I don’t need them in my head right now. I already have enough bullshit rattling around in there—namely the fact that I might have a little problem concerning Aphelios who is actually smiling at his sister and I really don’t wish for that kind of smile to be destined to me. A problem that goes beyond our eternal feud, beyond just wanting to beat him into the dirt. But I refuse to think about that.

Sam cackles. “Yup, but you’re looking again.”

I snap my head toward her, scowling. “I wasn’t.”

I was. And the fact that she called me on it just pisses me off more.

Rolling my shoulders, I drag a hand through my hair again, barely resisting the urge to yank it in frustration. I just need a damn shower. A hot one. A long one. Something to rinse off this whole mess of a race day. Even briefly considering skipping the podium and hitting the trailer for a moment to be alone under the water spray.

But first—I need confirmation . I need to hear it out loud that I won. Perfect excuse to change the subject, to push this other problem down where it belongs.

If I’m tense, it’s because I don’t know the results yet. I’m sure they’ve already been announced, but from here, I can’t see the ranking panel.

“The results out yet?” I glance at K and Sam—and immediately, I hate what I see. They’re stiff. Too still. Their smiles don’t quite reach their eyes. And that tells me everything.

The rage starts pooling in my stomach before they even open their mouths.

K shrugs, deliberately avoiding my gaze. “Sorry, man. You ended up second.”

The hell?

Reckless anger is the easiest kind to give in to. And right now, I’m two seconds away from letting it take over.

“You’re kidding.” My voice is low, tight, barely able to contain the weight of the frustration behind it. “Tell me, K. You’re fucking shitting me right now.”

But K doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smirk. He just shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line like he's bracing for my reaction. Samira doesn’t say anything either—just gives me that look , the kind that’s both apologetic and a warning all at once.

The kind that says, you’re not gonna like what you hear .

“It's not my style to fuck with you, man. It was a matter of three goddamn inches.” K’Sante’s words are honest and I know it, but I’m too far gone in my wrath to care about them. You're ahead, you win. You're behind, you lose. And damn it, I'd rather be on the other side than the losing crew.

I clench my fists so hard the bones of my knuckles creak. Second place. I came in second fucking place . To him. To Aphelios fucking Madden , a guy who drives on dirt like a damn rookie, who shouldn’t have been able to keep up with me—who sure as hell shouldn’t have been able to beat me.

And yet, when I turn my head, there he is.

Grinning.

Smug, insufferable, looking right at me with that infuriating, devil-may-care face like he’s enjoying every second of this.

And just like that, I snap .

“I’ll kill him!” I roar, already stepping forward, the fire in my veins demanding action .

I don’t get far.

Samira’s grip is iron , her arms locking around my torso like a human restraint. Damn, she’s strong—strong enough to keep me from throwing myself across the lot and wiping that smug fucking look off Madden’s face. K steps in front of me too, blocking my view, and it only makes me angrier, makes my blood pound louder in my ears.

“Reign it in, Hotshot ,” K warns, voice steady but firm. “You know what happens if you deck him now.”

“I don’t fucking care , K!”

I do. I do care . But the rage is louder. The humiliation, the sheer injustice of it, is clawing at my chest like a wild animal. My Camaro should be the one pulling into first place. I should be the one standing on that podium, taking my rightful fucking win.

And yet, Madden —that prick —he’s just flipped me the bird before turning away, already heading for the podium like he earned that top spot.

Like he deserves it. He doesn’t deserve a damn thing. He just clung to my car’s ass the whole race, leeching off my talent to clear the way and riding my slipstream to stay on track. A coward’s move.

I lurch forward again, but Samira tightens her hold, yanking me back so hard my feet nearly skid on the pavement.

“Yes, you do care,” she hisses in my ear, low and sharp. “Think about Mari , Sunshine. Think about her, because she wouldn’t want you throwing your future away over some dumbass feud with Madden.”

That name alone is enough to make me grind my teeth. But it’s Mom she brings up, and it hits me like a gut punch.

I don’t answer right away. Because there’s nothing to say.

I do care. Of course, I fucking care.

A little voice in my head whispers that racing is the only time I truly feel free—that, for once, I’m in control of my own life. No crushing social pressure, no endless cycle of paying bills. Just me, my Camaro, the adrenaline, and the results I fought for. It’s pride in what I’ve built with my own two hands—podiums, an unwanted fan club, enough money to get by… and a rival who keeps pushing me past my limits. And I race for her.

I’ve already noticed she’s been off lately. More tired than usual, pushing herself too hard to keep our trailer clean and our daily meals perfect, brushing off my concerns with excuses about the upcoming summer heat. I know better. She just doesn’t want me worrying about her.

But I do . I always will.

If something happens—no, nothing is gonna fucking happen—but if it does, I need to make sure I have enough cash to cover anything she needs.

And if I get myself banned…?

There won’t be any prize money. No money means no repairs for my Camaro, no racing, no income. No way to help Mom.

It clicks—like a switch being flipped. As if in my blind rage I'd forgotten everything that matters.

“Let go of me, Sam,” I say, voice lower, more controlled.

I can feel her and K exchanging looks, but I don’t turn around. I keep my eyes on the ground, jaw tight, fists still itching for a fight I can’t afford to start .

“Only if you promise not to do something stupid ,” she says, still not loosening her grip.

I exhale hard through my nose. “I’m skipping the damn podium.”

There is a beat of silence. Then—

“You what ?” They both speak at the same time, staring at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head.

I roll my shoulders, shaking off Samira’s hold now that she’s loosened up in sheer shock. “You heard me. I’ll grab my prize later. Not standing up there with him .”

Let’s call it a loophole. A stupid rule, but one I can take advantage of right now. A few years back, another driver suffered a heatstroke right after crossing the finish line and couldn’t make it to the podium. The race committee debated whether to count it as a forfeit, but the crowd wasn’t having it. I remember that day—I won that race under the scorching summer heat—but if it had been me in his place, I’d have been pissed too. We put our lives on the line to drive and fuel their business. As long as we cross the checkered flag, we’ve earned our damn prize.

So, the podium ceremony? Just a show. My guaranteed second-place prize money is waiting for me in the official’s office.

“Bro.” K’s voice is pure disbelief . “Who are you, and what the hell have you done with my best friend?”

I snort, my eyes darting between my best friends. “Haven’t you been lecturing me about not getting myself into trouble?”

“Well… yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually listen .” K blinks and I’m pretty sure, he still doesn’t believe what I’ve said.

Sam folds her arms, still eyeing me like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. “You sure you don’t wanna just shove your fist down his throat and get it over with?”

The idea is tempting. So tempting.

But then I picture Mom, exhaustion written all over her face, brushing off my concern and suddenly, the rage doesn’t burn as hot.

Still there. Still simmering. But not enough to ruin my future over.

So I just shake my head, exhaling sharply. “Not worth it.”

K whistles low. “Damn. Look at you, being all responsible. What’s next, you gonna start making logical life choices?”

“Nah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is Sunshine Callahan we’re talking about.” Sam smirks as she shoulder bumps me.

I scoff, but the edge in my shoulders eases just a fraction and I can feel the smirk curling my lips slightly upward. They’re annoying as hell , but they’re also the reason I haven’t completely lost my shit today. And I guess… I’m kinda grateful for that. Not that I’d ever say it out loud.

“Alright,” I mutter, shaking my head, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Gonna hit the bar. You two coming?”

K’s brows shoot up. “Skipping the podium and heading straight for a drink? You sure you’re okay, man?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy .” My voice drips with sarcasm. “Absolutely thrilled to be in second place. So are you two coming or not?”

I jab my thumb toward Garren’s, waiting for my friends’ response, but their matching grins are all the answer I need. They fall into step with me, arms slung over my shoulders, and together, we head straight for my usual post-race watering hole.

Because there’s only one small upside to losing tonight.

Aphelios Madden?

He won’t be at the bar.

But he will be at the trailer tonight.

And the second I walk through that door? I’m gonna screw him into the floorboards—either with my fists or by making sure he remembers exactly who he’s dealing with. Maybe, just maybe , there’s one good thing about having him crash at my place.

When we step into the bar, it’s not crowded. Not yet. Most of the racing crowd is still at the track, buzzing around the podium I’ve skipped. That gives us the perfect window to grab our first drinks and secure the best spot before the place fills up.

"The usual?" I ask, already knowing the answer. K and Sam nod before peeling off toward our usual corner, Sam throwing over her shoulder, "We’ll keep your seat warm, Hotshot."

I shake my head, exhaling hard. I need to get my shit together, and that’s going to be my entire evening—enduring their teasing about my second-place finish. Great.

Leaning against the bar, I glance around. The place has the same worn-in charm it always does—dim lighting, wooden beams darkened by years of cigarette smoke, and the comforting hum of classic rock crackling through old speakers. A couple of regulars are nursing drinks at the far end, low murmurs blending into the music. The scent of beer, whiskey, and fried food hangs thick in the air, settling in my bones like muscle memory.

"Bad luck today, Callahan," a familiar voice rumbles.

I glance up as Garren approaches, tossing a kitchen towel over his broad shoulder. If you think I’m built like a bull, Garren’s a whole damn stampede. The guy’s easily got thirty pounds of solid muscle on me, his flannel shirt—red and black, sleeves rolled up thick forearms—straining against his chest like the buttons might pop off if he so much as exhales too hard. Faded jeans and heavy boots complete the look, the man every bit the bar-owner-slash-bouncer who could throw someone through a wall without breaking a sweat.

"Yeah, yeah," I roll my eyes. "Two beers and a Vesper."

"Of course." Garren grins before adding, "Vesper with more vodka than gin, right?"

"You know Sam too well," I smirk.

"True habits never change," he says with a laugh, already turning to pour the beers.

As I wait, I watch him work. The tap hisses, foam rising before settling into golden liquid. Damn, do I want to get drunk tonight. Let the alcohol melt away my frustration, dull the sting of Aphelios taking first place. But I still have to drive home, and besides that—I'm starving.

"Hey, Garren, any chance I can get a burger?" I ask as he slides the beers my way, moving on to prepare Samira’s Vesper. He measures out the vodka—definitely more than the gin—before reaching for the shaker.

"Yeah, but you’ll have to wait till my help gets here. I’ll make sure you’re the first order once I head to the kitchen."

"Your wife’s not around?" I arch a brow, glancing around, confirming that the usual golden-haired woman behind the counter is nowhere to be seen. When I look back, Garren’s blushing—actually blushing—and wearing the cheesiest grin I’ve ever seen on his brick-wall of a face.

"She’s taking a break from the bar," he says, filling the glass with the mixed liquor and plopping in a lemon slice. Then, flashing me a grin so bright I’m half-blinded, he adds, "There’s a mini-me in the oven."

I blink. "Woah. Congrats, dude!"

He chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel. "Thanks, man. It’s still early, but we’re excited. Scared, too, but mostly excited."

A kid. Garren’s gonna be a dad.

I nod and I take the drinks from him, but my hands move on autopilot. My mind’s still stuck on the idea of raising a mini-self in this world.

Would I ever want that?

On one hand, yeah, it’d be kinda cool to have a kid with my blood in their veins. A little racer tearing up the track one day, carrying on the Callahan name. Someone who looks up to me, someone I could actually teach something.

But on the other hand—fuck no.

I barely have my own shit together. How the hell would I raise a kid in this mess? I live in a trailer, I scrape by on prize money and piling cement on a construction site, and I can’t even imagine settling down with someone long enough to start a family. More than that, I wouldn’t want to bring a kid into the kind of environment I grew up in. I know what it’s like to go to bed with stress sitting like a rock in your gut, wondering if there’ll be enough cash to keep the lights on, if your parents are working themselves to the bone just to make ends meet. That’s not the kind of life I’d wish on anyone, let alone my own kid.

I shake off the thought, pushing it deep into the back of my mind as I turn away from the bar.

K and Sam are waiting, and I know they’re ready to drag me through the wringer over tonight’s race. But at least I’ve got them. Best damn friends I could ask for, even if they’re unbearable when they’re gloating.

I smirk, making my way toward them, drinks in hand. "Alright, assholes, let’s get this over with."

Handing Samira her drink, I drop onto the lounge seat next to K and pass him his beer. We clink our drinks together, letting the easy rhythm of conversation settle between us. And for once, I actually relax—because neither of them brings up the race results or, worse, Madden’s damn existence.

I told Samira about him crashing at my place a while ago, and she gave me the same speech as K did, but like him, she never pushed the issue. Today, yeah, they teased me about it, but that’s all.

The conversation shifts to K’s newfound love life, and I watch as Sam tries to pry details out of him, determined to figure out who’s got him so smitten. It makes me wonder when she’ll be the one to settle down. Unlikely. That’s not Sam.

She’s had her share of shit to deal with. K and I grew up with her, but then she left. Never told us why. And we never pushed. If she wants to tell us one day, she will. What I do know is that wherever she went, she ended up joining the Army at eighteen. Did her military service. And the day she came back to Navori’s Trailer Park? Damn. She was all muscle, all confidence, all fucking happy.

Don’t get me wrong—Sam and I? Never gonna happen. Same with K and me. Or K and Sam. But I can appreciate a good-looking person, and even now, she’s stunning. More muscle than curves, dressed in her usual tight military-green tank top—no bra, obviously—and baggy pants tucked into boots. She never left that military style behind, and it suits her. Helps her in her job, too. She works security at a nightclub and took the night off to watch me race, which I appreciate.

Out of the corner of my eye, something colorful shifts. I glance toward the bar and see Aphelios’ sister heading over to Garren. He greets her, hands her an apron, and then disappears into the kitchen. That’s new. Usually, her spot is on the other side of the counter, getting wasted.

“She’s working here now?” K asks, catching where my gaze landed.

I tear my eyes away and shrug. “Garren mentioned waiting for his help to show up. And since his wife’s expecting, I guess Madden’s his new hire.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, a thought hits me—if she’s here, her brother can’t be far. My jaw clenches at the idea.

“Whaaat, Garren’s gonna be a dad?” Sam shrieks, her voice way too high-pitched for how she usually acts. It’s so ridiculous coming from her that I burst out laughing.

“Yeah,” I say, taking another sip of beer. “Guess his wife wants to stay away from places like this now, for the baby’s sake.”

That kicks off another round of conversation, and I let myself sink into it, shoving away the lingering irritation gnawing at me while Hotel California plays in the background.

At some point, my burger arrives, delivered by Garren himself, and damn, I’m starving. I tear into it, barely pausing between bites. It’s greasy, loaded with everything I need to soak up the alcohol I’ll allow myself tonight. K takes the chance to grab us another round, and when he comes back, he’s got a few guys in tow and doesn’t seem pleased by their company. I barely recognize them, but I don’t need to.

Some idiots from the self-proclaimed Callahan fan club. It’s nice, I guess, but my ego really doesn’t need that shit.

“Unlucky, Callahan,” one of them greets me, and something about his voice twists in my chest. Can’t quite place it. When I glance up, I see the same ugly mug I’ve spotted around the track before, but nothing special.

“Shit happens, dude.” I brush it off, more focused on finishing my food before it gets cold.

They keep talking—some nonsense about the race, some about whatever drama’s brewing in the world—but I tune them out. Not interested. But just as I’m about to tell them to piss off, one of them mutters something that grinds my nerves raw. “Is that Madden?”

Burger halfway to my mouth, I pause. My stomach knots for a second, but then I remember—Alune. She’s working here now. That explains it. I relax.

Then the guy speaks again. “What’s that fucking cocksucker doing here?”

I snap. Not because I suddenly give a shit about Aphelios—he’s across the room, taking a seat at the counter, Alune already giving him her full attention—but because this random asshole is pissing me off. Really, I don’t give fuck about Aphelios’ gay life at all.

I slam my burger onto my plate, push up from my seat, and square my shoulders as I step toward him.

“You got a problem with queer people?” My voice cuts through the bar, loud enough that heads turn.

The guy hesitates, caught off guard. But not enough to shut his damn mouth. Ballsy enough to give me more reason to stay irritated. “Since when are you defending that prick, Callahan?”

I throw a thumb toward my friends without taking my eyes off him. “I’m defending my friends and my fucking self, asshole. The perfect trio—gay, pan, and bi. So if that’s an issue, I don’t want you in that self-proclaimed ‘good man’ fan club anymore.”

His hands shoot up, like I’ve pulled a gun on him. “Shit, calm yourself down, Callahan. Don’t know who pissed in your Cornflakes, dude.” His buddies take the hint and start backing up with him.

My irritation spikes higher. Today’s second-place finish already has me wound tight, and my fists itch to throw a punch. Sam and K step up beside me, and for once, they look just as ready to start something.

But before I make a move, something shifts in the air.

Across the bar, Aphelios stands, a backpack his sister just gave him in hand. His usual smirk is gone. No cocky attitude. No I-don’t-give-a-fuck mask. Instead, his shoulders are stiff, his entire body coiled tight like he’s about to bolt. His sister tries to talk to him, but he ignores her.

And he’s not looking at me.

He’s looking at them.

My gaze flicks between him and the guys in front of me then back to him. He’s wary, on edge. Not because of me, not because of the scene I’m making, but because of them. Every muscle in his body is screaming to get the hell out of here.

And then he does. Not running, but leaving fast enough that it might as well be the same thing.

“You should leave,” Sam says, pulling my attention back to the guys.

She’s right and I step forward to prove her point. The energy in the bar has shifted, the moment soured. There are still eyes on us, but I don’t care. If those guys don’t scramble away right now, I won’t be holding myself back much longer—blood will spill at Garren’s.

The lousy guy holds his hands up again, glancing at his friends before muttering, “Alright, alright. No hard feelings.” Then, like cowards, they take the hint and slink away.

I exhale sharply, shaking off the lingering frustration as I sit back down. K and Sam follow suit, but the mood’s off now, tainted by that bullshit.

“Fucking assholes,” Sam mutters and K keeps silent, sipping his beer.

I finish my burger in silence, chewing mechanically. The taste is still good, but the satisfaction is gone. No one talks shit about queer people in front of me. Especially not in front of my friends. And well, it sucks that my mind keeps backtracking to what happened with Aphelios. I don’t give a damn about his love life—never did, never will. He can screw whoever he wants, and I wouldn’t blink. But even he doesn’t deserve to be targeted by some random homophobic lowlifes.

Maybe I should’ve swung a punch or two. It would’ve felt good, real good. But I know better than to waste my energy on some random asshole who won’t even be worth remembering in a week.

I take another sip of beer, letting it sit on my tongue before swallowing. The bitterness fits the mood. As much as I tell myself to let it go, I can’t get my head back in the game and join K and Sam in whatever discussion they’re having. Something about the whole stunt leaves an insufferable nagging under my skin. I take another sip of my beer, then another, until the glass is empty—but the feeling doesn’t go away. And my eyes are wandering.

Across the room, the group of jackasses is huddled near the entrance, murmuring about something before stepping out into the night. The sight should put me at ease, but it doesn’t.

Because I catch Alune’s gaze from behind the bar. She looks worried, her fingers digging into her apron as she stares at the spot where those assholes stood just moments ago.

I frown.

Not my problem. Not my fucking problem.

But that worry of hers lingers in my gut, heavy and uncomfortable. And I know it’s not for her. It’s for her brother.

I don’t know why. I shouldn’t care. But something about the way he left—fast, too fast—nags at me. Like a bad feeling settling deep in my bones.

It hits me like I’ve crashed into a wall.

That voice. I recognize it now, and the images of that night slam into me with full force. Aphelios, looking lost and defeated. That beaten-down expression I never wanted to see again—unless I was the one putting it there. And the voice that made my skin itch back at the bar? It's the same one I heard that night.

A cold knot tightens in my gut.

“Sorry, guys. Something’s up and I’ll head home after this. Don’t wait up for me.”

I push back from my seat, the words coming out more like an excuse than a plan. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I feel the need to move. To do something. Maybe it’s just to prove to myself that I’m wrong, that nothing’s happening. That I won’t have to patch Aphelios up tonight because he got himself mixed up with the wrong people—again.

I don’t wait for K or Sam to question me. I feel their eyes on me as I cross the bar, passing the counter. And then, for some reason, I glance at Alune. She’s already looking at me, worry etched deep into her face. I nod. A simple motion, but her shoulders relax just a little, like she expected me to do something. Like she was hoping for it.

I step outside.

At first, I don’t know where I’m going until I hear loud and familiar voices. The knot in my stomach twists tighter. My instincts scream at me to turn around, to mind my own business. But my feet keep moving. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting everything in shades of gold and deep orange. Long shadows stretch across the lot as I round the corner of the main forum and I finally see them.

Three silhouettes towering over a single figure, pressed against the wall.

A sharp spike of something—rage, adrenaline, something else I can’t name—burns through me.

“Hey, fuckers!” My voice cuts through the night like a whip.

Three heads snap toward me and I grin when I get their attention, cracking my knuckles and rolling my shoulders as if I’m about to have some fun.

“Get your hands off Madden. He’s my fucking problem to deal with!”

And before any of them can react, my fist is already flying.

The first punch lands with a sickening crunch.

Damn, does it feel good.

---

Aphelios Madden

The moment the guy takes a whack so powerful that his head snaps to the side and he wobbles, I feel the grip around my racing suit loosen, fingers slipping off the fabric as he staggers back. I take advantage of the opening, wrenching myself free and stumbling a step away, finally sucking in a sharp breath.

I should be running.

Sett’s here now, throwing himself into this mess without a second thought. He’s outnumbered, but I know damn well he can handle himself. Three against one? Maybe he’ll walk away with a split lip, a black eye, a few bruises. But he’ll win. That’s just what he does.

All I want to do is bring the car back and take a shower—enjoy the last bit of warmth, preferably before Callahan, just to see his expression twist with rage. And yet—I don’t move, my heart hammering in my chest.

It would be the smart thing. The thing I always do. Keep my head down, keep moving, keep surviving and deal with the only shit that's already sticking to my ass. But something about this, about Sett Callahan standing between me and them, fists raised like some reckless idiot, doesn’t sit right.

He throws himself into shit he doesn’t need to, gets involved in things that aren’t his problem. First, he patches me up after that night, then he lets me crash on his couch, and now he’s out here, throwing punches for me, like some half-drunk Prince Charming who doesn’t even realize he’s playing hero.

And I feel guilty, because it seems like he's trying to fix my problems when I never asked him to. We're not even friends. I don't even know what the hell is going on between us, because seriously—who accepts to go shopping with the person they hate the most?

One of the assholes—bigger than the others, built like a slab of meat—grabs Sett’s arm as he swings again. It slows him down just enough for another to land a hit, a sharp crack of a fist connecting with ribs. Sett grunts but doesn’t buckle, twisting out of the hold and slamming his elbow backward into the guy’s gut.

I could leave. I should.

But instead, my body moves before my brain can catch up.

My fist collides with someone’s jaw. It’s not graceful, not a trained punch, but it’s enough to startle him. The guy staggers back, swearing, and I take the opportunity to drive my knee up into his stomach. He doubles over with a wheeze, and a strange, unfamiliar rush floods my veins.

Adrenaline. And the satisfaction of knowing that the assholes who trashed my place are finally getting what they deserve. I’m not the vengeful type, but damn, this feels good.

Sett doesn’t even look at me, too busy grappling with another one of them, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s grinning.

“You throw a punch like you drive,” he mutters, twisting out of another hold.

“And you fight like you’re in a bar brawl every damn week,” I snap back, breathless but I’m fucking grinning too.

There’s no synergy between us, but for once, it feels like we’re on the same side. Life is full of polar opposites, and yet, in this moment, I’ve somehow found an ally in the very person who makes my life hell. It’s like realizing that the ingredient you’ve despised for years doesn’t actually taste that bad. But I can’t let my brain dwell on that now — not when losing focus means taking a punch to the face.

One of the guys lunges at me again, aiming wild. I duck, barely dodging it, and before I can straighten, Sett is there, grabbing the back of the guy’s shirt and yanking him off-balance.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Sett growls, shoving him hard enough that he stumbles back into the others. “Or I’ll make sure you don’t get up next time.”

They hesitate now, realization dawning. Sett’s barely winded, and I—well, I’m still standing, which is probably more than they expected. The guy I hit rubs his jaw, eyes flicking between us, before spitting on the ground.

“Fucking waste of time,” he mutters. “Not worth it.”

Another one scoffs, shaking out his wrist. “Visibly those faggots have found each other.”

They start backing off, slinking away like the cowards they are. My chest is still heaving, my knuckles sting, and I realize I don’t know what to do now that it’s over. 

Because I'm frozen in place. It's not the first time—and surely won't be the last—that I've been called names. But this time, the insult wasn't just aimed at me. It hit Sett too. And despite our constant rivalry, I've dragged him down enough with my problems. He doesn't deserve this. That arrogant prick, Sett Callahan, is a lot of things... but not that. Not this kind of judgment. And as the weight of it sinks in, my chest tightens, like I'm suffocating under a ton of rock.

“You’re definitely banned from your goddamn self-proclaimed fan-club,” Sett shouts before he exhales and rolls his shoulders and I’m sure he’s about to dash after them. “You good?”

I glance at him, completely thrown off by the worry in his tone, pretty sure I’m imagining it. But it doesn’t ease the guilt gnawing at my chest.

“Well, thank you for…” I nod awkwardly, biting my lower lip and averting my gaze. I motion vaguely toward where those assholes had been standing moments ago. “...the help. But I should go and bring Hawthorne’s car back.”

There’s this strange, heavy feeling swelling in my chest lately. Something I can’t quite name.

Putting aside our never-ending feud... and my stupid crush on this damn-good looking guy, these past few weeks have been oddly comforting. I never thought I'd find any kind of peace, let alone in Sett Callahan's shitty trailer. I don’t have friends to lean on when things get rough—only Alune—but even she’s got her own burdens to carry. And somehow, crashing at Sett’s place, with him and Mari, feels... safe. Like I can breathe.

But after tonight, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve taken that for granted. That I’ve been dragging them down with me.

I need to get the hell out of here.

Returning the Mustang and walking back will help clear my head. And maybe, it’s finally time to get my sorry ass out of Sett’s life before I screw up even more. If I mess things up with Hawthorne again, it won’t be me paying the price. It’ll be Sett. And his mom. And I can’t let that happen. I know what it's like to have a gun pointed at you—trust me, it's not a pretty feeling.

I move to pass Sett, aiming for the car, when his hand catches my arm, halting me in my tracks. I feel his eyes on me, burning through the cracks I’ve been trying so hard to keep together.

I’m about to hiss that he should let me go when he cuts me off.

“Those were the same guys, right?”

I just nod, not looking at him. I can’t afford to look him in the eyes, he’s too close, and I can smell his masculine sweat and it’s driving me completely crazy.

“How did they know you’re gay, Madden?” Sett keeps going and I rather want him to shut his mouth and let me go.

He already asked me that question and it’s something I can’t truly answer. I can’t tell him they’ve discovered the way I’m looking at him when he’s unguarded. Like a disgusting teenage schoolboy drooling over a movie star in their puberty. Because I still don’t know what this perpetual sexual tension between us is.

Pretty sure I know, but it’s easier to keep denying whatever is blossoming in my stupid chest and keep my hope up. I’ve been trying to keep my fucking feelings in check, to hide them from everyone, but I’ve been shit at doing so.

“They just don’t like me,” I shrug, half-lying. “Maybe they just guessed. It’s easier to throw random insults at people you don’t like. And since I’m your rival on the track, I’m the perfect target for them, that’s all. Sorry to drag you into my mess.”

“You’re not dragging me into your mess,” his tone is sharp. “They’ve been insulting my friends, too.”

Silence hangs heavy between us, and I’m desperate to get away. The more time I spend around Sett, the more my mind spirals into confusion. I hate how he makes me feel—how I’m losing control over myself, over this unbearable ache that grows in my chest every time I look at him. I push away the part of me that aches to be held in his stupidly strong arms because, deep down, I know that beneath all that arrogance, Sett Callahan is someone else. Someone I don't deserve.

And I hate that he has already seen all those shitty sides of my pitiful existence.

Trying to move, I feel his grip on my arm tightens. “Hey,” he says, softer this time and it truly surprises me. I don't like it. “We should get back inside. Alune’s been worried sick about you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling that familiar sting crawling up my throat. I want to push him away, shove him off, spit some venomous words to make him still hate me. 

"Let me go, Callahan," I mutter, and I’m surprised when he actually listens, letting me take a few steps back to put some safe distance between us.

"Look, I know I’ve been a dick to you," he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "And I’m not saying we should start holding hands and singing kumbaya. But... our feud should stay on the track. You need friends, Madden."

My head snaps up, eyes burning with something I can’t name. I hate where this is going.

Sett Callahan has always been my rival—on the track and in the simple act of breathing the same air. I don’t need him as a friend. Even if there’s a spark deep inside me, begging to accept this olive branch, the louder, more irrational part of me screams that we could never be friends.

I need him as the arrogant prick who’s made my life hell, the one who doesn’t ask questions or pry beneath the surface of all the shit I’m still hiding. I need him to hate me—to crush whatever pathetic hope is still clawing at my chest.

Need him to use me and toss me aside when he’s done. Because that’s all I’m good for anyway and I will not drag his friends, his mother and himself deeper into my shit.

Realizing I made a mistake is when I see how his honey-colored eyes are burning into me, and I hate how sincere they look. How warm. How fucking safe. I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating under the weight of everything. My chest feels like it’s caving in, and all I want to do is run. Run as far as I can and never look back.

“What’s in it for you, huh? Feel like a hero, Callahan?” I let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m not offering pity,” he fires back, jaw clenched stepping closer. “I’m offering a fucking lifeline, you asshole.”

I grit my teeth, my pulse hammering in my ears. A damn lifeline. Something I desperately need but can’t afford to take because I have a lifetime’s worth of issues to run. Alone.

The heat is unbearable, heavy and sticky even after the rain. My racing suit clings to me, damp with sweat from the fight. The sunset does nothing to ease the warmth, and the sweat trickling down my face itches against my skin.

Without thinking, I lower the zipper of my racing suit and grab the hem of my shirt to wipe my face, hoping to ground myself. When I drop it, Sett is still looking at me.

No, it’s different. He’s staring at me. In a way that makes my skin goes itchy and my heart jack-hammering.

And I’m staring back. Whatever seething anger and spiraling thoughts I had a second ago evaporate into thin air.

His lip is split, a faint bruise already blooming on his cheekbone, but he looks... fine. More than fine. Like this was just another Friday night for him. And fuck, he’s hot. That stupid sleeveless racing suit, the scar on his nose, the way his eyebrows draw together when he's pissed, and those golden eyes, predatory and locked on me.

He steps closer, and I realize I’ve been backing up without noticing. Until there’s nowhere left to go. The forum’s wall is hard against my spine, and Sett is towering over me now, eyes burning into mine.

“Why do you keep doing this, huh?” he hisses. “Why do you keep getting in my fucking way, Madden?”

I’m speechless. My brain’s turning into putty, and the only thing still thinking is my goddamn dick. Ridiculous. Because I know that the second he touches me, I’m done for. Completely at his mercy.

His hand brushes against my jaw, barely touching, but it’s enough to send a violent shiver down my spine. My body betrays me, leaning into his touch, and I hate myself for it. For wanting this. For wanting him. Like a stupid fly drawn to an electric trap, ready to get scorched alive.

"Fuck you," I whisper, trying to sound venomous, but my voice cracks. Especially when his hand closes around my throat, firm but not choking, just holding me there. My breath stutters. My goddamn dick twitches in my briefs.

He’s doing it again—just staring, like he’s studying me, unraveling me thread by thread. His gaze drags down, tracing the shape of my mouth before flicking back up, only to settle on my lips again. Lingering.

“What are you doing to me, Madden?” he breathes, voice barely above a growl.

Before I can think—before I can even begin to stop myself—I fist my hands into the collar of his stupid racing suit. His eyes snap up to mine. There's something wild in them, something teetering on the edge of control, and I feel the reckless, self-destructive need to push him, to prod at whatever button might make him snap.

We’re so damn close. Inches apart. His breath fans against my skin, hot and uneven, and I swear it’s setting my blood on fire.

"The same thing you're doing to me." I try to keep my voice flat, unaffected, but I fail. Miserably. My words come out uneven, like my brain has lost connection to my tongue. "You're hot as fuck, Callahan. Can’t deny it anymore. But we’re just a bunch of fucking assholes, so deal with it."

I expect him to shove me away. To sneer, to throw some cutting remark that reminds me of exactly who we are to each other.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares, those golden eyes digging into me, peeling me apart. My breath is ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I don’t know if I want to punch him or—

His gaze dips back to my mouth.

It’s damn cute how he bites his bottom lip, like he's hesitating. Like kissing me would mean something more than just pushing boundaries for the thrill of it.

And that hesitation? It drives me insane because I’m pretty sure he wants it. And fuck, it’s mutual.

Before I can think, before I can let that flicker of doubt bloom into something real—something that might stop me—closing my eyes, I grab the back of his neck and crush my lips against his and my brain short-circuits.

It’s far better than I ever imagined in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams.

His lips are soft and warm, not chapped and rough like I thought they'd be. I expected resistance, a shove, maybe even a punch to the face—and my thoughts come to a screeching halt when Sett Callahan kisses me back.

His hand tightens around my throat just enough to make me dizzy, while his other fist curls into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer. 

Who the hell am I to deny his tongue when it's pressing against my lips, licking into my mouth like he owns me? There's a teeny tiny voice in the back of my head screaming that this can't be happening, that I should keep my eyes closed because the unimaginable is unfolding right in front of me.

But when Sett's hips rut against mine, and I feel his hardness grinding against my aching dick through the fabric of my racing suit, I know it’s real. And fuck, it’s even worse than I thought because a moan escapes my mouth, immediately swallowed by his tongue, and I swear I feel him smirk against me.

I’m losing my mind.

Grabbing at his collar again to pull him closer, I’m desperate to feel more of him, but it’s not enough. My whole body feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out with something I’ve been denying for way too long. Sett’s hands are firm as they slide down my sides, grabbing at my hips like he’s trying to keep me in place, but it’s useless.

I’m already gone as I drop to my knees before I can think, undoing the long zipper of his combi simultaneously. And of course, he’s not wearing a shirt underneath, giving me a perfect view of his defined abs and that damn v-line leading down to trouble.

Sett’s breath catches, and I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like fuck under his breath, but I’m too far gone to care. My fingers fumble with the buckle of his racing suit, dragging the zipper down just enough to reveal the dangerous bulge straining beneath. One shove at the waistband, and Sett’s cock springs free, nearly smacking me in the face. And holy fuck—he's hard. It’s cut, thick and heavy, with precum already beading at the tip, and I nearly choke on my own breath at the sight.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

We’re rivals. We’re supposed to hate each other. We shouldn’t act like horny teenagers in front of each other.

But here I am, on my knees, tongue darting out to lap at the head of his cock just to hear that broken sound he makes above me. Sett's hand flies to my hair, tugging hard enough to make my scalp sting, but I don’t care.

I dig my fingers into the fabric around his thighs, grounding myself as I wrap my lips around his cock and hollow my cheeks, sucking him in as deep as I can. The groan that rips from his throat sends a violent shiver down my spine.

He tastes like I remember. Salty. Manly. Calla-fucking-han.

My own dick is straining against my briefs, painfully hard and begging for attention, but I can’t bring myself to care—not when Sett Callahan is falling apart above me, breathing heavily and cursing my name like I’m something worth breaking for.

“Fuck, Madden... You're such a fucking—” He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as I take him deeper, my throat tightening around him as the smooth head drags against my raw, burning throat. I force my gag reflex down.

Sett’s hips snap forward, fucking into my mouth without shame, and I let him. I want him to. Because I’m already drowning in him, and I never want to come up for air. It feels exhilarating, especially when the precum-dripping tip rasps relentlessly against my tongue. 

It’s strange—how, even with Sett fucking my throat raw, I suddenly feel powerful. Like, for once, I actually have control over something in my miserable life. Control over his pleasure.

But suddenly, Sett yanks me up by the hair, pulling me back to my feet and crashing his mouth against mine again. Still, I can taste him on my tongue, salty and warm, but the way he's kissing me—desperate, hungry, like he's trying to devour me whole—makes my head spin even harder.

“This is insane,” he growls against my lips. “This… us, shit, this shouldn’t be happening.”

Yeah, well, fuck it, asshole. It is happening. Proof enough that he keeps kissing me like the same desperate idiot I am.

His hands are already shoving my racing suit down, rough palms sliding over my sweat-damp skin as he pushes it past my hips, freeing my cock from my briefs. I gasp when the cool air hits me, but the sensation is quickly replaced by pure, mind-numbing pleasure as Sett grips me, tilts my cock up, and lines himself up against me.

And fuck, my knees nearly give out when he wraps his large hand around both of us, stroking us together in a tight, steady rhythm. His forehead rests against mine, our ragged breaths mingling as we fall apart in each other’s hands.

“Shit,” I choke out, my hands scrambling to grip his biceps, his shoulders, anywhere I can hold onto him because I know he’s taking me down with every wave of pleasure hitting me in my guts.

Occasionally, we manage to crash into open-mouthed kisses, sloppy and desperate, but neither of us can focus enough to make it last. Sett's hand moves faster, the friction between us unbearable, perfect and overwhelming. His thumb swipes over my leaking tip and I nearly sob against his mouth. 

“Look at you,” he mutters darkly, eyes half-lidded and burning with something that makes my stomach twist. “You're fucking falling apart in my hands.”

I whimper, actually whimper, and I want to die from the humiliation of how easily I’m coming undone for him.

His hand tightens around us, pumping us harder, rough and messy and desperate. Our cocks are slick with precum, sliding against each other perfectly, and I can’t stop the pathetic noises spilling from my throat as my hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing him.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Sett grunts, voice strained and filthy in my ear. “Come for me.”

That’s all it takes. My balls draw up painfully.

I cry out, my whole body shuddering as I spill between us, hot and sticky, coating his hand and my stomach with spurts of cum. Sett groans, his grip tightening as he follows, cursing under his breath as he ruts against me through his own release.

We’re both panting, chests heaving as we lean against each other, our foreheads pressed together.

I feel wrecked. Ruined. And my eyes are glued to the mess between us, cocks limp and glistening.

Through the post-orgasmic haze, a rational part of me screams to beware. My body aches to lean in again, to keep pressing my lips to his, but I force myself to stay still. What just happened feels surreal—and yet, this isn’t the first time Sett has pushed our rivalry into something physical.

But this time... this time feels different.

With certainty, we’ve just crossed a line we can’t come back from. I don’t even want to imagine the look on his face, knowing the hatred that fuels him will only burn brighter now.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for it—and, right on cue, Sett shoves himself off me, pushing me against the wall in the process. A pathetic moan escapes my throat before I can swallow it down, shame curling in my gut as the warmth we just shared slips through my fingers. I was a fool to want more. To hope for something I’ll never be allowed to have.

I hear the rustle of fabric and know he’s getting dressed. I do the same, biting back a sigh as I peel myself off the wall. No point in moping like an idiot.

When I finally open my eyes, Sett is standing in front of me, his back turned.

"What are we?" Sett's voice cuts through the heavy silence, but he doesn’t turn around. I can’t see his face, can't read the storm beneath his skin. He's always been easy to read when he's throwing punches or spitting insults, but like this? With his back to me? He’s impossible.

My throat feels tight. I could say a lot of things. I could tell him this is pure attraction, burning hot and out of control, fueled by the hatred we've been feeding for years. Alune tried to explain it to me once — something about how the line between love and hate is thinner than we think. But saying that out loud would only set me up for disaster.

So I go for the most pathetic, self-destructive thing I can think of.

"Friends with benefits?" I shrug, even though he can't see it.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can almost hear the tension snapping between us like an elastic band stretched too far. I expect him to laugh, to insult me, or maybe punch me right in the face. Honestly, I'd prefer that.

But he does none of that. He stomps away. Just like that and I swear I feel it sink right into my chest.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, cursing myself for ruining everything, for being the asshole he already believes I am.

I’m about to gather whatever’s left of my dignity and head back to the Mustang to drive it back when I hear the unmistakable sound of his Camaro’s engine roaring to life.

“Move your ass, Madden,” Sett calls from the driver’s seat, eyes burning into mine from the open window. “Take your Mustang wherever it needs to be and I’m driving you back.”

My heart skips a beat—and then sinks.

Because this? This feels like something far worse than hate.

The drive back feels endless. Sett’s Camaro follows closely, his headlights burning through my rearview mirror, casting sharp beams that cut through the night and right into my already scrambled brain.

I can't stop thinking about it. What the fuck are we?

That damn question keeps circling like a vulture, tearing into my gut. I try to drown it out with the Mustang’s roaring engine, let the vibrations numb my thoughts, but it doesn't work. Not when I know he's right there, watching me from behind.

At some point, I reach the garage without even realizing how I got here. The automatic doors slide open with a heavy metallic groan, and I drive the Mustang inside, parking it in its usual spot. I pop open the glove compartment to check the envelope with Hawthorne's cash, then step out of the car with a sigh.

As usual, I strip off the racing suit, the fabric clinging to my sweat-damp skin. I grab the spare clothes Alune stuffed in my backpack and change in the dim light, stuffing everything else into the trunk before heading for the exit.

The automatic doors close behind me with a heavy thud.

And there he is. Sett fucking Callahan leaning against his rumbling fiery red Camaro, waiting for me.

I swallow hard. It's going to be a hell of a ride back.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Hello, I'm back already!

First of all, I have to say—thank you! Your comments have overwhelmed me in the best way possible—I’ve actually cried, I swear! Never in a million years did I think that throwing Sett and Aphelios into this setup would resonate so much (for my humble writing ability… and no, I won’t admit that you're putting the pressure on me—lol—but I adore you anyway! <3).

Please enjoy this next chapter, and don’t hesitate to share your thoughts!

Oh yeah, I always forget to mention—I don’t have a beta reader for this! Not that it matters, tho.

Sett Callahan

That garage with the automatic doors and top-notch security system... Yeah, it screams Hawthorne. With all the cash he collects terrorizing people who own him, it doesn't surprise me. And I’m truly glad, I have nothing to do with that loanshark personally.

This whole situation feels like something out of an action movie or one of those over-the-top Netflix series. Not that I've been binging much lately—our cable subscription expired months ago. At least I managed to finish Breaking Bad and Supernatural before things went to shit.

Can you even imagine that Supernatural has fifteen goddamn seasons? And yeah, I've seen them all.

I could talk for hours about Dean, Sam, and that awkward trench coat-wearing angel, Castiel. Even Crowley, that sarcastic demon bastard, had his moments. But if you ask me who my favorite character is?

Bobby Singer. Hands down.

I don't know... Maybe it's because watching him care for the Winchesters made me wish I had someone like that in my corner. A real father figure. Not some deadbeat who walked out on us and never looked back.

Hell, Bobby might've been grumpy and bitter, but he showed up. He gave a damn. And that's more than I can say for the asshole who gave me his last name and nothing else.

Idjits. I smirk to myself at the memory. The way Bobby called Dean and Sam that, with a weird mix of annoyance and affection. I never had anyone talk to me like that. Not even my mom, though she did her best to fill the gap he left behind.

When I was a kid, she'd let me binge cartoons until she got sick of seeing me rot in front of the screen. Then she'd kick me outside, telling me I'd turn stupid if I stayed glued to the TV all day.

Later, when I was older, she'd let me sit with her during her soap operas. Not really my thing, but I stuck around... for her. For Mari Callahan. It was one of those rare moments we shared—during the evening meal, crammed together on our old sofa. The only time Mom would let us kick our feet up on the coffee table and sip on some off-brand Coke.

Even she had to admit, though, that those shows got repetitive and stupid after a while.

But Supernatural ? That shit hit different. The lore, the dark humor, the constant fight against monsters and demons... maybe I saw too much of myself in those characters.

Or maybe... I just wanted to believe that somewhere out there, people like Bobby existed.

Which... leads me to wonder: what the hell does Aphelios Madden even watch on TV? I can’t remember seeing a screen in his old trailer.

I must’ve said that out loud because the look he shoots me is pure shock, like I just asked him to marry me or something. But shit, I feel stupid for making that reference.

“What’s with the attempted conversation, Callahan?” he snaps.

For fuck's sake. I want to strangle him.

Breathe, Sett. Focus on the road. You don’t wanna send the Camaro into a tree because this twig of a man, sitting on the passenger seat, is living in your head rent-free. Inhale. Count to four. Exhale. Rinse and repeat.

Nope. Still pissed.

There's this pathetic growl from the passenger seat again, there’s something about it that makes me uncomfortable. However, it helps to find a way to not let my mood snap and find a way to carry on this compulsory talk. Yeah, might as well go for the jugular. Although, I doubt that line of questioning can be considered going for the jugular, whatever, but I’ll prove that we can both be stubborn assholes.

“Either join the conversation—which I’d honestly rather not have—or make your damn stomach shut up. Christ, Madden, when’s the last time you ate?”

He stiffens instantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his mouth snap shut and his arms cross over his chest as he sinks into the seat, pretending he doesn't exist.

Pathetic.

But... if I'm not completely off the mark, I'd say I just hit a nerve. And honestly? That bugs me more than it should. Anyway, there's no shame in being hungry. Everyone needs to be full to get through the day and frankly, with the hours of pressure the two of us have to put up with when we race our cars, we burn so many calories that it's only logical to bite the bullet.

Because the thing is, in the weeks he’s been crashing at my place, I’ve started to notice something. He doesn't indulge in anything. Yes, he pisses me off all the time but just existing in my orbit, but other than that, he sticks relatively well to the few established rules of etiquette. Among other things, he doesn't empty our provisions when he's in the mood for a snack. He eats the portions my mom and I cook, but never goes for seconds. Hell, I’m pretty sure he skips meals when we’re out.

Like the idea of wanting more—of needing more—is something he doesn’t think he’s allowed to have.

And somehow, that pisses me off even more.

And now here I am, mentally exhausted and debating whether to keep driving straight or take a little detour, hearing Mari Callahan chanting We’re good people in my head.

Not because I give a damn about Madden’s well-being. I’m not his babysitter. The guy’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake. But he acts like some traumatized stray cat, flinching at every crumb of kindness. Makes me wonder what the hell he’s been through, aside from the whole debt-to-Hawthorne thing, to turn into such a miserable jerk.

“I had breakfast this morning...” he mutters quietly, like he's ashamed to admit it.

I glance at him, surprised he even answered. What I suspected, though. While I wolfed down a burger at Garren's after the race, Madden barely touched his share of breakfast this morning and spent the rest of the day running on empty. I'm honestly shocked he's still upright.

Imagining if he passes out behind the wheel and wrecks that Mustang... This stubbornness is gonna kill him one day. Who’d show up at his funeral, I wonder. And I’d never admit it out loud, but... I need him. On the track, of course. He’s the only rival who can keep up with me. The others? Not even close.

And well, what would his sister become without him? It was the first time I saw her working at Garren’s, so I’m pretty sure she hasn’t been there long. But in all the years I’ve known them, and from experience, I can read people pretty easily. Alune’s hooked on booze, drowning whatever shit trauma she’s carrying—probably the same as her brother. You don’t need to be a math genius to know that if Aphelios disappears from the equation, Alune will end up in the gutter.

"And I’ve gobbled up all seasons of Dexter , I suppose," he adds, almost to himself instead of answering my question.

That’s... something, I guess. It’s hard to ignore the strange warmth swelling in my chest at uncovering this little piece of him. Because every attempt to start a discussion ends in some stupid bickering. And maybe I’m partially at fault. 

“Seriously?” I snort. “I mean, it fits.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed in confusion. Or maybe murder. Hard to tell with him. Still it just confirms my line of thoughts.

“What?” I shrug, unable to stop the smirk crawling up my face. “Dark. Cringe. Traumatized. Just like you, Madden.”

I laugh, knowing full well he’s probably mentally plotting my death right now. Whatever. There’s a certain satisfaction in pushing his buttons just enough to make him snap. It’s like squeezing one of those slime toys as hard as possible, just to see if it’ll eventually pop.

“Your attempt at conversation is shit, Callahan,” he grumbles, sinking deeper into the passenger seat.

I roll my eyes. At least I’m trying. Because honestly, I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to survive this car ride in complete awkward silence while my brain is still spiraling. Including that every decision I visibly make and resolve around Aphelios are the worst I made in my life. 

That stupid what-are-we question won’t stop gnawing at me. Neither does the memory of what we did earlier.

We fucking kissed.

I usually avoid that. I don’t know—kissing feels too intimate. It means aiming for something more, and that’s not what I do. I’m not into relationships, let alone hooking up with someone from Navori’s Trailer Park, exactly to avoid awkward shit like this.

Okay... Let’s be honest. He forced my hand into that kiss. But there was always this part of me that wondered how his lips would taste. I just never let myself go there, because sticking to my principles—as ridiculous as this thing between us already is—felt safer.

And yet... tasting him was something else.

His lips were soft, a little cold, making me want to devour his mouth just to warm him up. There was this rush, this primal urge to tongue-fuck him until he melted under me, and yeah... I clearly didn’t hold back.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Whatever the hell this thing is between us, it’s purely physical. We’re just... ridiculously compatible that way.

Right? Because fuck, it was hot. Everything was.

The way he came undone under my hands, how he moaned with that stupid, breathless voice. Every time I rubbed our cocks together, it felt... different. Not like the casual hookups I usually get my rocks off with. Like a drug you taste once and instantly get addicted to. I experienced being powerful. I was peeling away layers of him that no one else ever got to see. Shit. I can still feel it. The dying warmth of both our cum and just that thought is enough to make my dick twitch again.

And don’t even get me started on when he dropped to his knees again and took me into his mouth.

Fuck.

It felt—God—like his lips were made for this. Made to take me in, to ruin me. And just the memory of it, the way he looked up at me with those dark, hungry eyes, while his tongue worked me over...

But... where the hell did he learn to do that?

My mood storms at the thought. Because the idea of someone else touching him like that—Nope. Not going there. He's an adult. He can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants. The world doesn't revolve around the two of us.

I grip the wheel tighter, ready to keep driving straight to the park and drop him off before I completely lose my mind.

Then his stomach growls again. And my determination to get over it crumbles like a house of cards.

“Fucking hell...” I mutter under my breath and, at the last second, I turn right at the red, now green light.

“This isn’t the way home,” he notes suspiciously.

“Yeah, well. You're hungry and I don’t feel like cooking some midnight snack,” I snap, my frustration bleeding through my voice.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

“Can’t you just shut the fuck up and accept some help for once in your miserable life?” I cut him off, barely keeping my temper in check. “It’s not like I’m asking you to suck my dick again. I’m just... trying to be nice.”

His mouth clamps shut, and I swear I see the faintest hint of pink dusting his ears as he looks away.

Good. But I should've found another way to vent my frustration—using other words to phrase it, because Aphelios giving me head is burned into my retina, and I'm starting to think I might have an unhealthy obsession with it.

I pull into the drive-thru of an old-school burger joint I used to hit up with K and Sam after late-night races. The place hasn't changed since the 80s—flickering neon lights, cracked asphalt, and the faint smell of grease hanging in the air. The only souls here are the poor bastards who drew the short straw for the night shift.

I roll the Camaro up to the speaker and glance at the passenger seat.

“Ever been to a drive-in?” I ask, mostly to kill the silence.

Aphelios blinks at me like I just asked him to explain quantum physics. Which of course, I haven’t. Because I haven't the slightest idea about science and I’m not Sheldon fucking Cooper. 

“No,” he mutters, almost embarrassed.

Of course, he hasn’t. God knows what kind of childhood he had. And adulthood, not even worth mentioning. Probably spent more time dodging Hawthorne than going out for midnight junk food.

I bite my tongue before something cruel slips out and focus on the menu.

“Double cheeseburger, large fries, and a chocolate shake,” I order. Then, I look at him again. “What do you want?”

He hesitates, biting his lower lips and I really don’t fixate on that damn gesture. “I’m good.”

I shoot him a glare and seriously, I deserve a damn diploma in self-control for not messing up his perfect, pretty little face.

“Madden. If you make me reach over this console, I swear to God—”

“Fine,” he snaps back, flustered. “Same as you, Callahan.”

I smirk, satisfied. Well, not really. My irritation is still burning, but I manage to hold my horses with monumental efforts. Adding a twice, please into the speaker, I don't wait and roll up to the window.

The girl working the register looks exactly like someone who's questioning every life decision that led her to flipping burgers at one a.m. Her brown hair’s trapped under that stupid fishnet cap, and her eyes scream pure exhaustion. I pass her the cash with my best I’m not the problem tonight smile. She couldn't care less.

Our order comes fast, and as I pull away, I catch her muttering something under her breath. Probably telling us to go choke on our fries. Fair enough.

Not wanting my Camaro reeking of grease and regret, I drive around the back and park in a dimly lit patch of grass behind the joint. There’s an old swing set, rusted slide, and a streetlamp buzzing faintly above us. No one’s around. Perfect.

Aphelios follows me to the bench without a word. I hand him his burger and shake. He holds the thing like it’s fragile, like I just handed him a live grenade.

“What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation?” I grumble, unwrapping my own burger.

I expect him to snap back, but instead, he lowers his head and takes the tiniest bite. And I swear to God... his eyes widen.

Like he wasn’t expecting it to taste good. Like this stupid burger is the first good thing he's had in... who the hell knows how long. Although I have to admit that Garren's are much better than those fast-food chain productions. And nothing’s better than Mom’s cooking in the end.

“For fuck’s sake,” I groan, shoving a handful of fries into my mouth to distract myself from whatever weird shit I’m feeling in my chest right now. “You’re pathetic.”

But I keep watching him from the corner of my eye. He takes another bite. Then another. And for some reason, I can’t look away.

We eat in comfortable silence. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it that. It's more like... for this moment, all the rivalry, hatred, and differences have been put on pause—as if something, or someone, placed us here just to let this moment exist.

The midnight snack feels good, and my thoughts drift somewhere I can’t quite reach. Until a voice yanks me back almost immediately.

"Do I have something on my face?"

I blink, and Aphelios is staring at me. Which makes me realize... I was staring at him first.

Shit. I feel this weird twist in my gut, like I’ve just been caught stealing something that doesn’t even belong to me.

I mean, it happens, right? You zone out and accidentally end up staring at someone without actually seeing them. Totally normal. Except... my body’s turned toward him. Like I was subconsciously drawn in. Like I’m... observing him because he’s sitting next to me. And it becomes a fucking habit.

Fuck. Is it just me, or does this damn bench feel way too small for two grown adults?

“You like that?” I ask, nodding toward his shake, trying to sound casual. Trying to deflect from... whatever the hell just happened.

Aphelios blinks, caught off guard. “...Yeah. I guess.”

“You guess?” I snort. “Your eyes damn near sparkled like a Disney princess.”

He shoots me a glare, but the faint flush creeping up his neck betrays him. He takes another sip, slower this time, like he's trying to prove a point.

I lean back, biting down the smirk that threatens to spread on my face. Because, somehow, I actually hit the bullseye with that one.

And maybe... maybe it’s easier to tease him than to deal with whatever weird shit is stirring in my chest right now.

“I’ve always liked sweet stuff,” he mumbles, keeping his lips around his shake’s paper straw. “Cakes. Pastries. Anything with sugar. As long as it's sweet. I think it's something from my childhood. My mother, maybe. I can’t really remember.”

The dim light from the streetlamp casts weird shadows over his face, making him look even paler than usual. Like he’s some ghost haunting this drive-in lot, sipping on chocolate shakes and mumbling about a childhood he barely remembers.

I can’t tell if that sickly pale complexion is just his natural look or if he's about to pass out on me. The washed-out teal shirt he's wearing, with that dumb "social battery: 1%" print, only makes him look more drained.

It fits him way too well.

I wonder if he's even slept properly in the last few days. Not that I care.

Not really. But, if, then I’m the only one to blame since I banished him to the sofa. I kicked him out of my room after that infamous night, and yet, I kept thinking about offering him to sleep on the air mattress and crashing in my room again. Not that an air mattress is any more comfortable. But I don’t trust myself—not with the shit my brain pulls, nor with the urge to just jump him.

And no, I’m not dwelling on that. Thankfully, his voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Alune calls me Sweet Tooth,” he adds in a huff, almost bitterly. “It’s stupid.”

"It's not stupid." I surprise myself with how genuine that sounds, even more than the fact I actually said it.

When I hear him slurping that annoying sound of empty air through his straw, I roll my eyes and shove my own shake toward him. "Here. Take mine."

Aphelios looks at me like I just grew a second head.

It's not that I don't like chocolate shakes—this diner actually makes the best ones—but I’m already full, and unlike him, I’m not that into sweet stuff. I’m more of a home-cooked, greasy meal kind of guy.

"Take it before I change my mind, asshole."

Aphelios hesitates, but eventually switches his empty cup with mine. Our fingers brush for a split second, and I swear I feel that annoying spark again. I ignore it, making myself more comfortable, stretching my legs out in front of me and focus on some dark green spot below my feet. It's high time to go home and change before my head hits the pillow.

A few moments pass in silence, the distant hum of traffic filling the space between us. Then, out of nowhere, Aphelios speaks up. “Where’d you get that weird scar on your nose?”

I feel my whole body stiffen, jaw clenching so tight I swear something’s about to snap. I like my look. And yeah, the scar’s part of it. Makes me look tougher, I guess. More badass. But it doesn’t feed my ego. Because that scar? That’s a gift from my old man. A reminder of a part of my shitty childhood I’d rather bury six feet under.

“My father,” I say, the memory clawing its way to the surface, even though I wish it wouldn’t. “When I was a kid. He came home shitface and high as hell, tripping on whatever shit he took that night. Thought I was... I don't know. Not someone. Something. And he beat the crap out of me like I was some damn punching bag. Mom barely managed to stop him after he broke my nose.”

I don't feel shame admitting it. Hell, I’ve lived with that memory long enough to know that feeling shame would just mean he still has some hold on me. And after he walked out on us? He left more scars than just this one.

And I’m not even talking about the shit he pulled when he left—robbing us blind before disappearing like the coward he is.

But what really messed me up? The abandonment issues he dumped on me. And I didn’t even realize it until years later.

You remember when I told Sam enlisted for her service years in the military? Yeah... I lost my mind. One of my best friends, our Rebel in our Powerpuff trio—or whatever badass trio fits me, K, and Sam. I don’t know, maybe some punk rock version of the Three Musketeers.

Point is, her leaving felt like the end of the damn world. I got shitfaced for a whole week, spiraling into paranoia. Then I picked a fight with K, accusing him of abandoning me next. I couldn’t even explain why I was acting like that. I was terrified. That K would leave. That I'd lose Mom next. That everyone I cared about would just... disappear.

So I pushed people away. I was a total asshole to everyone. Not because I hated them—but because I was scared shitless of losing them. And ashamed as hell for being that weak.

If you think I could afford therapy for that kind of crap, well... yeah, no. I had to deal with it on my own. Somehow, I managed to crawl out of my own head.

“Sorry,” he mutters, avoiding my gaze when I look at him. His expression became somehow unreadable. 

I’m actually surprised I’m not pissed at him for digging into my past. Like I said, I don’t feel shame. But I always thought that if anyone brought up that part of my life, I’d snap. Guess not.

Anyway, I don’t want to linger on that bastard. The more I think about my spermdonor, the more I feel like puking. And if I sink into silence now, my head’s just gonna start spiraling again.

“Ever been camping before?” I ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.

Aphelios snorts, shooting me this deadpan look. “Do I look like the camping type to you?”

I smirk, giving him a once-over. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“K, Sam, and I go every summer after the track season. You should come with us. Bring your sister if you want.”

Aphelios freezes, like the offer short-circuits his brain.

"Why the hell would I do that?" he scoffs.

"Because you clearly need to touch some grass, Sweet Tooth," I keep smirking. "Besides... it's not like you've got any better plans, do you?"

His glare could melt steel, but for a split second, I catch something else flickering in his eyes. Consideration. Maybe even curiosity.

I almost forget how much I hate him when he’s not running his mouth or throwing daggers at me with those cold, dead eyes. Almost.

Because in the next heartbeat, it's gone. His expression shuts down so fast, I barely catch it.

Aphelios pushes himself up abruptly, grabs the trash, and tosses it into the bin. He doesn't look at me when he turns back toward the Camaro. Doesn’t give me an answer. Just... avoids me.

Something cracks in my chest and I definitely don’t like the feeling.

“I’m tired,” he mutters, cold and distant. “Let’s go.”

I blink, too stunned to fire back. And in the next moment, I move on autopilot toward my car and start the engine.

The drive back to the trailer park feels heavier than it should. The tension creeps back in, wrapping around my throat and squeezing. And whatever is playing on the radio doesn’t help to calm the resurfacing irritation.

That stupid what-are-we question gnaws at the back of my skull again. But more than that, I can’t stop replaying that moment—his face, that shift in his expression, the way he shut down.

Did I push too far? Was inviting him camping too much? Too... familiar? I mean, I was just talking about camping. I wasn’t trying to make us friends or whatever the hell this is turning into.

And yet, here I am. Spiraling.

Because instead of telling myself this is exactly the kind of reaction I should expect from Aphelios fucking Madden...

I feel disappointed. Why did the fuck I even ask him?

Before I know it, we pull up in front of the trailer, and Aphelios is already unbuckling and pushing the door open before I can even kill the engine.

"Thanks for the food, Callahan," he mutters, avoiding my eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all soft on me now, Madden," I shoot back, rolling my eyes. I’m trying—really trying—not to let whatever’s burning under my skin snap. It’s late, and the last thing I want is to wake up Mom. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He slams the door shut. Typical. Well, so much for not waking up the neighborhood, thank you very much.

I watch him head toward the trailer, shoulders tense, moving like he's carrying the weight of the whole damn world. Something twists deep in my gut, hot and restless. I should leave. Take the Camaro back to K’s shop and give myself enough time for him to be passed out by the time I come back. Avoid his face. Avoid... whatever the hell this is.

But I don't.

Instead, I kill the engine and get out. I follow him up the lot, my footsteps heavy against the gravel.

I should grab my keys, unlock the trailer door like a normal person. But no.

I shove him aside instead.

"The fuck is your problem, Callahan?" he snaps, spinning around to face me.

And suddenly, I'm in his space, chest-to-chest, close enough to feel his breath against my skin. Too close.

"My problem? You. You stubborn, miserable bastard."

He shoves me. I shove him back.

It escalates fast, because of course it does. A punch to his ribs. His elbow clips my jaw. We’re both breathing hard, grappling against the side of the trailer like two idiots who can’t decide whether to kill each other or—

His back hits the wall. I corner him without thinking, pressing in until I can feel his heart pounding against mine. He squares his shoulders, shoving his chest against me like he’s daring me to make the next move.

His breath ghosts over my lips. I’m getting hard immediately and the way his body reacts doesn't go unnoticed.

Fuck. 

With a hard shove back against the wall, like I’ve burned myself, I release him. I step back before I do something even more stupid.

“I’m done with your shit,” I growl, turning on my heel and storming toward the Camaro.

I hear him curse behind me, but I don’t look back. The only thing that matters is getting the hell away from here. I don't care that the trailer door is still locked as I drive off into the night.

My head’s spinning. My heart's pounding. And whatever the hell this thing between us is, it’s starting to get under my skin.

Worse than that.

Because right now, I’m fucking terrified.

Terrified that if I push him too far, he’ll walk away and never look back.

And what scares me the most?

It’s not even about him. It’s that ugly, pathetic part of me that still flinches at the idea of being left behind. Again.

He's not my fucking father. He means nothing to me. He’s just a pathetic asshole I have to deal with.

...So why the hell do I feel like I'm about to lose my goddamn mind?

---

Aphelios Madden

The fucking asshole left. With the key. And the door’s locked.

I can’t get inside. Can’t hit the pillow. And I’m freezing my ass off. Not to mention how my ribs hurt like shit. And him leaving just like that, feels like he has drained every damn particle of oxygen around the trailer’s lot.

The nights are still cold around here, even if the heat of summer’s creeping in during the day. The moisture in the air seeps into my skin, makes me shiver—which, at least, helps kill the lingering erection between my legs.

I drop onto the metal stairs of Sett’s shitty trailer and let out a long breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest for hours. My head falls into my hands, fingers threading through my hair as I try to make sense of... whatever the hell just happened back there.

I acted like a complete asshole. And now I’m locked out of a place that doesn’t even belong to me.

What did I expect? That we'd somehow bond over greasy burgers and chocolate shakes? That this... whatever this is... between us would just dissolve into something easier? Something that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my own skin every time he looks at me like that?

No.

We can’t be friends. We can’t be anything .

Because letting Sett Callahan be nice to me? Letting him get too close?  It’s dangerous. And not in the way I’m used to danger.

Racing is dangerous. Pushing myself to the limit on the track, feeling the adrenaline in my veins—that’s a risk I understand. That kind of fear makes sense. Consider that a simple maneuver error could end up with the Mustang embedded in a wall, and the resulting gloomy state of my body.

But this? Whatever the hell Sett is doing to me? This fear runs deeper. 

I drag a hand down my face, frustration clawing at my chest.

This... thing I have for Sett—whatever the hell it is—it’s not just some stupid crush. It’s not about finding him attractive, though, yeah, that part’s undeniable. Anyone with eyes can see how unfairly good-looking he is.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the way he gets under my skin without even trying. The way he makes me feel seen—really seen—in a way that no one else ever has. The way I catch myself watching him when he’s not looking, wondering what it’d be like to exist in his world. To be part of something. To look for trouble to keep his attention on me.

I’ve never... wanted that before.

I’ve spent my whole life building walls to keep people out, convincing myself I don’t need anyone. That it’s better this way. Safer.

But then Sett came crashing through those walls like a fucking wrecking ball, and now...

Now I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop wanting him. Physically at least.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I don’t even understand why. I don’t know what this feeling is—this heat that coils in my stomach every time he looks at me. This stupid ache in my chest when he walks away.

I’ve never wanted someone like this. Not in a way that feels so... raw. So impossible.

And the worst part?

I know I’ll ruin it. Because that’s what I do. Because I know exactly what happens when you let people in. When you start craving the warmth of someone who doesn’t owe you anything.

They leave. Just like my parents did, dumping me and Alune with a debt that drowned us before we even had the chance to live. Just like everyone else who decided I was too much trouble to stick around for.

So, yeah. It’s safer to keep people at arm’s length. To push them away before they can realize how broken I really am. Because Hawthorne’s threat is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to me. I’ve got issues. A whole damn collection of them.

But Sett… He’s different. And it terrifies me.

Because when he told me to come camping with him and his friends, for one stupid second... I wanted to say yes. I wanted to know what that kind of normal feels like. To be part of something.

I want him. And that’s exactly why I can’t let this happen.

I curl my arms around my knees and stare out into the dimly lit trailer park. There’s nothing but the distant hum of the highway and the occasional bark of a stray dog echoing through the night. I feel so fucking small. So out of place.

And worst of all... I feel alone.

But that’s what I deserve, right? I built this cage around myself. And now I’m trapped in it.

I press my forehead against my knees and exhale slowly, willing the discomfort to crawl out of my chest. This is the moment where I should take control of my own damn life. Get off my ass, stop depending on the Callahans, and figure my shit out.

But my body won’t move. Maybe if I stay out here long enough, he'll come back. Maybe if I—

The light inside the trailer flicks on, casting yellowish squares on the ground. A heavy, dull thud follows.

Like something—no, someone—hitting the floor.

My head snaps up and my body moves before my brain can catch up. I’m on my feet, rushing toward the door, heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else and the pain in my ribs only fades in the background.

“Mari?” I call out, my voice cracking.

No response.

I bang against the door with my fist, harder this time. “Mari, can you hear me?”

But I’m only greeted with silence coming from inside the trailer. In my head, a hundred scenarios play out at once, each worse than the last. I know the sound came from Mari Callahan—maybe she just dropped something. But that wouldn’t explain why she’s not answering me.

No, I’m convinced she’s fallen. And that only feeds the anxiety clawing at my chest.

My hand grips the door handle, shaking it violently, but it doesn't budge. Of course, it's locked. Sett took off with the damn key.

My breathing quickens, panic crawling up my throat as I step back. Do I break the door down? Run for help? Leave her here, alone, when something could be seriously wrong? If only I had a stupid phone to call nine-one-one.

I should've seen this coming. She’s been exhausted for weeks, barely holding herself together. Sett noticed it too, but Mari just brushed it off with that same Callahan stubbornness, telling it’s the upcoming weather. "I'm fine, sweetheart," she'd say with a tired smile, as if we couldn’t see how pale she looked.

I should've done something. But she's not my mother, and I have no idea what weight she's been carrying all this time. What could I possibly have done for her?

My hands are trembling as I rake them through my dark hair, my lungs burning from how shallow my breaths are. I should've spoken up and said what I really thought, but I chose to take the coward's way out.

Somehow, over the past month of crashing on their couch, of quiet dinners and late-night conversations when Sett wasn’t around, I let myself get attached. I let her warmth slip past my walls. She showed me how to mend my jeans, saying it’s a shame to run around looking like a stray dog. She never judged, never asked for anything in return. Just quiet kindness.

She’s not my mother. But she feels like one. And I don’t want to lose her.

And I’m freaking the fuck out.

My head snaps up at the sound of footsteps. From the dimly lit path, I spot a figure with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. I recognize her instantly—Soraka, Callahan's neighbor, still in her scrubs, probably just coming back from her shift at the clinic. She's the one who makes those incredible pastries. Mari told me more than once how often Soraka patched Sett up when he came home with split cheekbones and bloodied knuckles.

Her amber-brown eyes narrow with concern—no, her whole expression falls—the moment she sees me. "Aphelios? What's wrong?"

“I heard something,” I stammer, feeling the burn of helplessness crawl under my skin. “From inside. Mari. She's not answering. And I think she fell. I don’t have the key…” Eventually I trail off, not wanting to explain why I’m shut out.

Soraka doesn't ask questions. She’s already digging into her bag, pulling out a spare key and unlocking the door in one smooth motion. I don't ask any questions. I've known for a while that Soraka is one of the people closest to Mari Callahan, so it doesn't surprise me that she has a spare key to the trailer. And honestly, I'm just relieved I'm not alone in this.

I nearly shove past her as we step inside. The dim light from the kitchen casts long shadows across the worn carpet, and that’s when I see her.

Mari Callahan is lying on the floor, unconscious, in her nightgown.

“Shit,” I breathe, rushing to her side and dropping to my knees. My hands hover over her body and I'm sure every single fiber in my body is shaking. “Mari? Hey—can you hear me?”

Soraka kneels beside me, her hands already moving with practiced ease to check her pulse. Of course, she knows what she's doing—she's an ER nurse. I crawl back to give her space.

“She’s breathing,” Soraka says, her voice steady but tense. “I don’t see any visible wounds or signs that she hit her head, but we need to call an ambulance. Now.”

I freeze. My utter utter worthlessness hits me hard.

"I... I don't have a phone," I admit, my voice barely audible.

When Soraka looks at me, her expression stays neutral. No judgment. No pity. Just a kind of understanding I can't even begin to grasp.

Soraka doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate. She pulls her phone from her pocket and shoves it into my hand before turning back to Mari, carefully adjusting her into a stable position. Her focus stays on Mari as she speaks. “Call 911. Then call Sett.”

Sett. The thought of calling him right now twists my stomach into knots, but I shove it aside. There’s no time for that.

My fingers tremble as I fumble with the unfamiliar screen, nearly dropping the damn phone. The ringing feels endless, each second stretching painfully long until a calm voice answers.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

My throat tightens. I force the words out, my voice strained and uneven as I explain that Mari Callahan collapsed. The dispatcher asks for details—her age, her condition, whether she's breathing and where she’s located. My brain struggles to keep up, my eyes darting between Soraka and Mari as panic claws at my chest. Because I do not know much.

The operator’s tone is steady, walking me through each step, but I barely hear them over the blood rushing in my ears. My heart pounds as I confirm the address.

"Help is on the way," the dispatcher says before the line cuts.

I exhale shakily, the weight in my chest not lifting in the slightest. My fingers hover over the screen again, hesitating.

Now... I have to call Sett.

Going through her contacts, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m intruding on Soraka’s privacy. Sett’s number stares back at me, and my thumb hovers over the call button. My eyes blur over the digits, unable to fully process them.

I hesitate.

I can already picture the look on his face when he’lll learn the unpleasant news. The rage. The fear. And the inevitable fact that... I’ve been useless. Just another reason for him to hate me.

He won’t pick up. I know that. But this isn’t my number—because I don’t have one—flashing on his screen, it’s Soraka’s. He doesn’t know it’s me on the other end.

I hit call anyway. But the call goes straight to voicemail.

“Of course,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

Soraka glances up at me, calm despite the situation. I shake my head, but she doesn’t panic. She visibly never does. She’s in full professional mode right now.

“Try again,” she says quietly. “Leave a message. Just tell him she’s in good hands. It’s all we can do right now.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and redial. My heart is pounding when it goes to voicemail right again. I force my voice to stay steady, but I already sound like a wreck.

“Hey... I know you don’t want to hear from me.” My voice cracks, and Soraka shoots me a questioning look. I clear my throat and push through. “But Mari… she fell in the trailer. We’re waiting for the ambulance. They’ll take her to—”

I glance at Soraka, who mouths the words.

“Navori Central Hospital. Soraka’s here with us.” I pause, unsure how to end this. “I… I guess I’ll see you there.”

I hang up and immediately regret every word. Especially the last one, because, truly, I don’t want to see his face.

My hands are sweaty, and I wipe the phone on my T-shirt before handing it back to Soraka.

I try to steady my breathing, but the adrenaline surging through me makes it impossible. I’m cold and exhausted, yet fear keeps me standing. Digging through my bag—the one that carries my whole life—I find an old sweater and pull it over my head before slumping onto the kitchen bench. My eyes stay fixed on Mari, who lies pale and fragile on the floor, with Soraka kneeling beside her.

The seconds stretch endlessly. I never knew waiting for an ambulance could feel this goddamn agonizing. I pray I never have to go through this again—even if Mari wasn’t the one who brought us here.

Truth to be told, I’ve always been ready for this moment, but for someone else. For my sister. For the times her drinking spiraled out of control. I’d rehearsed making that call, imagining her lifeless on our old trailer’s floor. But somehow, she always spared me that burden. It was others who called for help while I was left to drag her out of the ER, empty pockets and no insurance, hoping they’d let her stay a little longer before kicking her out.

Soraka's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Mari has always had a weak constitution. Not to mention her hip injury, I've always worried about her, especially when she was still with her ex-husband.”

I nod. I know next to nothing about the Callahans, but I think I'm beginning to understand that that old man was a real asshole.

“She's a very good friend,” Soraka continues, and strangely enough, I feel a little less impatient about having to wait for the ambulance. “I met her when Sett was just a fetus.”

I wince at the thought, but I also fantasize about their deep friendship. I have my sister, but I wish I had someone else I could count on. Someone with whom I can share experiences and discover new things. But I can't.

And I'm not ready to walk along that path of thoughts right now. 

“What happened?” Soraka asks, her gentle eyes scrutinizing me.

She’s perceptive. Too perceptive. And I know she’s not talking about Mari right now.

She’s asking why I was locked out. She knows I’ve been staying here. And, well, she definitely heard me leaving that pathetic message on Sett’s voicemail.

“We had... a difference,” I mutter, shrugging it off.

It’s a lie. A weak one. Because whatever happened between Sett and me back there... it wasn’t just a goddamn difference. It was something that cracked open inside me, something I can’t even name without my chest tightening.

And when he stormed off in that damn Camaro, it felt like my entire world shifted off its axis.

Thankfully, Soraka doesn’t press further. She just gives me this quiet look—like she already knows. What on earth does she know?

The distant flash of red lights cuts through the night in Navori’s Trailer Park, and relief floods my chest. I’m on my feet before I can think, practically jumping off the porch to flag them down.

The paramedics—a young woman and a man in his forties, I think—barely glance at me as they unload their gear and head straight for the trailer. I step aside, feeling useless all over again. I watch as Soraka exchanges a quiet nod with them. Of course, they know her. It’s a small town, and she’s been patching people up for years.

They know what they’re doing. It’s their job. I should feel better now that help has arrived. But all I can do is stand there, my hands buried deep in my pockets, feeling like I’m about to shatter apart.

All I can do is watch. The paramedics move with practiced efficiency, speaking in quiet, clipped words that I can barely process.

The woman, with hazel hair tied back in a messy bun and piercing blue eyes, is focused as she inserts a needle into Mari's left arm. Her hands are steady, precise. The IV bag passes seamlessly from her partner’s bulky hands to Soraka, who holds it without question.

The man, older, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark, tired eyes, jogs back to the ambulance and returns with the stretcher. His broad frame moves with surprising ease as he helps guide Mari’s unconscious body onto it.

I barely notice I’m moving until I’m following them, my steps automatic as they hoist Mari into the back of the ambulance.

The man pauses, turning to me. His gaze is sharp but not unkind. “Are you family?”

I hesitate. My throat tightens. “No... but I can’t leave her alone. Not until her son gets here.”

The paramedic studies me for a beat, then shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. Family only.”

Before I can protest, he swings the doors shut, and Mari disappears from my sight.

The engine rumbles to life. The woman climbs into the passenger seat, while her partner rounds the front of the ambulance. The red lights reflect off the gravel as they drive off into the night.

And I’m left standing there, fists clenched in my pockets, the moist night air biting at my eyes.

There's that unpleasant feeling behind my eyelids, prickling and uncomfortable. I shake my head because I don’t want to cry.  So I shake my head to chase it away and my eyes fall on Sett’s truck.

I don't think. I just move, pushing past Soraka, who stands quietly in the doorway, watching me with that unnerving calm of hers. My sneakers thud against the worn floorboards as I storm back into the trailer, eyes scanning the cluttered living room.

There. The keys.

Sett’s truck keys are sitting on the counter, right where he always tosses them. I snatch them up without hesitation, the metal cool against my sweaty palm.

When I return to the door, Soraka is still there, waiting. She doesn’t say anything at first—just studies me with that strange, knowing expression that makes me feel like she sees right through me.

“Can you lock the door, please?” I mumble, stepping past her onto the porch.

She does as I ask, turning off the light and pulling the door shut. Then, she moves toward me and presses something into my hand. I glance down to see the trailer’s key resting in my palm.

“You’ll need them eventually,” she says softly, her fingers squeezing mine for a brief moment before letting go.

I swallow hard and shove the key into my pocket, unsure what to say.

“Return them when you're ready,” she adds, stepping back. “And... don’t worry. Sett won’t mind.”

I almost laugh at that. Yeah, right. Callahan would lose his damn mind if he knew I was about to borrow his beloved deathtrap without asking him first.

But I don’t argue. I just nod and turn away, heading for the old, beat-up truck parked in the lot.

The door creaks as I climb in, and when I twist the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life with a cough. No radio to drown out my thoughts. No music to keep me from spiraling.

Just the road.

It’s almost two in the morning when I pull Sett’s truck into the nearly empty ER parking lot, behind the hospital.

The automatic doors slide shut as I step inside and I can’t repress the shiver running down my spine. The place looks as cold and unwelcoming as I remember hospitals to be. Clean. Silent. Heavy.

I don’t want to be here. Hell, I don’t want to be anywhere right now.

The sterile lights buzz faintly overhead as I make my way through the dimly lit corridors. The weight of too many stories, too much pain, lingers in the air. Behind every door, someone’s life is either hanging by a thread or slipping away. And my brain visibly doesn’t have enough brain cells to understand that some may get out of here alive.

I follow the faded signs toward reception and step up to the front desk. The woman sitting there, probably in her late thirties, doesn’t even glance up from her paperwork.

“Yeah?” she mutters, fingers tapping lifelessly against the keyboard.

“I’m here for Mari Callahan,” I say, voice low and awkward.

Her eyes shift slightly over the screen in front of her, the only thing she does is move the mouse and start tapping on the keyboard again. “Are you family?”

I hesitate. My throat tightens as I shake my head, but she’s still not looking at me, so my gesture is useless. “No... I’m... a friend. I live with her. And her son.”

The words feel foreign. Am I really a friend? Or just some stray Sett was kind enough to take in? I can’t exactly tell this woman that I’m a walking disaster freeloading in their trailer. A parasite who’s been sleeping on someone else’s couch for over a month now. 

The receptionist finally looks up, her expression unreadable as her gaze sweeps over me. “Only family members are allowed in the ER.”

I figured as much. But I can’t just leave. Sett’s not here. He’s not answering his damn phone.

“I can’t reach her son,” I try, but she cuts me off with a sigh and points to the far end of the hall.

“There’s a payphone..” Her attention snaps back to her computer. Just like that, I’m dismissed. I'm nobody after all. 

I bite back the frustration burning in my chest and turn away.

Perfect. Just perfect.

I don’t want to call Sett again. Hell, I don’t even want to hear his voice right now. But this is about his mother. And as much as I’ve been an asshole to him... I can’t ignore that.

I can already picture him picking up the phone, pissed and ready to tear me a new one. But I deserve that, don’t I? After tonight. After everything.

It’s not about pride. Or playing the good guy.

It’s just... what normal people do.

And maybe... just maybe... a small part of me is hoping he’ll pick up.

My stomach twists as I dig the few coins I found in Sett’s truck from my pocket. I'd intended to use them to shoot up myself with some caffeine, but I guess I'll have to use them differently and I stare at the old payphone on the wall. My mind tries to pull Sett's number from memory when I used Soraka’s phone earlier, but the numbers blur together in my head.

I glance around. There's a phone book hanging nearby, but flipping through it is useless. No private numbers, just official places and emergency contacts that are of no use to me.

Where the hell would Sett go in the middle of the night to cool off? It's not like I know all his habits.

But... I’ve been watching him. Too much. Without even meaning to.

I know he only uses that stupid sandalwood soap that lingers on his skin long after he’s out of the shower. I know he likes his scrambled eggs with way too much pepper, and the way his eyes gleam when he eats them, like he's a kid again. Or the way he cracks his knuckles when he's thinking too hard and bites the inside of his cheek when he’s holding back something he won’t say. Not that it’s happening often, everyone knows how he loves to run his mouth.

I know he sleeps on his back, one arm always thrown over his face, because sometimes, when I’m lying awake on that damn air mattress,I hear him shift in his bed, restless.

I know he disappears when things get too heavy. And I know... he always comes back from K’Sante’s place to check on his mother.

The answer hits me like a punch to the gut.

Sett’s best friend! And, if I remember correctly, K’Sante practically lives in his shop.

I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of waking him up at this hour. But knowing him... he won’t be mad. Not if it’s about Mari.

I feed the coins into the payphone and dial the number, using the phone book to check out the number of K’Sante’s workshop.

Inwardly, I’m begging for him to pick up, hoping he won’t let me do this alone.

The line rings once... twice...Then the line clicks.

“Ndlovu's Garage. How can I help?”

I blink. I don’t know why, but I feel... relieved. Maybe because K’Sante is one of those rare people who never judges, never asks too many questions. He’s steady. Grounded. Like Soraka. And Mari. The exact opposite of me.

I'm surprised by how professional he sounds, like he's expecting an emergency breakdown call at two in the morning, when even the dead are supposed to be asleep. And the ease with which he pronounces his family name will always impress me. Ndlovu .

“Hey, big man,” I start, voice tight.

There’s a beat of silence before he recognizes me. “Madden?” he sounds surprised. “How can I help? The Mustang run out of fuel again?”

Nope, and I don't want to relive that moment of pure shame. It was about four years ago—I hit a piece of debris during a tarmac run, and it split the fuel tank. Just before I could make it to Hawthorne’s garage, the car broke down completely. Desperate for someone to tow it, I stumbled upon K’Sante’s service. And since then, well… he’s become a good acquaintance.

I almost laugh. Almost. But my throat feels too tight for that.

“Uh, no.” I swallow hard. “Is Callahan there?”

“Yeah, wait a second.” K'Sante hesitates. I can hear muffled voices in the background, the low hum of music, maybe some tools clinking against metal. Sett must have dragged his ass here to blow off steam. Typical.

There's a shuffle, some muttering, and then Sett’s voice comes through the line. Heavy. Slurred.

“What... the hell do you want, Madden?”

Of course. He’s drunk. It wasn't the sound of tools I heard, but certainly empty cans.

I squeeze my eyes shut and push the words out before I lose my nerves. “I— It's Mari. I’m at the hospital. You need to—”

A deafening noise blasts through the speaker, and I flinch, my ear ringing from the aftershock.

I just... stand there, the receiver pressed against my ear, listening to the noise slowly coming back into focus. A dull ache pulses behind my temples as I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my composure. But there's a damn hurricane twisting in my stomach, and I hate how it makes me feel so out of control.

I have to grip the edge of the payphone to keep myself from punching the wall.

What the fuck did I expect?

That he'd thank me for calling? That he'd suddenly stop hating my guts because, oh, surprise, I care about his mother too?

Ask me how I feel? 

Because I'm fucking lost.

And I feel so stupid.

The line crackles again, and K'Sante’s voice comes back on. “What the hell did you just tell him?”

I feel my pulse spike. K’Sante sounds... angry. Maybe he’s pissed I upset Sett. Maybe he’s pissed I even called.

“I’m in the goddamn hospital,” I bite back. My voice shakes, and I hate that it does. “Mari’s in the ER. I found her unconscious in the trailer. I called the ambulance. I’m here, but they won’t let me see her because I’m not fucking family.”

I hear K'Sante curse under his breath.

“Big man,” I add, my voice dropping, “He’s wasted. Don’t let him drive. Please .”

The please slips out before I can stop it, raw and desperate.

Because I know Sett. I know how reckless he can get when he’s angry. And if he wraps himself around a fucking pole tonight because I pushed the wrong button.

Maybe I pushed the wrong button tonight, but is that actual shit really on me? None of us wanted something to happen to Mari. It’s just a shitty, unfortunate turn of events. But at least I was there. At least I acted because he left! If there's one thing I could never forgive myself for, it’s upsetting Mari Callahan just because I couldn’t handle Sett’s arrogance... and sending him straight to his deathbed.

There’s a long pause.

“I’ll handle him,” K'Sante finally says. His tone softens, just slightly. “You stay there.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” Except, maybe, straight to hell.

The hospital's waiting hall is a blur of sterile lights and distant voices. Time feels warped, stretched thin between the ticking of the clock and the pounding in my head.

I'm sitting on one of those famously uncomfortable plastic benches, my legs stretched out in front of me, my hips slouched forward until the edge of the seat digs into my thighs. Any minute now, the circulation in my legs will cut off completely. My hands are stuffed into the front pocket of my hoodie, fingers idly turning Sett's truck keys over and over. My gaze is fixed on the ceiling, the back of my skull pressing into the cold tiles of the wall.

For once, I feel empty. Exhausted. An empty shell.

Not a single thought crosses my mind, but I’m too drained to appreciate the silence. It’s as if the highs and lows of the day have wrung every last drop of life out of me. I don’t feel at peace. I could probably fall asleep like this, twisted into this uncomfortable position. But I can’t allow myself to.

Hurried footsteps snap me out of my daze, and my head turns toward the sound. Sett stumbles into the waiting hall, K’Sante right behind him, and my heart drops into my stomach.

For the first time since I’ve known him, he isn’t burning with anger or arrogance. His usual swagger is gone—his steps are uneven, his breath ragged like he just ran the whole way here. I’ve never seen him like this before, and I hate it.

His face is pale, drawn tight in a way that makes him look... vulnerable. His jaw is clenched so hard it might snap, and his hands—usually so steady, so ready to throw a punch—are shaking. He’s panicking. His amber eyes are wide, darting wildly until they land on me. They’re blazing with something raw, something desperate. “Where the hell is she? Tell me the fuck where she is, Madden!”

Getting to my feet, I ignore the prickling sensation in my legs from the shitty position I knew I shouldn't have settled into. I step forward, my arms twitching slightly—half-outstretched, like I might steady him, like I might do something—whatever the hell my brain is trying to process right now. But I don’t dare touch him. “They’re with her now. I… I don’t know more.”

Sett’s breathing is ragged, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turn white. For a second, I think he’s going to hit me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shoves past me and storms toward the nurse's station.

And I just... stay there.

Because somehow, I feel like I’m not allowed to follow. But I can’t bring myself to leave either.

K’Sante steps up next to me, his presence heavy but oddly grounding. I flinch slightly. I’d almost forgotten he was here.

"You need anything?" he asks, quiet and steady.

I shake my head, eyes fixed on the spot where Sett disappeared down the hall that a nurse pointed out for him. “No. I’m good. You can go, I’ll… handle this.”

I wave a hand awkwardly around us. Whatever this is.

K’Sante doesn’t press, just gives me a slow nod. “Call me if either of you need anything.”

I feel his gaze lingering on me for a beat longer, like he knows I’m barely holding it together. But he respects my silence and leaves me alone.

And I’m here. Waiting. Without any fucking clue about what to do. Feeling like I’m on the outside looking in.

Oh, and I still don’t have a damn cellphone to call anyone.

Chapter 7

Notes:

I honestly don’t even know where to start—thank you all so much!
The amount of love and feedback I’ve received has been overwhelming (in the best way possible). A special shoutout to everyone who’s shared their thoughts on Discord, X, and in the comments—I see you, and I appreciate every word. And I still can’t believe someone made fanart of Aphelios based on my story?! Insane.
Please, go and follow Paranoid Goat (@cedapan300) on X to see their fanart!

Of course, a huge thank you to everyone silently following along, too. Even if you don’t comment, knowing you're out there reading means the world to me. You’re all amazing.

Please, enjoy this update~

Sett Callahan

What do you do when your world erodes away like a sandcastle swallowed by the tide but you keep building it back up? Again and again. And again . Because that's how I feel. I don’t think. I just function. Hardly. I get up, splash cold water on my face, and shove a piece of white bread into my mouth, washing it down with a glass of water. Then I grab the truck keys and head to work.

At the site, it’s the same as always. I haul bags of concrete from point A to point B. At point C, I mix the cement, only to realize at point E that I forgot to grab the pallet of bricks from point D. It pisses me off. I grit my teeth and make the extra trip, ignoring the comments from my coworkers. I don’t have the energy to deal with them.

Usually, working with my hands keeps me grounded. The physical strain clears my head, gives me something to focus on.

But my mind is empty—except for the fact that my mother has been in the hospital for a whole damn week. She’s fine now, which should be a relief. After fainting in the trailer and being rushed to the ER, she spent a full day unconscious before finally waking up.

And yet, I still feel like I’m running on autopilot.

The doctors ran a CAT scan, took blood samples. I’ve always known my mother’s health was fragile—not to mention the damage my father left behind. I remember overhearing a conversation once, years ago, between her and Soraka. Soraka had always worried about Mom, but I was too young to understand at the time.

It’s only with adulthood that you start seeing the cracks. The shit people don’t tell you until you’re old enough to figure it out for yourself.

Apparently, Mari wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids. Her health was too unstable for it. But she loved my father—something I still can’t wrap my head around. She wanted me. She loves me. And I love her. She had reassured Soraka that everything was fine, and, well, proof was in the pudding—she gave birth to me and raised me like the best mother in the damn world. If anyone is strong, it’s Mari Callahan.

Mom has chronic anemia. Long-term iron deficiency anemia, the doctor called it. She’s always been on meds for it, but apparently, she’d been rationing her doses lately. I don’t have a fucking clue why. I’ve always kept money aside to make sure she never ran short. When I asked her about it, she just smiled, told me not to worry.

How the hell could I not?

The doctor explained that the anemia had already weakened her body, and then he laid it all out: the pregnancy, the childbirth—my birth—and the gunshot, combined with years of poor health, had triggered an autoimmune response. Addison’s disease. Adrenal gland failure. Severe fatigue, low blood pressure, fainting—exactly why she collapsed. And the weather only made it worse.

And that wasn’t even the end of it.

Lifelong hormone replacement therapy. Hydrocortisone, fludrocortisone—meds I can barely pronounce. She’ll need a medical alert bracelet, an emergency steroid injection kit in the trailer, and constant monitoring to keep from slipping into another crisis.

Then came the final blow.

The gunshot wound from years ago? Her hip had healed, yeah, but the scar tissue in her bone could deteriorate because of the treatment. The doctor reassured me that her mental health was strong, that she wasn’t showing signs of depression despite everything. But what if that changed?

And don’t get me started on the goddamn guilt trip.

I should have been there. I should have found her first, called for help, done something—anything. But no. Someone else had to step in. Someone else had to do what I was supposed to do.

Not me. Not her son.

Because I was pissed. But at what? At who? I can’t even remember. The anger feels distant now, blurred at the edges like an old bruise. Whatever set me off that night, whatever made me storm out and get shit-faced at K’s place—it doesn’t fucking matter. It never did.

What matters is that while I was busy drinking myself into oblivion, my mother was unconscious on the floor in our trailer. Alone.

How long had she been lying there? How long had she been waiting for someone— me —to come check on her? What if she’d woken up, confused and scared, wondering where the hell her son was? Wondering why I wasn’t there when she needed me?

I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts from crashing in. I picture her calling out for help, her voice too weak to carry. Picture her trying to reach the phone, but her hands won’t work right. Picture her in the dark, gasping for air, waiting, waiting—

And I wasn’t there.

The worst part is, I can’t even pretend this was some one-time mistake. Mom has always been fragile, always needed me to be the one looking out for her. But how many times have I let myself get distracted? How many times have I gotten caught up in my own bullshit, too busy throwing punches or brooding over things that don’t fucking matter?

I’ve seen the goddamn signs!

Then, she tells me not to worry about her. She smiles at me and says she’s fine, and I let myself believe it. Because it’s easier. Because I wanted to believe it.

But she’s not fine. She wasn’t fine. And if things had gone just a little differently that night—

I don’t finish the thought. I can’t.

All I know is that I should have been there. And I wasn’t.

And I’m still not there.

I should be focused, hands gripping the wheel like my life depends on it. But I feel outside of myself, like I’m just watching the race happen instead of driving it. My body is here, but my mind? Gone.

Another car overtakes me, its midnight blue paint flashing past in a blur. I should fight back, push harder, hunt it down. But I lost the race long before this moment.

I need the prize money. Hospital bills, meds, whatever new shit Mom will need. The loan payment at Old Vance’s office. Food for the fridge. A new fucking phone since I managed to lose my trusty Nokia—the one thing that never let me down. It was cheap, unbreakable, mine. I liked that stupid thing.

My brain is screaming at me to wake the fuck up, to pull myself together. But it’s exhausting. I wish I could just close my eyes, sleep through all of this, wake up to a life where none of this ever happened. But I’m not in a dream.

Speaking of dreams—they never come. Sleep avoids me like I’m some kind of disease, and when it does come, it drags nightmares with it. Nightmares I stopped having a long time ago, but now they're coming back to haunt me.

The day Dad left. The day he shot Mom.

But even then, she smiled at me. She always did. Running her fingers through my hair, standing at the stove, making the best damn meals.

And in my dreams, I’m sitting at the table, shoveling forkfuls of spaghetti into my mouth. It tastes amazing, just like it always did. And she’s there across from me, in her favorite yellow dress, her platinum blond hair, slowly turning grey, tied up in a bun, watching me eat with that warm, steady gaze. But she’s not eating.

Then her chair starts moving back.

Sliding away.

She’s still smiling.

I reach for her, but she keeps slipping further and further, the warmth fading, the space between us stretching until she’s gone. And I’m alone at the table. The spaghetti doesn’t even taste like anything anymore.

Another car overtakes me.

Then the checkered flag waves. And I already know my ranking is going to be pathetic.

I should be furious, should be seething at myself for fucking this up, racing like some rookie with no fight in him. But I don’t feel anything. Just an empty, gnawing pit where something should be.

This isn’t me.

But right now? I don’t give a damn.

Taking off my helmet, I feel my crimson hair clinging to my forehead, damp with sweat. I let the helmet roll onto the passenger seat without a second thought. My gaze is glued to the results panel, the sixth place burning into my retina.

I barely register the numbers. Just a quick glance, a passing acknowledgment, but it doesn’t hit like it should. Even when I spot Madden in third, there’s no surprise, no irritation, nothing. I should be dejected by his woeful performance, but I’m not. It’s just another fact. Another thing that doesn’t matter.

The only disappointment I feel is toward myself. And even that barely stirs anything in me.

The midday heat clings to everything, thick and stifling. The sun beats down on the concrete, making the air waver in the distance. My racing suit sticks uncomfortably to my back, but I don’t care enough to move. The scent of burnt rubber and gasoline lingers, mixing with the tang of sweat, but it all feels distant, like it belongs to another world.

Race times vary, mainly due to the heat. In winter, since it hardly ever snows, races take place mostly during the day. But as the seasons change, the schedule shifts, with events happening in the early morning to keep us drivers from roasting alive in our metal ovens on wheels.

The duration depends not just on the weather but also on the type of event. There are the usual endurance races, where the goal is to complete a set number of miles, and then there are sprints—short, intense, and unforgiving.

Today was a sprint—quick and brutal. And if I feel anything right now, it’s the desperate need to jump in a shower and cool off. I briefly enjoy a gentle breeze entering my Camaro, but the reprieve is short-lived. It’s fucking hot in there.

There’s movement in my mirror. I catch K and Sam moving in my direction.

I should step out and greet them. Say something. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk, don’t want to hear whatever the hell they think they need to say. Their concern, their questions, their "you good, man?" that’ll just make my skin crawl. I already ignored them this morning, only pointing at the track at the last minute. They noticed. I know they did. And now they’re here, jogging toward me like I need some kind of debriefing.

I know I’m falling into an unhealthy pattern again, pushing everyone away, shutting myself in, but I don’t give a shit. The only person I want to deal with is Mom. And even then, if she tells me she’s fine one more time, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind. I’m starting to hate that word— fine . It’s too easy. Too empty.

Maybe I should just get shitfaced again. Drown out the buzzing in my skull, the weight pressing down on my chest. Especially if sleep still refuses to take its claim on me. The only thing holding me back is that I still want to drive to the hospital every day, sit next to Mom, be there. That’s what matters. Pretty sure she’s getting sick of my stupid, awesome face by now.

I start the engine. K’s expression shifts, concern flickering across his face, but I don’t give him time to reach me. I shift gears and pull out, the heat baking the asphalt as my tires grind against it.

In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse—Aphelios jogging toward K and Sam, the three of them exchanging a few words before shrugging in unison, all of them watching as my car disappears down the sun-scorched road.

Then they’re gone, swallowed by the hazy daylight behind me.

After a quick shower, I throw on a fresh pair of briefs, some old red Nike basketball shorts, and a black tank top. Not exactly the kind of clothes you wear to visit someone in the hospital, but screw it—it’s too damn hot to care. 

I shove my feet into my old sneakers, grab my keys, and head out. The heat clings to my skin the second I step outside, a thick, suffocating weight that makes the thought of wearing anything heavier unbearable.

Slipping my shades on my nose, I barely spare a glance at my Camaro. There’s a long-ass gash in the red lacquer on the side, an ugly scar from a race I wasn’t even in properly. I should fix it. Later. Sorry, baby girl .

Right now, my only focus is getting to Mom.

The drive is not really quick, the roads are packed. The traffic is terrible and usually I'd have lost my patience by now. The sun glares down on the asphalt, turning it into a shimmering mirage of heat waves. The radio plays some shitty song I don’t bother to change, the sound barely registering over the hum of my own thoughts. My fingers drum against the wheel, my jaw tight, the hospital looming closer with every mile.

Then the moment I step through the sliding doors of NCH— bam . The AC slams into me like I just walked straight into the goddamn North Pole. My sweat instantly turns cold against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that even my dick wants to run away. It’s almost enough to make me turn right back around. Almost.

Instead, I roll my shoulders, pulling my shades into my hairs, and make my way through the too-white halls, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. I already know the route by heart—left at the reception, second elevator, up to the third floor. The nurse at the desk barely glances at me this time. I'm a regular now.

Before I knock on the door, I take a deep breath. This is the only moment I manage to put my shit together and put on the Sett everyone expects. The one I have to be.

Voices filter through the door, muffled but lively. I’m not surprised. Mom’s never been one to sit in silence—she could make friends in an empty room if given enough time.

She seems to get along well with her roommates. There’s an elderly woman who broke her ankle slipping on a rag, and a middle-aged guy recovering from an appendectomy. Mom’s always chatting with them like they’ve known each other for years, her laughter light but genuine. The nurses like her, too. It’s just who she is.

When I step inside, she’s in the middle of a quiet conversation with one of them. He’s perched on the edge of a chair, holding a clipboard, but his posture is relaxed, like they’ve already strayed from medical talk.

For a split second, exhaustion messes with my vision, and my brain tricks me into thinking it’s him .  But as my vision clears, the illusion shatters. The features are softer, less sharp. He’s a little leaner, too. Pale complexion, jet-black curls, tired eyes that are more red than brown, dark circles like he’s just finished a triple shift—if I wasn’t so drained, I might’ve mistaken the guy for Aphelios. It’s uncanny.

“Oh, here comes my champion,” Mom says, turning toward me with a bright smile. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her hospital gown loose on her frame. The nurse looks up, too, glancing between us with mild curiosity.

“Sett,” she gestures toward him, “this is Hwei. One of the best nurses in this place.”

Hwei scoffs lightly. “You flatter me, Miss Callahan.” His voice is smooth, laced with exhaustion, but he still smiles at her like he’s genuinely fond of her company. “I was just making sure your mother is as comfortable as possible,” he adds, directing the words to me.

“She’s a damn troublemaker,” I joke, stepping further in.

Mom gasps dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “Excuse you! I am the perfect patient.”

Hwei chuckles, standing up as he gathers his clipboard. “She’s doing fine. We just went over her medications again, and she’s got a good handle on things.” He gives Mom a small nod. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

As the nurse heads out, Mom watches him go with an amused glint in her eyes before turning back to me. “See? Lovely young man. Reminds me of someone.”

I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going. “I don't know what you're talking about, Mom.”

Stepping toward her, grinning to hide how much I really don’t like her train of thought, I bend forward and press a quick kiss to her cheek. Madden and love-fucking-ly ?

What kind of drugs are they giving her, seriously?

Mom smirks at me, her eyes narrowing the way they always do when she’s teasing me. “I’m just saying.”

I huff, shaking my head as I glance around the room. The old gran’s bed is empty, neatly made with crisp hospital sheets—guess she got discharged. The only other patient is out cold, snoring softly under a thin blanket. The low hum of medical equipment fills the space, blending with the occasional murmur of nurses passing by in the hallway.

Turning back to Mom, I shove my hands into my pockets. “You feeling okay today?”

She waves a hand. “Same as always. But I am bored out of my mind. You think you can sneak your old Ma out of here for a bit?”

“You’re not old,” I snort before raising a brow. “ Sneak you out?”

She laughs and I love the way it sounds. It can always brighten your day. Just like mine now. “Okay, not exactly. But I want some fresh air. There’s a garden outside, right? Let’s go sit for a while.”

I take a moment to really look at her. She’s always been smaller than me, but sitting on the bedside like this, she looks even smaller—fragile, almost.

Her hair used to be a bright platinum blonde, shining under the sun like silk. Now, it’s streaked with silver, dulled by time, yet still long, knotted into a careless mess. It suits her. She’s never been one for vanity.

Her amber eyes, the same as mine, still hold that familiar warmth, that unshakable light. No matter how much life has thrown at her, how many times she’s been knocked down, she still carries herself like she’s that same happy girl she’s always been in her head—untouched by the worst of this shitty world.

I hesitate, my gaze flicking to the IV bag and the tube still connected to her arm, making sure she stays hydrated in this damn heat. “…You sure you should be up?”

“Doctor said I can walk around as long as I take it slow,” she reassures me. “And besides, if I stay in this room another minute, I might actually start knitting or something. That guy snores like a damn combine harvester.”

I snort. “Fine. But if you pass out, I’m throwing you over my shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes.”

“You’d better not.” She grins, swinging her legs before standing on steadier legs than I expected. As I help her up, I take hold of the IV stand, its wheels screeching as I roll it behind her. 

The garden is quieter than I expected. A few other patients sit in the shade, chatting softly, their voices blending with the distant hum of the hospital. The occasional nurse or doctor strolls through, some on break, others guiding patients on slow, careful walks. The air smells faintly of freshly cut grass and the lingering scent of antiseptic from the open doors leading back inside.

I lead Mom to a large tree, its thick branches spreading out like an old guardian shielding us from the midday heat. The grass beneath it is cool, a welcome contrast to the sunbaked pathways winding through the garden. We settle on a wooden bench, its once-white paint peeling away in spots, revealing the weathered wood beneath. I place the IV stand next to her, making sure it's positioned so she can be more comfortable.

A soft breeze rustles the leaves above, and for a brief moment, the world feels a little less heavy.

She lets out a content sigh. “ Much better.”

I stretch my legs out, leaning back against the backrest. “Summer’s cool, but too fucking hot sometimes.” 

She hums, giving me a knowing look. “How’s work?”

Small talk with my mother is always a bit awkward. Not that I don’t enjoy it—when we get into a real conversation, we can talk for hours about serious things or act like idiots over the dumbest shit. But more often than not, when Mom starts with small talk, it means there’s a bomb incoming.

My stomach tightens, and I try not to let it show. I’m pretty sure she already knows I put on a mask around her. Even if, honestly, right now, I do feel a little better than before.

I shrug, before letting the lie slip from my lips. “Same as usual.”

I don’t want to worry her, especially since work is real shit right now. And I definitely don’t want to embarrass myself by telling her I dropped a damn bucket full of water on my foot and it still fucking hurts where the edge smashed my little toe. Safety work shoes? Won’t admit I forgot them at home. I can’t concentrate—I’m completely fucked up when I’m not around her. Or when she’s not at home because of her health.

Some would say it’s an unhealthy codependency, being stuck with my mother twenty-four seven at twenty-six.

But they’re wrong. Mari Callahan is family.  

If there’s really an issue, it’s thanks to my fucking old man. Ever since he disappeared, he never gave a single damn sign of life. Hell, better that way. Because I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to keep my shit together if I ever had to face him again. I hope he died shitfaced in some gutter, tripping over his own two feet and choking on his own puke.

Turning my head to watch her, I catch her huffing and rolling her eyes—her beautiful eyes. Yeah, she doesn’t believe me. But she drops the subject, and I’m thankful for that.

She waits a beat. “And the race?”

Unfortunately, the next topic isn’t much better.

“Didn’t win.” I glance away, suddenly very interested in a random patch of dirt. “I’m sorry, Mom. Ended up in a shitty sixth place. I’ve been pretty drained lately, and obviously, I wasn’t focused enough to win. I know we needed the cash prize.”

A gentle finger pokes my cheek, and I turn my head to find my mother watching me, her gaze softening. She chuckles, tilting her head, and for another moment, she looks so damn young.

“You’ll always be my champ, Settrigh.”

I love the way Mom uses my full name when she’s feeling sentimental. It spreads warmth through my chest, and I can’t help but grin.

She keeps talking, telling me we don’t need the money, that just being together as a family is enough. I let her words wash over me, even if I don’t quite believe them. Then, out of nowhere, she starts asking about my Camaro. I’m surprised—she’s never been one to care much about cars, but she knows it’s my pride and joy. So, I answer every damn question, feeling strangely at ease.

It’s nice, just talking like this. Or even sitting in comfortable silence. It feels like we’re in our own little bubble, just the two of us. And I'm trying to block out the knowledge that we're still within hospital grounds.

My gaze drifts from her face to the IV bag, and I realize we’ve been sitting here for a while. The shadows have shifted; my outstretched leg is now baking in the sun, and I wonder if I’m about to get sunburned. The heat in the shades of the giant tree is bearable, but I still frown at my mother.

“You thirsty?” I ask.

She nods, watching me as I stand. “I’ll get us some water. Be right back.”

Jogging toward the hospital entrance, I cut through the reception area and turn right toward the vending machine. Fishing some coins from my pocket, I grab two bottles of water and head straight back. Mom is still on the bench, greeting a few passersby as I step back into the shade.

I hand her a bottle, then uncap mine, taking a deep gulp. The cold water soothes my throat, the freshness cutting through the heat.

Then, just as I’m starting to feel settled again, she asks, “How’s Aphelios doing?”

Her tone is casual, but I freeze mid-sip.

“I don’t know?” I shrug, trying to play-it cool. But it seems I’m failing miserably because my mother’s expression turns concerned.

“What did you do, stubborn son of mine?”

That’s a damn good question.

Because I’ve been ignoring him all week—so much so that I’ve practically erased him from existence. Aphelios is, of course, still around, but somehow, he’s started to feel like part of the furniture. And whatever’s between us, my brain has managed to push it to the background.

Then again, maybe it’s just that he leaves me alone. No sharp comments. No murderous glares. No middle fingers thrown my way.

And—strangely enough—that bothers me. As ridiculous as it sounds, Aphelios and I hate each other. We’re rivals. We’re supposed to trade jabs, throw punches, piss each other off. That’s just how it is. That’s how I am. However, at the same time, I'm no longer.

Mom’s amber eyes bore into me like she’s peeling me open, layer by layer. I sigh and settle my ass back on the bench, my side now warming under the sun. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, then push my sunglasses back up my nose. Maybe to block out the glare. Maybe to hide my eyes from my way-too-perceptive mother.

“Sorry, Mom,” I mutter, rolling my half-full water bottle between my hands. “I’ve been ghosting him lately. Hell, I’ve been ghosting everyone.”

She doesn’t say anything, just takes a slow sip from her bottle, and I don’t know why, but it makes me want to keep talking. So I do.

“I hated not being there for you,” I admit, voice quieter. “It’s been messing with me. Madden was there for you, and I wasn’t. And I got mad. At him, at first. But mostly at myself.”

I shake my head, huffing a laugh that has no humor in it. “I don’t feel like myself. And yeah, maybe I’ve been ignoring Madden and everyone else just to keep my shit together. So, honestly, I have no idea how he’s doing. I just know he had a shitty race today too. He ended up third—at least he made it onto the podium.”

“I can tell. He told me how you act at home.” Mom’s voice is soft, but I can practically feel her eyes rolling. “Such a nice boy. He was here on Thursday to say hello. ”

Madden never mentioned to me visiting, not that we’ve been talking much lately. Still, I can’t help but snort at hearing Mom of all people call Aphelios a nice boy. He’s everything but nice. She flicks her fingers against my arm, and I let out an exaggerated, outraged Ouch! She ignores me.

“He has his own burdens to carry,” she says, her tone thoughtful. “Honestly, I was surprised when you brought him home. Like he was some lost little bunny you scooped up for adoption because you couldn’t stand seeing him suffer.”

I huff, rubbing my arm and really, I’m trying not to picture Aphelios fucking Madden with bunny ears, all furry-style—kneeling in the grass in torn clothes. “Yeah, well, if you had seen the place he was living in… It was worse than a damn trash bin. And those homophobic assholes sprayed shit all over the walls. As much as I hate him, nobody deserves to be called a faggot.”

Mom sighs, shaking her head. “You’re right. And I’m glad you did.”

“Did you know he’s in debt, too?” I glance at her as I say it, not even sure why I’m telling her all this. “His parents left him in the hole—over thirty grand he has to pay off to Hawthorne. Even if Dad was a douche, at least he did one decent thing—he took his fucking debt with him when he left.”

Mom’s brows lift slightly. “That’s awful…” she murmurs, then pauses.

And suddenly, I realize I’m spilling parts of Aphelios Madden’s lives in front of my mother—without him knowing—like an arrogant jerk. I shouldn’t care. Aphelios is a stubborn asshole who doesn’t want to share his problems. His only purpose in life seems to be getting on my nerves.

And it pisses me off that he hasn’t lately.

Backtracking, I’m still mad about the shit he pulled. I was actually trying to play nice, and I meant it. The camping trip? Yeah, as much as that idea sounds oh-so-great, it’s driving me fucking nuts that I don’t understand why I care so much. Why I feel like I need to keep him in check—like some twisted anchor—so he doesn’t just ditch me at the track again.

But the jerk just shut down, back to being the cold bastard he’s always been. Then again, I clearly felt his hard dick when I shoved him into the trailer wall, wanting to kiss him so bad.

And just like that, those what-are-we questions come creeping back.

I take a sip of water from my now-lukewarm bottle, but my mother is watching me. Her lips twitch slightly upward. I narrow my eyes. I know that look.

"Tell me, Settrigh—who between the two of you is bottoming?"

And I fucking choke on my water. What the hell just happened?

I’m not sure if I’m actually scowling at my mother or if my face is just frozen in pure, unfiltered shock . My brain short-circuits so hard that for a second, I wonder if I’ve misheard her. Maybe the heat’s finally fried my senses.

But no—she’s sitting there, perfectly composed, lips quirking like she didn’t just drop the most unhinged question of my life.

My throat burns from choking on my water, and I can’t even find the words to respond. What the actual fuck did she just say? And I’m not answering that I’m a goddamn top.

“You’re talking an awful lot about this boy,” she continues, tilting her head innocently. “You bring him home. You’re worrying about his debt. You lament his presence. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a thing for stray bunnies with pretty eyes.”

At the mention of pretty eyes, Aphelios’ flash into my mind, unbidden. They’re so dark they almost seem black, but when the light catches them just right, a deep, rich violet shimmers in the depths of his irises. It’s subtle—like a hidden gem buried beneath shadows, only revealing itself in rare moments. Sometimes, when he’s staring too intensely, they almost glow, pulling you in like a goddamn abyss.

I groan, trying to ignore the shame crawling up . “Mom—”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t fucked yet?” she adds innocently.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

She cackles , fully entertained, and I drop my head into my hands. “I hate you,” I grumble into my palms.

“No, you don’t.” She pats my back, still grinning. “You love me. And I love you too, champ.”

Yeah, I really do. Hell, this isn’t even the first time we’ve talked about sex. She’s made it painfully clear she’s not some innocent girl and that she knows things. Always reminding me that she birthed me, and it didn’t happen with bees and flowers. I shouldn’t be shocked that Mom throws around words like cock and bottom like they’re part of everyday conversation—if only it weren’t always at my expense.

“Yep, love you too, bitch,” I mutter, forcing a grin while my face burns with shame.

As stupid as this sudden conversation is, it makes me wonder. My mother isn’t the only one bringing up this subject. K did it. And Sam—well, I’m pretty sure she’s thinking it very loudly. They all seem convinced there’s something going on between Madden and me. And hell, yeah, there is .

I mean, he sucked me off—gave me the best fucking head of my life, sent me straight into another dimension . I jerked us both off together, and damn, those orgasms were incredible. Mind-blowing. And let’s not forget the damn kissing—the stuff I keep trying not to think about. The lips I might be craving without even realizing it.

But still. What does that even mean ?

Let’s go over the facts.

Aphelios is tall—not as tall as me, but taller than the average guy. And yeah, he’s thin, but not in a sickly, malnourished way—despite his shitty living situation. Actually, I’m pretty sure since he started crashing at the trailer, he’s put on a little weight. If he worked out more, he’d look insanely good. Not that he doesn’t already, but… you get what I mean.

And come on—he has to be working out at least somewhat . He’s a reckless amateur NASCAR driver, but he still needs a baseline of strength to keep control behind the wheel. And he walks a lot. Like, a lot . It’s almost like a hobby for him, not just a way to get to the bookstore or pick up the Mustang—when I’m not playing his goddamn chauffeur.

Just look at his calves . Those things are built for trekking, I swear .

But all of that… it’s just physical , right?

Maybe that’s why K and Mom and Sam are pushing me toward him. Because he’s too pretty , too hot , too conveniently perfect .

My dick seems to agree. But my brain? My brain is struggling. Because I still hate that fucker. And yet, every time we get within arm’s reach, we’re acting like horny teenagers ready to tear our throats open.

Mom’s voice pulls me out of whatever spiral I’m stuck in, her smug expression fading into something calmer, more thoughtful.

“So, by ghosting, you mean you’re not driving him anymore?”

I don’t answer, but my silence speaks for itself. Mom lets out one of those deep, exasperated sighs—the kind that tells me she’s about to hit me with something I won’t like.

“Let me ask you another question,” she continues, her tone measured. “Are you eating?”

That throws me off. I blink at her, caught off guard.

What kind of question is that? Of course I’m eating.

Sure, I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, but I still force myself to eat enough to not drop dead on the construction site. My whole week has been running on autopilot—get up, munch some toast, survive work, visit Mom. Then when I finally get home, I bite into whatever sandwich I can grab, wash it down with a beer, and hope for sleep to take me before my brain can start overthinking shit again.

So yeah, I am eating.

I nod. “Yeah, Mom. I’m eating.”

There’s a strange look in her eyes—something I can’t quite put my finger on. A mix of amusement and something softer, almost pitying.

“And who do you think has been making sure the fridge is full and those sandwiches are ready?”

I gape at her, my brain stuttering. “Huh?”

She keeps going like she hasn’t just dropped confusing stuff on me. “Because I’m pretty sure I wasn’t home this week, and you sure as hell didn’t think about groceries, did you?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My thoughts are scrambling to catch up. What the hell is she saying?

I haven’t been grocery shopping—I know that. I’ve barely thought about food, let alone made a single damn sandwich. But every night, there’s been something waiting for me. I just… never questioned it.

My stomach twists with something I don’t understand. Well, it wasn’t exactly incomprehension—it was more like standing in front of an open door but refusing to step through. Like the answer was right there, staring me in the face, but my brain was doing mental gymnastics to avoid accepting it.

“Are you telling me Madden has been doing shit for me instead of you?” My voice comes out more incredulous than I intend.

But I don’t need Mom to answer. I already know. Aphelios fucking Madden makes me sandwiches every damn day.

My brain latches onto one word— why —and suddenly, I’m running a mental marathon, trying to make sense of it.

It’s not like we’re friends. Hell, it’s not like we even tolerate each other. We argue, we fight, we push each other’s buttons until one of us snaps. He’s got no reason to do this. No obligation. No debt to settle.

So why ?

Maybe he pities me. Maybe he sees I’m barely holding my shit together and figures someone has to step in before I collapse. But that doesn’t sound like him—Madden’s too proud, too closed-off to waste his time playing caretaker.

Maybe it’s guilt. Because of Mom. Because he was here when I wasn’t. Because he saw me fall apart and doesn’t know any other way to fix it.

Or maybe—

No. No, I’m not going there.

I shake my head, pressing my fingers to my temples like I can physically shove these thoughts out of my skull. It’s just dinner. Just sandwiches. It doesn’t mean anything.

…Right?

Allowing my brain to backtrack to the first line of thought, I try to settle on the only explanation that makes sense.

He owes me.

That’s got to be it. It’s not kindness. Not guilt. Not anything else people keep hinting at. He’s just paying his dues—keeping his head down, doing his part because I let him crash at our place. That’s the only reason he’s playing the silent, sneaky little housewife.

And really, that’s the only way I can get my head wrapped around this.

Except—

There’s this awful, heavy feeling in my chest.

Silence settles between us for a moment before she shifts, exhaling deeply.

“Settrigh,” she starts, voice softer now, more serious. “I’ve been thinking.”

Something in my chest tightens. I don’t like that tone.

She’s looking at me—really looking. Scrutinizing. Taking me in like she’s trying to memorize every damn detail of me. The way my hair falls messily over my forehead, the tired set of my jaw, the stubborn tension in my shoulders. Like she’s afraid she won’t get to look at me forever.

"I'm worried. Aphelios told me how you're doing, and that unsettles me. You're not a twenty-six-year-old baby, you're an adult. In the future, I won't be around, and you have to get your shit together—with or without me."

I freeze. “Mom—”

She holds up a hand, cutting me off before I can even start.

“Listen to me. I know you’ve been breaking your back trying to help me. I know what you’re doing. And I need you to stop worrying about me every damn second. And before you start arguing—yes, I’m sure. And no, you don’t get a say in this.”

My stomach twists into a tight knot. Eventually, I push my shades back onto my head and turn fully toward her, my whole body stiff, every muscle wound up like a damn spring. Sweat clings to my palms, uncomfortable, itchy. And it’s not the sun—I know that much.

I should drop this conversation. Get up. Accompany her back inside before the heat does more damage than good. Before she says something I don’t want to hear.

"Stop freaking me out, Mom.” I say slowly, my brows knitting together. "What are you trying to tell me?"

She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. A rare moment of hesitation.

“About… accepting the healthcare offer.”

And just like that, it’s like someone’s yanked the rug out from under me, and I’m free-falling—straight into reality, landing hard.

---

Aphelios Madden

The smell of fresh ink and printed paper fills my nose as I pry open the crate, slicing through the tape with my box cutter. A stack of glossy covers stares back at me, new deliveries from the distributor. The store mostly runs official prints from big publishers, but lately, the owner’s taken an interest in indie authors—those whose books are only available online or in small shops like ours.

The bookstore isn’t huge, but it’s packed with variety. Classic literature, romance, adventure, mysteries, Eastern and Western comics, self-help guides—there’s even a tiny porn aisle in the back, discreetly tucked away behind a strategically placed potted plant. And, of course, right at the front window, in the bottom left corner, a little rainbow flag sticker lets everyone know we cater to everyone .

I love books. Always have. But I can’t afford them. Not at the rate I read. A 700-page novel lasts me, what, two days? Maybe less if it's a slow week. Paying twenty bucks per book when I burn through them that fast? Yeah, no. I’m already broke; I don’t need to make it worse. Thankfully, the owner lets me take unsold copies with me sometimes. When I’m done, I just sneak them into the second-hand section like they’ve always been there. A loophole in capitalism.

One book actually made me cry once— Finding Delaware by Bree Wiley. I used to think crying over a book was ridiculous, but then I read that gut-punch of a story. Almost put it down. But the author promised a HEA, so I pushed through. And yeah, it was worth it.

Books are heavy. In both the literal and metaphorical sense.

I balance a stack in my arms, heading for the novel aisle, but my brain’s stuck in a loop.

Sett, Sett, Sett.

No matter how much I try to focus, every damn thing reminds me of him .

I glance at the books I’m shelving and scoff at the titles. Callahan’s Gold? Great. A Western novel starring some rugged outlaw with a name suspiciously similar to his . I shove it onto the shelf harder than necessary. Next, The Beast Within —seriously? I glare at the dramatic cover featuring a man who looks like he could body-slam a bear and win. The resemblance is uncanny . I sigh, flipping through another book before I spot Settling the Score . My eye twitches.

Okay. Someone is messing with me.

I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut for a second.

Fine. Fine. If my brain insists on hyper-fixating on him, at least I can pretend it’s for normal reasons. Like how annoying he is. Or how infuriatingly attractive he is when he’s sweaty and pissed off. Or how I can still feel his hands on me, his mouth—

I shove another book onto the shelf.

I need a distraction. Now.

The store is quiet. Barely any customers today. Maybe I should grab a book, sit behind the counter, and force my brain to think about literally anything else.

Glancing at the clock behind the desk—past four. Little less than thirty minutes before closing. Since I’m done with the deliveries, I head toward the comics aisle, exhaling slowly. I close my eyes, let my fingers trail along the spines, and stop at random. Whatever I pick, that’s what I’ll read until it’s time to lock up.

I open my eyes.

And my stomach drops.

For fuck’s sake.

Speed Racer.

Right there on the cover—Alpha Team’s No. 2 red engine, shining in all its high-speed glory.

Because apparently, fate thinks it’s hilarious. Death of Me from Connor Kauffman playing in the background. 

I groan, shoving the comic back onto the shelf before dragging myself to the backroom. Heading straight for the coffee machine, I pour some cold black brew into my usual mug—a very fuzzy cat with bloodshot eyes and the inscription: It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.

Fitting, really.

It matches my old black tee, the one with Garfield sitting under the rain at a bus stop, Waiting for pizza . Pair that with the dark blue denim I finally caved and bought last week—along with some new briefs, since there was a promo—and here I am.

And honestly? I have no fucking clue why I thought wearing denim in this heat was a good idea. Maybe because mornings are still a little cool when I walk to the store. Or maybe because the AC in here actually works, and sometimes it feels like I’m in a damn meat locker.

My brain is running on wireless interference anyway.

It’s almost closing time, and since tomorrow’s the Fourth of July—yippee, I guess—I’ll need to hit the grocery store. The ancient fridge at the trailer is empty, and, surprise surprise, the stubborn asshole who technically owns the place isn’t capable of taking care of it. Or himself, for that matter.

Okay, maybe that’s a low blow. Sometimes it’s understandable. I’d probably be just as much of a mess if it were Alune instead of Mari in that hospital bed. And I should be grateful—Alune only lands in the ER once in a while, usually because she’s utterly wasted, not because life decided to fuck her over with a chronic illness.

And Mari… Mari Callahan is a damn good person. No one deserves to spend time in a hospital, but she especially doesn’t. It’s not like she did anything to deserve this. She just got the short end of the lottery when it comes to health. She even tried explaining everything to me once—her whole medical history, terms I could barely wrap my head around—but I got the message loud and clear: it’s bad.

That doesn’t explain why Sett refuses to realize that he’s not doing any better. If anything, he’s making things worse for her. He’s a grown-ass man, but he’s acting like a spoiled kid throwing a tantrum because someone didn’t buy him his favorite toy at the supermarket. Except in this case, the toy is his sense of control, and losing it has sent him into a week-long sulk.

And it's getting harder to ignore.

Like yesterday—he was already home when I got back, scowling at the floor like it had personally offended him. Apparently, his boss forced him to take a few days off because, and I quote: "My boss is persuaded I’m gonna crack my skull open on a shovel tripping over my own two feet. Now get off my sight, fucker."

Charming.

And this is why I keep making sure there's food in the fridge, that the trailer doesn’t fall apart with dust and dirt, that he doesn’t completely spiral. Not because I pity him—I don’t . But because I owe him. He let me stay, and this is how I pay off the debt. Another one.

That’s all it is.

Shutting off the radio, I glance around to make sure the back door is locked, then switch off the shop lights. The Closed sign flips over with a soft thunk as I step outside into the summer heat, locking up behind me.

I barely make it two steps before the heat hits me like a brick wall. Within seconds, my shirt is sticking to my back, and I already feel like a damn medium steak sizzling on the sidewalk. Great.

I wish I could've borrowed Sett’s truck, but I didn’t dare ask. He’ll need it to visit Mari anyway, and I’d rather not give him another excuse to snap at me. So it’s just me, my two legs, and a mental debate over whether I should suck it up and take the bus back after groceries. The idea of cramming into a sweaty metal box with a bunch of overheated strangers makes my skin crawl, but it’s still better than lugging bags all the way to the trailer park.

As I walk, my eyes catch on a flashing sign outside a small phone shop: BUY ONE, SECOND HALF PRICE!

I slow my pace, something tugging at the back of my mind.

Shit, I really need a phone.

Well, we do.

I step inside, cool AC washing over my skin like a godsend. The shop is small, mostly glass cases filled with smartphones in neat rows. Nothing fancy, just practical models—exactly what I need. My savings have been stretched thin lately, but I planned for this. I’ve been rationing every dollar, making sure to put enough in my secret envelope.

After a short conversation with the bored-looking cashier, I walk out with two budget Samsung smartphones—older A models but still decent—along with a free pair of wired earbuds and two $10 prepaid cards. Barely $280 for everything. A good deal, considering.

One for me. One for Alune.

Heading toward the grocery store, I turn the one of the small boxes over in my hands, frowning at it. It feels... weird.

It’s been so long since I owned a phone that the damn thing feels foreign, like I’m holding some piece of tech from another decade. Not that I need much. Calls, texts, maybe some internet if I load enough credit. That’s it.

My sister will probably roll her eyes when I hand hers over. She’ll call me a mother hen. Maybe laugh and say I’m finally joining the 21st century. But I know she needs it—especially if she ever gets herself into another mess.

Although recently, she seems to have rediscovered a more stable way of living. Working at Garren’s is good for her. Or maybe it’s squatting at Aurora’s. Or just being off my back twenty-four seven. She’s visibly more serene, and I’m sure it has something to do with where—or who —she’s staying with.

Aurora is good for her. Even if I still feel a little bad knowing how she really feels about Alune.

But my twin is doing so much better now, and for once, I have to shove those thoughts aside and be a little selfish.

Yet, sometimes, it’s hard to pair the Madden name with happiness.

Maybe, for now, we can just enjoy this little moment of reprieve. Especially when I notice that Alune doesn’t have nearly as many anxiety braids in her color-treated hair anymore.

I shove the box into the bag the cashier handed me, exhaling as the grocery store comes into view. One thing at a time. 

Getting out of the damn scorching sun and back into the cooled grocery store should be a relief. Instead, it just pisses me off. The shock of freezing air against my sweat-drenched skin makes me shudder, and I already know this back-and-forth between hellfire heat and icebox AC is gonna mess me up. Summer flu, here I fucking come.

I push my damp black hair back and shake off the uneasy feeling, adjusting the plastic bag from the phone shop in my grip. I don’t like carrying it out in the open, makes me feel like I’ve got a giant neon sign over my head screaming, Hey, pickpockets, free shit here! It’s not like I can afford to lose the damn things either. I worked too hard rationing my savings, scraping together just enough to afford this little splurge— investment , really. Had to ask my rent to be paid upfront too, and thank fuck my boss is cool. Still, this bag makes my palms clammy for all the wrong reasons.

I need a cart. Not because I plan to get a mountain of groceries, but because I’m not carrying them into my arms. No, thanks. I grab one from the entrance and head straight for the produce aisle, the wheels rattling on the linoleum.

I don’t have a list, but I know exactly what I need. More specifically, I know exactly what Sett needs.

It’s not like I mean to keep track of his habits. It just happens. When you share a space with someone, you start noticing things. Little things.

Like how he always gets pissed when we’re out of that one brand of peanut butter, muttering under his breath as he scrapes the jar clean like it personally betrayed him. Or how he stares at the fridge, arms crossed, jaw tight, when there’s no yogurt left, as if waiting for it to magically appear. How he forgets to eat sometimes, drinking a beer instead and calling it a meal. Stupid asshole.

Tossing a six-pack of his favorite Greek yogurt into the cart, I make sure to grab the vanilla one he doesn’t have to mix. Next, peanut butter, a loaf of whole white bread—since it's the cheapest. 

I swing by the canned food section, tossing in some tins of pre-cooked pasta, like ravioli, along with cans of soup and other easy-to-make canned meals. Next I head for microwave meals, especially those at discounted prices. I grab two jars of sausages before heading towards the dairy aisle, picking up some cheese and a small carton of milk. I hesitate near the vegetables and fruits. Callahan eats them, but only if they’re there , like he won’t actively buy them himself. I grab some apples and a pack of pre-cut carrots, shoving them into the cart.

I’m already halfway through the store before I even start thinking about what I need. Glancing into the cart, I get the feeling that I don’t really need anything. It’s not that I’m forgetting myself—it’s just that everything I’d get for me is already in there.

Two packs of noodles later, my feet drag me toward the toiletries, like some subconscious part of me already knows what’s running low in the trailer’s bathroom.

Body wash. His is the kind that claims to be 3-in-1 but barely works as one . The bottle in the shower was practically upside down last time I saw it, balanced precariously in the corner, waiting for someone to squeeze the last pathetic drops out. I grab a new one—same brand, same scent. Something vaguely citrusy, though the bottle doesn’t specify. Not that I’d admit it, but I know how Sett smells. Manly. Warm. Faintly like oranges and sage, like the way his collar sometimes brushes against my arm when we pass each other in the cramped trailer. 

Fuck. Moving on.

Toothpaste. Toilet-paper. Deodorant, too, since I heard him banging his old one against the sink the other morning, cursing under his breath when nothing came out.

Back in the food aisle, I grab several cans of cheap beer.

My brain registers something last minute, and I backtrack, digging into my pocket for the stack of crumpled coupons I grabbed from the trailer. Callahan’s damn meticulous about them, cutting them out every week like a grandma, and honestly, if it saves me money, I’m not complaining. I scan through them quickly, making sure I get discounts where I can.

By the time I hit checkout, my cart isn’t overflowing, but it’s got enough to last us a while. The cashier, the same woman as usual, gives me a bored nod, scanning everything while I shove my coupons forward like some seasoned bargain hunter. The total drops a few bucks, and I smirk a little.

I pay, then grab two reusable bags, one of those insulated ones for the cold stuff. It costs an extra dollar, but I’d rather not have everything getting roasted before I even get back to the trailer park. Slinging one bag over my shoulder, I clutch the other simultaneously with the phone store bag, I step back into the heat and immediately regret it.

Great. I’m sweating again. My body doesn’t know what season it wants to live in anymore.

Adjusting my grip, I glance around warily before heading toward the bus stop. One hand still clutches the damn phone shop bag, and I resist the urge to shove it into one of my grocery bags just to feel less like a walking target. I do it anyway.

There’s only one thing I want to do now—crash on that damn couch, close my eyes, and pass out in the trailer’s heat. Just a few hours of nothingness. No more Sett fucking Callahan pacing circles in my head.

The bus ride had been hell—too many people, not enough space, and the AC barely working. My dark shirt sticks to my back, the grocery bags cutting into my fingers, and I feel like I’ve been cooked, dragged, and wrung out by the damn heat. My brain is just as fried, overworked and overheated, running on some loop I can’t shut off.

I hurry up the steps, already feeling the relief of dumping everything into the fridge before I melt into the couch, becoming one with the furniture. But just as I reach for the door, I nearly slam right into someone.

The smell hits me first—stale beer and sweat, thick in the humid air and that causes my nose to wrinkle. Then the sight of him. White, dirty jeans that have seen better days, an open yellow Hawaiian shirt dotted with cactus prints stretched over a beer belly. Unshaved, his face a mess of patchy stubble, and a pair of cheap shades covering his eyes.

And he’s standing right in front of the trailer.

It screams Hawthorne, and I recoil a step back, dread filling my gut like a lead weight. My brain goes into overdrive, scanning through a hundred different scenarios, trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong. But there’s nothing.

Every prize money I won got sent exactly where it needed to go. I haven’t skipped a race. I always bring the Mustang back in one piece.

My whole body is tense, muscles coiled, ready to bolt and leave the damn groceries right on the front steps if I have to.

“You live here?” Mister-Bad-Smell slurs, and I really , fucking really try to keep my calm.

I consider lying. Technically , I don’t live here—I’m just allowed to stay. But standing here, grocery bags in hand, I get the sinking feeling that any denial will be useless. Instead, I just nod, because I sure as hell don’t trust my voice right now. At the same time, I try to discreetly scan him, searching for any sign of a weapon tucked into his waistband. Not that I can see much from this angle.

“Interesting,” the guy drawls, his voice thick with booze. I feel his stare behind those cheap-ass shades, scanning me up and down like I’m some kind of curiosity. Then his face twists into something ugly—disgust curling his mouth. “Either he’s playing for the other team, or there’s a cougar living in this trailer.”

What the fuck?

“I beg your pardon, asshole?” The words snap out before my brain even has a chance to rein them in. My vision flashes red.

Nobody, nobody , insults Mari Callahan in front of me.

And hell, not even Sett—who’s had my back against plenty of homophobic bastards—deserves to be spat on by some shitfaced stranger who smells like a walking distillery.

My hands tighten around the grocery bags, knuckles white with anger. The urge to punch him in the face buzzes through me like a rope about to snap, but I hold back. This isn’t the time to lose my temper completely. And let’s be real—I doubt I’d have the upper hand if I provoked this guy into a fight.

But Mister-Bad-Smell just ignores me. Like I’m not even there .

Instead, he turns toward the trailer, looking it over like it holds the answers to whatever bullshit theory is running through his booze-soaked brain.

Whatever the hell is going on, I don’t like this dude. He’s definitely not one of Hawthorne’s lapdogs, not here for me , but every instinct I have is screaming that Mister-Shitfaced-Homophobe is not a good sign.

His mouth twists into something smug as he rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his filthy white jeans and faces me again. “Figures, he still lives here.”

It’s not a question, but rather a statement the random fucker who reeks of booze and bad intentions throws in the air. My jaw clenches and my grip tightens so hard on the grocery bags that the plastic digs into my fingers. My blood pressure skyrockets. Motherfucker.

“Get the fuck away from my place.” The words snap out of my mouth before I even think, pure instinct. I’m seething.

But then the guy actually moves— right past me —and with a hard shove to my shoulder, he nearly sends me stumbling down the steps.

I barely catch myself, heart hammering. And just as I’m about to snap again, to say something , he throws one last slurred, homophobic insult over his shoulder—something so vile I don’t even want to name it—before trailing down the lot and disappearing from sight.

Like he was never even fucking here.

This was some really confusing shit. And somehow, I should probably tell Sett about it. If he even wants to have a conversation with me, that is.

I stand there for a second, still glued to the spot, my brain replaying the whole thing in a messy loop—who the fuck was that guy? Why did he care who still lived here? I just hope Callahan hasn’t wound himself up in some kind of shitty trouble.

But I’m too tired to think. Too hot, too drained, and still sweating like hell.

I shake myself out of it and step up to the trailer, unlocking the door with Soraka’s key. I meant to give it back, but she insisted I keep it. I even asked Mari when I visited her—she was fine with it too.

The wave of heat inside is like stepping into an oven, and I groan, kicking the door shut behind me. First things first—groceries. I dump the bags onto the counter and start unpacking, shoving stuff into the fridge before it turns to mush. The cold air feels like a fucking blessing against my skin.

Sandwiches. Easy, fast, Sett-proof. Rather Madden-safe, because my cooking skills… Well, we’re not going there. I slap together a few, one for me, a couple extra for him, in case he remembers food exists, and then I’m heading for the shower.

By the time I strip down and step under the water, it’s barely past seven, but the heat still clings to me. I let the lukewarm spray wash over me, willing it to turn colder, to chase away the stickiness, the exhaustion, the damn thoughts I can’t seem to shake.

I glance at the new bottle of body wash sitting next to the old, nearly empty one. Sett’s. My own bottle sits further back, untouched. My eyes flick between them, and before I can even think about it, I grab his.

It’s almost muscle memory at this point. I tell myself it’s just because it lathers better. That’s it. Nothing fucking weird.

Except the second the scent hits me, my stomach clenches, and I immediately regret it. Because all it does is drag my brain right back to him .

His stupid, lazy grumbles in the morning. The way he ruffles his crimson colored hair dry with a towel, leaving it a wild mess. And his chiseled chest attracts my eyes like flies to honey. Defined pecs, sculpted like a damn Greek statue, each muscle shifting with the slightest movement. His broad shoulders taper into thick, powerful arms, veins subtly tracing down to his forearms, flexing whenever he moves. His stomach—God, his stomach—is all sharp lines and taut skin, descending into a perfect display of his V-line.

I grit my teeth, running the lather through my hair, over my shoulders, down my chest. But my thoughts won’t stop. And neither will my body.

Gazing down at myself, my dick is at full attention—fucking hell .

This is pathetic, I tell myself. But my hand is already sliding down, already wrapping around the base of my cock, slick with his damn soap.

I hiss through my teeth as I stroke, slow at first, then faster. My other hand drags lower, cupping my balls, tugging just enough to make my breath hitch. My forehead drops against the shower wall, the lukewarm water pounding down my back, mixing with the heat curling in my gut.

I barely even realize what I’m muttering under my breath until it slips out in a gasp.

"Fuck… Callahan—"

The orgasm rips through me, sharp and overwhelming, my release hitting the wall before the water washes it away.

Standing here, I pant, fingers twitching at my sides. And when I finally come back to myself, one thought cuts through the haze of pleasure and exhaustion.

I’m pissed. Once again.

Because that asshole hasn’t paid me any fucking attention lately and I feel like a goddamn teenage girl with an obsessive, unrequited crush.

I should feel relieved that he’s leaving me alone, that he’s letting me do what I have to do. But I don’t. Because there’s a stubborn voice inside my head screaming for attention. For him to see me. To stop ghosting me.

That’s when a stupid idea crosses my mind. And it’s so fucking stupid that I should immediately shove it aside and pretend I never thought of it. But, of course, I don’t.

I throw on some fresh clothes—loose black shorts and my empty battery teal colored t-shirt—before glancing at the bag with the phones, picking the devices out. The second one stares back at me like it’s challenging me. Sett lost his phone. I really don't know when it happened, and since he hasn't been in the mood to talk to me lately, I can only guess when it happened. If that's the case, I feel guilty about it. But it’s not the remorse that pushes me to act.

Sorry, Alune. Maybe next time—another promotion, another chance. Taking the second phone, I slide a prepaid card in the SIM slit, and power it up. The screen flickers to life, updates rolling in, and the thought just… solidifies.

If I want Sett to be pissed at me to get any attention, this is the perfect way to do it.

I rush back into the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. The heat outside, combined with the lingering humidity from my shower, clings to my skin in a damp sheen. Currently, it's a perfect addition and I have to bite my lip to suppress the ridiculous grin curling at the edges of my mouth, while I ruffle my free hand through my hair.

Lifting my shirt up, I wedge it between my teeth, baring my stomach and the sharp cut of my hip bones. My free hand hooks into my waistband, tugging it down just enough—not too much, but enough to be suggestive. My fingers hover over the phone screen, ready to snap the shot, but I hesitate.

What the hell am I even doing?

This is stupid. Really fucking stupid.

And yet, my thumb taps the screen.

The first attempt sucks. It’s blurry. My angle is weird, and I look more like I’m stretching than anything remotely seductive. I try again. And again. A few more shots, adjusting the lighting, my pose—until finally, I get the one.

The one where my non-existence abs are framed just right, where my expression is half-lidded and teasing, where my waistband dips just low enough to make someone wonder where the trail of black hair is leading.

Yeah. That’ll do.

I set it as the background and erase all the failed attempts.

Callahan is going to be so goddamn pissed about my gift.

And I can’t fucking wait.

It’s at this exact moment, the trailer’s door swings open, then slams shut with enough force to make the walls tremble. I jump out of my skin, nearly dropping the damn phone and my heart skips a beat as my grip tightens around it. Footsteps—heavy, uneven—shuffle down the narrow hallway, and then, another bang. The unmistakable sliding door to Sett’s room. Open. Closed. Just as loud as his mood seems to be.

I let out a slow breath, only then realizing I’d been holding it.

Stepping into the kitchen, my eyes land on the untouched plate of sandwiches. A part of me knows I shouldn’t care. If he doesn’t want to eat, that’s his problem. But the sight of it—sitting there, ignored—makes my chest tighten in the most utterly disgusting way. I drop the phone with my stuff. I should start setting up my own device.

Then, another noise. A loud, dull thud from his room.

For a second, I don’t move. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Could be anything. Callahan dropping something, kicking off his shoes too hard, slamming his fist against the wall in one of his stupid brooding fits.

But the sound—it’s too heavy. My stomach twists because I’ve heard that sound before.

I hear it again now, in my head, looping back to the day Mari lost her footing in the trailer. The way my heart shot up my throat as I ran, already bracing for the worst. The way everything stopped for a moment, just long enough to make me think—

No.

I force a breath out through my nose.

This isn’t the same. It’s just another tantrum, I persuade myself. Sett’s moods are a volatile thing, and I’m already exhausted, my own head a mess of tangled thoughts.

But my feet don’t care. My body moves before my brain can stop it, shoving me down the hallway toward his door, already knocking at the panel door.

Only silence greets me—silence, except for the sound of heavy, uneven breathing through the thin partition.

And I decide to open the door. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm orange glow across the room.

Sett is on the floor, his back slumped against the bedframe, legs sprawled out like he gave up halfway through trying to stand. His hair is a mess—damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in uneven clumps. A shadow of stubble darkens his jaw, rough and unkempt, like he hasn’t bothered shaving in days. His shirt is half-rolled up, bunched awkwardly around his chest like he was trying to yank it off but got stuck on his own damn broad shoulders. It leaves the sharp cut of his abs exposed, and fuck, I catch myself staring before forcing my eyes away.

An empty whiskey bottle—judging by the label—rests near his fingers, tilting slightly like it’s threatening to roll away with the smallest movement. He doesn’t even acknowledge me at first, just staring into nothing, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Well. That explains the noise. And why he’s like this.

Did he fucking drive in this state?

For some reason, seeing him like this stirs something ugly in me. Not anger. Not frustration. Just something deep and sinking in my chest, like watching something important fall apart in slow motion.

Eventually, I step inside his bedroom, forcing my voice to stay neutral. But the frustration seeps through anyway, unguarded. “Really, Callahan?”

His head tilts lazily in my direction, amber colored gaze unfocused. “What do you want, Madden?”

What do I want? To pay off my debt and get the hell out of this shithole? To stand on my own two feet without anyone babying me out of pity? To see you get your shit together and stop making Mari worry?

And, more than anything, to want you in the most obsessive, physical ways imaginable. I can only blame myself for feeling so weak in his presence. The way his pity morphs into an inadmissible gentleness, hidden behind the mask of a tough, arrogant, not-so-straight guy. It writhes through my veins like poison that needs to be purged. It twists every one of my fantasies, seeping into my DNA, haunting me with a compulsive, inescapable infatuation.

But I say none of this.

Instead, I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “You good?”

His lips twitch—not in amusement, not in irritation, but something emptier. “Fucking peachy.”

Guess he’ll wake up with one hell of a headache tomorrow, but that’s not my problem. And yet, I’m still standing here, watching him. I cross my arms. “Yeah, sure looks like it.”

That gets something out of him, but it’s not the usual bite. No venom in the way he scoffs, no fire in his retort. Sett always bites back, always meets me with sharp words and bared teeth. But right now? Right now, he just looks... drained. Like he’s not even here.

And I don’t like that.

I shift on my feet. “You’re a mess.”

Since Saturday, he’s been more vacant than usual. At first, he was just running on autopilot. But over the past four days, he’s been drinking more, swapping meals for cans of beer every night. Not that I’ve actually seen him drink, but guess who’s been stuck doing the cleaning and laundry lately? Yeah, me. And I’ll admit it—I’ve been tidying up his room too, if only to keep him from drowning in his own mess.

I’m pretty sure he got some bad news, and it’s got nothing to do with his boss forcing him to take a few days off. My best guess? It’s about Mari. When I saw her last week, she told me she was doing fine, but that doesn’t mean Sett isn’t already stressing over the future hospital bills, the paperwork, the money he might not even have. Another weight he’s carrying alone.

“No shit,” he mutters, head thunking back against the mattress, his eyes fixated on the ceiling.

“Callahan—”

“What do you care?” His voice is quiet, not angry, just... hollow. “Just leave me the fuck alone, Madden.”

And that’s what does it. That’s the thing that makes me snap, makes something in my chest twist so hard I can barely breathe around it. Because fuck him . Fuck him for acting like I don’t care, like I haven’t been watching him unravel for days.

I have a goddamn obsession on this asshole—so of course I care.

I may not have said it out loud—I don’t even know how. The words get stuck, buried under everything I refuse to acknowledge. I don’t know how to care the way normal people do, playing nice in the shadows.

And I shouldn’t take his words seriously—he’s drunk, he’s not thinking straight. But some part of me, deep and stupid, still flinches. It hurts. And that’s why I turn to leave, not saying anything. Because, what is there to say anyway?

Packing my things and just leaving. Going far away. Crashing under a bridge if Old Vance doesn’t have a free lot for me to pitch a tent I don’t even own.

But before I can take a step, fingers wrap around my wrist—tight, desperate.

I don’t know what surprises me more: the fact that he’s finally touching me or that he somehow managed to get on his feet.

“Don’t,” he breathes. “Don’t go.”

He’s so damn close, his warmth seeping through my clothes, setting my nerves on fire. His breath, laced with cheap Jack Daniel’s, ghosts over my ear, and I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.

I freeze. Glued on the spot.

Not because of the grip—though it’s firm, unyielding—or his sudden closeness, but because of the way his voice wavers. Sett doesn’t ask for things. He demands, he takes, he pushes . But this? 

This is a plea. A raw, damn honest one.

I don’t know what to do with it.

My throat tightens. My mind wars with itself, logic screaming at me to let it go, to step back. But my body moves before my thoughts can catch up—again.

I turn anyway.

He’s so tall. Yet, his face is so close that the whiskey on his breath ghosts over my lips, but it’s his expression that knocks the air from my lungs. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, flicker with something raw—fear, exhaustion, a kind of helplessness I’ve never seen in him before. Worse that the night in the ER. Like he’s barely holding himself together, and he knows it. Like he’s one wrong word away from breaking apart completely. There’s something wet clinging to his lashes, and I don’t know if it’s sweat or tears, but I know—I know—he’s losing whatever fight he’s been having with himself.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, untangling my wrist from his grip only to slide my arms around his perfectly sculpted waist instead.

I cannot look him in the eyes anymore, so I let my forehead drop against his broad shoulder. Sett tenses, like he doesn’t know what to do with this, like he’s not used to being held. I don’t even know myself what I’m doing. But when I pull him closer, he exhales—slow and shaky—melting into me like he’s been waiting for someone to catch him.

I tighten my hold. “I’ve got you, babe.”

The fuck am I saying? Well, he sure as hell won’t remember my slip tomorrow. But right now, I don’t care. Because for once, I’m getting a peek under all the layers that make up this one Callahan.

His breath hitches. Just for a second. But then, he exhales and just… lets go.

“Let’s get you out of your clothes and into bed,” I murmur, exhaling slowly as I guide him backwards to the mattress. My grip around his waist stays firm, steady. I don’t care that he’s not holding me back. Right now, it’s not about me.

It’s about him.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Hey, I'm already back with the next part!

Once again, I'll thank everyone for your support, and I really love the fanarts I received from all of you! I keep them all saved on my desktop, and honestly, I blush like a stupid idiot whenever I look at them! (Thanks @cedapan300 and @DEERLYKAIA <3)

Little side note about the previous chapter: Finding Delaware by Bree Wiley is one of the most heartbreaking MM romances I've ever read. It’s a brick (a hefty one!), but if you're looking for something to read, I urge you to check it out!

I also recommend the following MM romance authors:
Ce Ricci (especially the Leighton U series)
Nordika Night (From Nothing—which my story is based on—and the Vile House series)
Nyla K (OS: For the Fans and her Alabaster Pen series)
Erin Russell (Possum Hollow and the Bana Sins series)

And I'll stop here with my personal library, even though there's still a lot more I could recommend!

I'll leave you to enjoy this chapter, and now I'm gonna jump and hide while working on the next one. See you soon! (Though I have a feeling you'll find me sooner, LOL!)

Sett Callahan

Unfortunately, getting drunk doesn’t erase my memory. But it does greet me with one hell of a headache.

I would trade anything for the ability to forget, even for a little while. But no amount of whiskey can blur out the image of my mother’s delicate, clean signature on those damn papers. The ones that sealed the deal, confirming her transfer to the care facility.

She signed without hesitation. No pause. No second thoughts. Just took the pen, let the representative walk her through it, and made it official with her neat little name at the bottom of each page. Mari Florence Eloïse Callahan . Her full name.

I should be relieved. Hell, I know I should. It means she’ll be somewhere safe, with people who can actually look after her the way she deserves. Somewhere better than this trailer, where I can barely keep the fridge stocked some weeks, where the walls are too thin, the summers are too hot, and the winters are too damn cold.

But it weighs on me. Sits heavy on my chest like a cinder block pressing down, crushing, suffocating.

Because it feels like I’m losing her.

Even though she’s still here, still alive, still in my life—it feels like something’s being taken from me. Some small, fragile part of myself that I’ve been holding onto with white-knuckled fists.

It’s stupid. I know it is. It’s not like I don’t visit her in the hospital already. It’s not like I won’t visit her there, at the new place, where she’ll have a proper bed, decent food, and people making sure she takes her medication. It’s for her best. I know that.

But knowing and feeling are two different things.

And I feel like shit.

Like I’m the one being left behind.

That’s what it is, isn’t it? That’s the ugly little thought wriggling its way through my brain, no matter how much I try to drown it out. She’s going somewhere better, and I’m staying here. In this nowhere town, in this trailer, in this life I can’t seem to get out of.

I drag a hand down my face, fingers digging into my temples. Fuck.

I should have gone easier on the bottle last night. My mouth is dry as hell, my stomach is a wreck, and my head pounds in time with my heartbeat. But the worst part is that none of it distracts me from the real problem.

The problem is me.

I didn’t want to sign those papers. I did it, yeah, as the only remaining family member. I sat there, nodded at the right times, even muttered something about how this was good for her. But inside? Inside, I was fighting the urge to tear them in half. To shove them back at the lady in the neat blouse and polite smile and tell her to get the fuck out.

Because if she goes, what’s left?

What’s left of me?

“Shut the fuck up, Callahan.” There’s a voice at my back.

I don’t know what time it is, only that my skull feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and nailed shut. My eyes peel open reluctantly, dry and sticky, and all I see is darkness. It’s still nighttime, but beyond that, everything feels hazy. Too hot. Too heavy.

I rub my temples again, trying to will my body into something less miserable. This goddamn headache. This hangover’s gonna be a bitch and I’m already hearing voices. My arm drops back onto the mattress, and that’s when I notice it.

Something warm.

A steady weight pressed lightly against my back. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breath that isn’t mine.

The realization takes a second to settle in, like my brain’s too sluggish to keep up. But I know exactly whose arm is draped over my chest, whose smaller body is curled up behind mine, radiating heat like a goddamn furnace.

Aphelios.

I remember last night. Every messy, humiliating detail. The way I hit the floor, too wasted to do more than sit there and stew in my own self-pity. The way I begged him—actually fucking begged him—not to leave.

And he didn’t.

He helped me out of my sweat-soaked clothes, unlaced my sneakers, and guided me onto the bed with more patience than I deserved. He promised to come back, and he did, a half peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water in hand. He didn’t push me to eat, just set it on the nightstand in case I wanted it. But he did make me drink, murmuring something about staying hydrated while I bitched about the papers mom and I’d signed.

That stupid fucking signature that will change everything.

I must’ve passed out mid-complaint.

There’s no black-out about what had happened. But somehow, this part didn’t quite register.

He’s still here.

The thought nestles deep in my chest, heavy and complicated. I should shove him off, tell him to get back on the damn sofa. But I don’t. And I don’t know why. It’s too damn hot.

“I wasn’t talking,” I grumble instead, voice rough with sleep. My eyes slip shut again.

Aphelios shifts behind me, just a slight movement, but I feel every damn part of it. The slow, warm exhale against my shoulder blade. The way his knees brush against the backs of my thighs. The weight of his arm shifts so he can drag slow, lazy circles over my left pec.

“Can hear the gears in your mind churning like hell,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and just a little irritated.

I huff out a breath, something too tired to be a laugh. “Yeah, well. They don’t turn off.”

He hums, low and noncommittal, but his touch doesn’t stop.

It’s grounding in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.

I should move. Roll over. Put some space between us. But the bed is two small for both of us to have personal space—pretty sure my forehead is already just inches from the wall—and exhaustion drags me down, heavy and insistent. So I don’t.

Maybe it’s because it’s comfortable. And I just breathe.

“You want to talk about it?” Aphelios asks, voice quiet but steady.

I huff again, shifting against the sheets, exhaling a deep breath. My skull is already pounding from the booze, and now this conversation is wedging itself between the cracks, making it worse. Like I need another goddamn thing splitting my head open.

“I remember telling you everything,” I mutter, my voice edged with exhaustion and something sharper. “There’s nothing else to add.”

“So… You remember everything?” His voice loses some of that sleepy warmth, turning unreadable. It makes my stomach twist.

His fingers, which had been lazily tracing circles against my chest, stop. The weight of his arm feels lighter, like he’s ready to pull away.

I feel him moving—shifting back, putting distance between us. And for some reason, that pisses me off. Before he can pull away completely, I grab his wrist, keeping it firmly in place across my chest. It’s grounding in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.

“That a fucking signature is changing my life?” I scoff, jaw tightening. “That Mom will have a better life, but she’ll leave me behind? That I tried to get shitfaced to forget? Well, Madden, this is shit I can’t forget, no matter how much I want to. And drink, obviously.”

There’s a beat of silence, just the sound of my own breath coming a little heavier than it should. I expect him to argue—to call me dramatic, to tell me to grow up—but instead, his fingers flex slightly against my chest, like he’s feeling out the words beneath my skin.

“That’s a stupid thing to do,” he mutters, voice half-muffled against my back.

I grit my teeth. “Thanks for the input, genius.”

“I’m just saying, it won’t help.”

“Yeah?” I snap. “Well, it’s the only thing I can do.”

I don’t need another person telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. Hell, even the damn bartender at the dive I crashed in last night gave me that same pitiful once-over after I spilled my whole dramatic story. Just a sad smile and the same bullshit everyone keeps saying: It’s the best decision for her. Don’t be selfish. Oh, and of course— Don’t drive home in this state.

Well, guess what? I ignored him. Drove home anyway. Everything’s fine.

Point is, I’ve been ghosting everyone just to avoid those exact same comments. I know I’m pissing Mom off too, but fuck, if there’s a damn How to Keep Your Shit Together guide out there, someone better hand it to me. Hell, I’d be grateful.

And if one more person tries to lighten the mood with a She’s not dead yet comment, I swear to god, I’m gonna lose it.

The bedsheet is tangled around our feet, not that it matters. With the summer heat pressing in, no AC in this shitty trailer, and my temples pounding like a drum, comfort isn’t exactly an option.

But I don’t move. His arm is still draped over me, my grip still firm around his wrist. His body heat seeps into my back, too warm, too much—but at the same time, it stirs something I can’t name.

I feel everything. The steady rise and fall of his chest against me. The damp fabric of his shirt clinging to my sweat-covered skin. The faint tickle of his hair against my nape.

I don’t know how long we lay like this—silent, close, the air between us thick with something I can’t quite grasp. It’s irritating in a way that unsettles me. The longer it lasts, the heavier it feels, like a weight pressing down on my ribs.

There’s a stupid urge I’m feeling. I want to turn around, to see his face. But I don’t. Because I don’t know what I expect to see.

“…Why are you still here, Madden?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

He shifts slightly, exhaling against my shoulder blade. “I want to go,” he admits. “You’re like a goddamn furnace. But you’re the one not letting go, Callahan.”

To prove his point, he lifts his hand half an inch from my chest.

“Then go,” I mumble, ignoring the way my stomach drops as I release my grip on his wrist. The squeezing in my chest? Yeah, I ignore that too.

He huffs, like I’m the one being unreasonable. “And leave you with another nightmare?” he mutters. “Forget it. You’re stuck with me till morning.”

I go still.

The word nightmare lingers in the air, heavier than it should be. My pulse should be picking up, racing at the idea of being stuck in this bed with Aphelios, of him seeing something I never meant to show. But it doesn’t. Instead, there’s just this slow, suffocating weight pressing into my ribs. Because no matter how much I want to ignore it, the fact remains—he saw me at my lowest. And I hate that.

“Bullshit,” I grumble, forcing my mind to sift through the haze of alcohol, the shitty sleep, the vague tightness in my chest when I woke up. I think I remember waking up unsettled, throat dry, body stiff like I’d been tensed for hours. But I don’t remember the nightmare itself. Just the feeling of it. And if I had one, I know exactly which one it was.

The same damn dream. The only one that ever comes back.

I shrug, forcing indifference. “Maybe. Probably. What does it matter to you, Madden?”

Aphelios snorts, low and unimpressed. “Me? Truly, Callahan, I don’t give a shit about your nightmares.”

I should be relieved. But the next thing he says makes my jaw clench.

“But if you drink yourself stupid and screw yourself over in some dramatic, pathetic way that is gonna make your mother worry about you, then yeah—I will give you shit. Because that’s not the arrogant jerk I use to know.”

The words hit harder than I expect. My stomach twists with something sharp, ugly.

“Fuck off, Madden,” I snap, finally shoving at his arm. It’s half-hearted at best. And I hate that he can probably tell.

Aphelios doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even try to move. Instead, he just tightens his hold, like he’s daring me to actually put some effort into pushing him away. And yeah, I’m pissed. But not enough to start a brawl in my own damn bed.

“Don’t need your pity,” I mutter.

The next thing I know, there’s a sharp kick against the back of my thigh. Aphelios just kicked me with one of his knees.

“ Ow, fuck! ” The electric pain shoots through my nerves, leaving me stunned for half a second. Just long enough for him to cut in.

“Stop with these half-assed, cowardly excuses to push everyone away,” he says, voice edged with something that sounds a lot like frustration. “You think this is pity ? Then you fuck off. Because all I feel right now is disappointment.”

I don’t know why that word stings more than the kick. Pretty sure we’ve had this kind of discussion before, but that time, I wasn’t the target. I was the one throwing the words, the one calling him a disappointment.

And now, hearing it thrown back at me—hearing him say it, with that quiet finality—it fucking hurts.

It’s not just the word itself. It’s the way it lands, heavy and sharp, burrowing into something raw inside me. Did he feel like this that night? When I looked him in the eye and told him the same thing, like he was nothing? Did it sink into his bones the way it’s sinking into mine now?

Regret churns in my gut, thick and nauseating. I feel like a true asshole.

“Then please, keep on going, Callahan,” he continues, his forehead still pressed against my back. “Keep drowning. Keep convincing yourself that you're alone, that you have to carry the world's burden on your own. Stay like this—a hollow shell of yourself.”

Every word is another hard blow to my integrity—or whatever’s still left of it. But hey, is it really that easy to just get your shit together when you’re drowning in issues, armed with fucked-up coping mechanisms, and holding a damn self-destruction button in the palm of your own hand?

Silence stretches between us. I stare at the wall despite the darkness, every inch of me tense. He’s still pressed against my back, warm and steady. And as much as I want to keep arguing, the exhaustion is creeping in, slow and inescapable.

But, as much as I hate Aphelios’ words—and his very existence right now, because he’s not helping me at all—he’s still here.

I swallow hard. “It’s always the same dream,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.

Aphelios doesn’t say anything. Just shifts slightly, waiting.

I exhale through my nose and let my eyes slip shut. The images come unbidden, creeping in behind my eyelids, raw and relentless. Like they do every night since my mother was admitted to hospital.

“The day Dad left,” I murmur. The words taste bitter in my mouth. “When he pulled out a gun and shot at Mom. I was there. I saw everything. Heard everything.” I swallow hard, my throat dry, like the memories are scraping their way out. “He was high on whatever shit he had in his system. Mixed with the alcohol, he was a goddamn madman. Screaming at her, demanding more money so he could buy more and blow his own fucking brains out.”

The phantom sound of the gunshot ringing in my ears makes me pause for a heartbeat. “The sound of the shot going off. The blood on my hands.”

Behind me, Aphelios shifts. His arm over my chest loosens, just a fraction, like he’s absorbing my words. Like he’s bracing for the weight of them. But he doesn’t speak. He just starts circling a finger over my pec again, slow, steady. The sensation is sharp, ticklish in a way that burrows deep, all the way to my bones.

“When the images shift,” I continue, voice quieter now, “it’s just me and Mom. But whatever we’re doing, she always disappears. We’re eating together, then I’m alone at the table. We’re watching TV, then suddenly, I’m sitting there by myself.”

I don’t know why I keep talking. Maybe because I’m too damn tired to fight anymore. Maybe because, despite everything, I know he’s still here. Or maybe it’s the way his fingers move against my skin—gentle, almost absentminded, but grounding in a way I can’t explain. It feels good. Too good.

So I let the words keep coming, reciting every version of the same dream, every scenario where she fades away and leaves me behind.

While I’m talking, something strange starts happening. The images in my head, usually sharp and relentless, begin to blur at the edges, losing their hold. My headache, the one that’s been pounding behind my eyes since I woke up, fades into something distant. Like background noise.

And suddenly, I’m more aware of him.

Aphelios shifts behind me, pressing closer. His body is solid, warm—too warm—but I don’t pull away. He slides his other arm under my body, his wrist brushing along my ribs as he moves. I let him. I let myself sink into the warmth, my back pressing flush against his chest.

His left hand replaces the absentminded circles he was drawing against my skin, his touch smoothing down, lower, gliding over my stomach in slow, deliberate strokes.

I don’t stop him.

I should.

But I don’t. Because the theater of chaos in my mind—the images, the damn memories I can’t outrun—flickers and fades. Replaced by something else. By him. By the feeling of his hands moving over my body, deliberate and sure, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, I stop talking.

My breathing shifts, coming quicker, shallower, while my dick stirs, heavy and pulsing in my briefs. The sharp, miserable ache in my chest is still there, but it’s quieter now, buried beneath the steady hum of sensation. The brain in my dick takes over, and honestly? I don’t feel like fighting it.

His touch isn’t demanding. It’s slow. Measured. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him to quit it.

I don’t.

Instead, my voice comes out in a whisper, thick and rough around the edges. “What are you doing, Madden?”

Aphelios’ fingers drift lower, grazing just above the waistband of my briefs, and my stomach clenches, heat coiling at the base of my spine. My dick twitches against the fabric, swelling with each ghosting touch of his fingertips over my shorts and curlies.

“Helping you forget, Callahan,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. Then, without warning, I feel the press of his teeth—tentative, teasing—as they sink into the muscle of my shoulder blade.

And fuck, I groan. A deep, wrecked sound that has nothing to do with protest.

Aphelios keeps going, utterly silent, his hands mapping me out, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. And damn it, I let him. Because right now, with his fingers pressing into my skin and his body against mine, nothing else fucking matters.

Because in the next instant, his right hand slips beneath the elastic of my briefs, and I exhale sharply.

The contact is barely there at first—a whisper of touches skimming along my skin, light enough to make my stomach clench. My breath stutters, but I don’t stop him. I don’t tense. I don’t do anything except breathe.

And then his hand wraps around my dick.

Heat blooms through me, sharp and sudden. His palm is warm, his fingers slow as they stroke over my length, exploring, testing. A shudder racks through me, and my erection swells fully in his grip, aching with the need for more.

It’s so fucking soft. The way Aphelios’ thumb and forefinger squeeze just beneath my aching tip before gliding back down my length.

Nothing like the way I touch myself—no rough strokes, no desperate edge. Just deliberate, careful movements. Like he’s offering me something I don’t know how to ask for. Something I want to drown in, to chase after until it’s the only thing left in my head.

A low sound slips from my throat, wrecked and needy, as my hips twitch forward, following the pull of his hand. The friction, the heat—it’s too good, too much.

Aphelios shifts behind me, his breath warm against my skin. His own body presses in closer, the hard line of his dick nudging against my ass, and fuck—my pulse kicks, my skin burns, and suddenly, nothing else fucking matters.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t think about this. Not thinking at all. About what the hell we’re doing, about what it means.

Right now, it’s just this . Just the way his hands feel on me, the way he strokes my hard cock like he’s trying to wipe away everything else and like his other palm is pressing against my chest. Guarding me.

A damn scheme to slip under my skin, into my head. Into my fucking brain. Making me feening, making me need , until I’m right at the edge, ready to blow.

And it’s working.

The darkness and the lingering intoxication blur together, swallowing me whole as every nerve in my body burns under his touch—under him . My mind drowns, lost between the leftover haze of alcohol and the weight of his presence.

Another deep sound rumbles in my throat, my body trembling beneath his slow, deliberate movements. Aphelios doesn’t say a word. He’s silent, except for the sharp inhale when I slip my right hand into my briefs, pressing my palm over his. I follow his lead, feeling the steady stroke of his fingers around me.

I want more.

I want to turn around and see him—see the way his dark eyes take me in, how he looks at me while I’m unraveling under his touch. I want to know if his pupils are blown wide, if his lips are parted, if he’s blushing like he always does when I’m jerking us together.

I want to watch him fall apart with me.

I want to crash my mouth against his, taste the heat of his breath, steal it away like he’s stealing mine with nothing but slow, torturous strokes. I want to grip his hips, push against him, feel how hard he is, how desperate—

The pleasure coils tight in my stomach, winding me up like a wire stretched too thin, ready to snap. Every stroke, every shift of his fingers is too much and not enough all at once. I’m so close I can see the stars behind my eyes, the pleasure burning through me, unbearable in its intensity.

“…Say it again,” I rasp.

His movements around my throbbing dick slow. His breath catches and I feel his body tensing. “What?”

I growl in frustration, dragging his hand back into rhythm. “That thing you called me. Say it again.”

He hesitates, the moment stretching too long, and I groan, pressing my hips into his hand like a starving animal.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Aphelios murmurs, his voice low.

His hand resumed his slow gliding over my aching cock, teasing the sensitive head before stroking back down. His chest is flush against my back, his breath warm where it fans over my sweat-damp skin.

“Sounds like a problem for tomorrow,” I huff, though it comes out more like a strained groan, wrecked by the pleasure pooling low in my stomach. The words feel ridiculous in the face of how good this is, how much I don’t care about anything except the heat of his touch, the way he's working me apart.

But I need to hear it again.

“…Please.” The word slips past my lips before I can stop it, desperate, raw.

There is this hesitation again, feeling it in the way his fingers momentarily tighten around me. Then, just as quickly, his teeth sink back into my shoulder, a sharper bite than before, like he’s trying to ground himself as much as I am.

“Come for me, babe.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but it shoots straight through me, tightening everything in my core.

That’s all it takes.

Enough to make the tight coil in my stomach snap, to send me tumbling over the edge with a choked sound, pleasure ripping through me so hard I see white.

A deep, shuddering moan rips out of me as I come hard into his hand, my entire body locking up before melting into his touch. My breathing is ragged, my chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Aphelios doesn’t say anything. He just keeps his grip steady, stroking me through it until I’m too sensitive to take it anymore and fully submerged in black.

I wake up alone.

Not that I expected anything else.

The sheets beside me are cold, untouched since however long ago Aphelios left. My body still feels heavy, sluggish, but the sharp edge of last night’s whiskey is gone, dulled into a lingering headache instead. It’s not the worst hangover I’ve had, but it’s enough to make me groan as I push myself up. My limbs feel stiff, like I’ve been lying in one position for too long.

My tongue feels like wearing wool two sizes too small—thick, dry, and strangely numb. My saliva feels both nonexistent and weirdly sticky, clinging to my gums like old glue. Pretty damn sure my breath smells like stale regret and my throat feels raw.

I scrub a hand down my face.

It happened.

There’s no question about it. The way my skin still tingles, the ghost of his touch, the hoarse rasp of his voice in my ear—it wasn’t some fucking fever dream. 

I drag my gaze to the empty space beside me. What the hell was I expecting? That he’d still be here, sprawled out in my shitty bed, waiting for me to wake up? 

Whatever this is, it’s just physical. Nothing more. He pulled me out of my spiral, and maybe—that’s the only thing I can feel grateful for. And whatever sorrow plagued me is still there, but now it’s just a quiet whisper sneaking through my mind. A brief reprieve—because I know it won’t be long before it all comes crashing back, heavier than I’d like.

Because anything else? It doesn’t mean a damn thing.

I huff out a laugh at my own dumbassery and force myself to swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

First thing’s first—I need to piss.

My movements are slow, stiff, as I make my way to the bathroom, letting the dull hum of the trailer settle around me. I piss, then step into the shower, standing under the lukewarm spray longer than necessary, hoping the water will do something to clear the fog in my brain.

It doesn’t.

By the time I step out and towel off, I feel a little more awake but no less like shit. I don’t bother with a t-shirt—it’s already too damn hot. A pair of gray shorts will do for now. I’ll throw on the rest when I head out to see Mom. I brush my teeth and swipe on the new deodorant, finally feeling a little fresher.

Padding barefoot back into the main space, I open the fridge, barely expecting anything worth eating. But when I swing the door open, I pause. It’s full.

My stomach growls, and I grab the first thing my hand finds—a half-sandwich wrapped in plastic. It’s not bad. It’s fucking good, actually, with peanut butter. I chew absently, leaning against the counter as I try not to let my thoughts spiral back to last night. But they do anyway.

My gaze catches something on the small dining table. A phone. Plugged into a charger. Next to it, a folded note.

I pick up the note, sandwich still in hand, and the words practically scream at me.

I took the truck, brb so you can visit Mari later today. Got you a phone—enjoy the gift. And be nice to the guests, asshole.

I blink. The fuck, Madden?

Before I can even start wrapping my head around the message and what the hell it means—besides hoping he brings the truck back ASAP unless he wants to die—my eyes drift back to the smartphone. It’s still plugged in, the green battery icon flashing at 100%. Sleek. New. Definitely not the brick I used before. Nokia, remember?

I’m so fucking lost. I might as well have been dropped in the middle of nowhere without a map. There’s no reason in the damn world for Madden to get me a phone. And how the hell could he even afford it?

There’s another small slip of paper stuck to the phone. Pin: 2608. Passcode: 0114. Unmistakably Aphelios’ handwriting again.

Frowning, I unplug the device, power it on. The device feels alien in my hands, and I fumble with the PIN like some Neanderthal discovering fire. The screen loads, only to hit me with another passcode prompt. I punch in the four digits and—yeah, fucking figures—it’s my birthday. Not surprising in the slightest.

Still caught up in the weirdness of it all, I push open the door and step outside. My mind is still tangled up in questions and I've just swallowed the last piece of breakfast stuffed with peanut butter.

Then I freeze. I gape. I short-circuit. I—whatever. And I’m glad I swallowed the last bit of my sandwich—otherwise, I’d be choking on it. Hell, I might still choke on my own saliva right now.

Because the second the lock screen lights up, I see it, my brows come crashing down.

The background photo.

What. The. Fuck.

I stop dead in my tracks, staring at the screen like it might bite me. A sharp pang of confusion punches through my chest, followed by something my brain fails to catch—something tangled between disbelief and something else I refuse to name. My fingers tighten around the edges of the phone as my brain tries to process what I’m looking at. A joke. A sick, hot one.

Aphelios fucking Madden, posing selfie like a damn pin-up porn star.

Stretched across the screen in all his smug, self-satisfied glory—teal-colored tee rolled up just enough to expose his pinkish nipples, the sharp cut of his stomach, and that damn V-line disappearing beneath his waistband. And his hand—oh, for fuck’s sake—is pushing it down. His dark damp hair is tousled, strands falling over his forehead like he just rolled out of bed—or worse, like someone had their hands in it. His lips are slightly parted, white teeth tugging at the fabric, and his half-lidded gaze all but screams that he knows exactly what kind of reaction this is going to get out of me.

It’s not just a photo. It’s a goddamn statement.

The lighting is soft, his skin shimmering under it, making it look way too fucking inviting. Like this wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment snap but something intentional. Calculated.

My stomach tightens.

He knew I’d see this the second I unlocked the phone. He fucking planned this.

A voice, I know all too well, tears me out of my thoughts. “Sleepyhead, finally greeting us.”

I snap my gaze up, nearly jumping like I just got caught stealing something, and shove the damn phone into my pocket. Well, I was staring—too long, too hard—and the worst part? The sight of it had the other brain, the one dangling between my legs, stirring to life. 

I plaster my usual expression on my face, masking whatever the hell is brewing inside me—only for it to slip into confusion the moment I see what’s waiting for me.

K lounges in one of the old plastic garden chairs like he owns the place, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other gripping a beer. His white compression shorts cling to his thighs, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, while his unbuttoned red shirt hangs open, exposing the sharp cut of his abs and the deep contrast of his smooth, chocolate-brown skin. His sneakers—bright red, just like his shirt—are propped up on a nearby chair, completing the effortless display of confidence.

Beside him, Sam sprawls back with her legs kicked up, looking as relaxed as ever. A dark green sports bra stretches over her chest, showing off the kind of definition that makes you reconsider every single gym session you’ve ever skipped. Paired with loose military-style cargo pants, she’s all muscle and attitude—hot as hell, if not for the goddamn sandals she’s wearing. The cheap kind that leaves those ridiculous sunburn stripes across your feet. At least the sleek Ray-Bans on her nose make up for it, making her look like she’s about to lead a tactical mission instead of sipping a beer outside my shitty trailer.

And then there’s Alune. Aphelios’ twin. Sitting there just as serene as ever, arms crossed, unreadable. Her pink bikini top contrasts against her sun-kissed skin, the soft tan making it look like she lives on some tropical beach instead of wherever the hell they’ve been staying. Paired with a pair of barely-there blue denim shorts and clean white sneakers, she looks effortlessly put together—like she belongs anywhere but here.

And why the hell is Aphelios’ sister here? And Aphelios is not?

There’s stuff around them—coolers, bags, more drinks.

The hell is this? A gathering? Or is this some kind of damn intervention, with only the stupid banner missing?

The sight of them sprawled around my trailer lot like they belong makes something tighten in my chest. It’s not like I expected them to cut me off after I ghosted them, but still. I didn’t think they’d show up like nothing happened.

"Well, shit. You look like the guy who just walked into his own surprise party," Sam cackles, reaching into the cooler at her feet and tossing me a can of beer.

I catch it on reflex, the cold condensation biting into my palm. "It's not my birthday."

"Yeah, no shit," she smirks.

I crack the can open one-handed, foam bubbling over the edge as I take a sip. The bitter taste settles on my tongue, but it does nothing to wash down the feeling of guilt sitting heavy in my stomach.

I fucked off. I ignored them. I spent my time wallowing in my own shitstorm and pretending the world outside my trailer didn’t exist. I let myself spiral, and yet—here they are. Grinning at me like I’m just some idiot making a dramatic entrance.

I exhale sharply. "Truly, after the shit I pulled, I’m surprised you’re here."

"You call that a tantrum, bro?" K lets out a deep laugh, shaking his head. "Nah. That was a full-blown existential crisis."

"More like a disappearing act," Sam chimes in, taking a lazy sip of her beer. "One minute you're there, next minute—poof. No texts, no calls, not even a ‘fuck off’ to let us know you’re alive. That’s a bit dramatic, even for you. "

I scowl, leaning against the trailer’s column on the top step. "I needed time."

"No shit," K scoffs, shaking his head. "But you coulda said something. Or at least let us know you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Would you have believed me?"

K and Sam exchange a look. The answer is obvious.

And I get it. I’ve pulled some reckless stunts before, pushed people away, thrown my fists before my words. But this—this was different. I didn’t disappear to piss them off. I disappeared because I didn’t know how to fucking deal with everything. And maybe I still don’t.

"Besides, I lost my phone," I shrug, eventually joining my friends—plus Alune—around the table. I don’t pay much attention to the extra seating scattered around, but the sight of it all—the coolers, the chairs, the way everything is lazily set up—tells me there’s a party brewing. I file that thought away for later. "But yeah, guys, sorry. Guess I owe you a big apology."

"Understatement, Sunshine," Sam grins, bumping her fist into my side as I pass her. I let out a short breath, rolling my eyes, but I sit down next to her and Alune anyway.

"Water’s under the bridge, dude," K says simply, his lips curling into that blinding, toothy grin of his. The kind that says everything without saying much at all. My gaze flickers between him and Sam, and the ease in their posture, the way they still talk to me like nothing’s changed—it lifts a weight I didn’t even realize was pressing down so hard on my chest.

Damn.

I really don’t deserve these two. They know me, the real me, the one who disappears when shit gets too complicated in my head. And they’re still here. Maybe I should stop being such a stubborn ass and actually trust that they’re not going anywhere.

"You said you lost your phone?" Sam asks, arching an eyebrow behind her Ray-Bans as she digs into a bag of Doritos. She barely glances up before tossing the bag toward Alune, who catches it without missing a beat.

"Thanks, bitch," Alune says, as casually as if we weren’t all still trying to figure out why she was even here—why I’m trying to figure out why she’s here. She takes a handful before she tosses the bag of snacks into K’s deft hands, sharing it like a damn whore.

I watch them with mild curiosity before Sam turns her attention back to me. "But you had one in your hand earlier."

"Yeah, about that…" I scratch the back of my neck, trying not to think about how the damn background picture wasn’t staring into my soul and I was literally eye-fucking it. "Pretty sure it’s not mine."

K hums, tossing a Dorito into his mouth before shoving the bag across the table in my direction. "When?"

I sigh, grabbing a chip and biting down with more force than necessary before washing the taste away with a sip of my beer.

“You remember the shit at Garren’s bar?”

That gets their attention. Sam lowers her sunglasses slightly, and K leans forward, resting his arms on the table. Without diving into the more intimate details of what happened with Aphelios afterward, I remind them that it was that night I lost my old phone.

“I hope you did lose it,” Sam chuckles, her laughter deep and edged with something almost dark. “They totally fucking deserved it. You kicked the shit out of them. What a bunch of assholes.”

I grin. “Yeah, I fucking lost it.”

Then Alune, of all people, speaks. “Thank you, Callahan. For what you did for Phel.”

It’s quiet. Sincere.

I blink at her, caught a little off guard. I don’t really know what to say to that. I don’t think I expected anything from her—not gratitude, not even an acknowledgment—but there it is. We barely know each other, and she’s Madden’s fucking sister. I can’t even consider her an acquaintance, but she’s here, sitting across next me, sipping a Coke that makes one brown eyebrow crank up.

But my brain is stuck on something else.

Phel.

The way she so easily, so naturally calls him that sets something off inside me. It lingers when I try to mentally pronounce it—how sickly sweet it tastes on my tongue. Phel, Phel, Phel.

And the more I look at her, the more I see him . The same sharp cheekbones, the same serene expression that somehow gives nothing and everything away at once. It’s unsettling, how suddenly I feel like it’s Aphelios staring back at me. How the shape of her damn mouth reminds me of his, of the way his lips looked in that stupid fucking selfie—parted, teasing, just begging to be—

I cut off that thought before it spirals further, but it’s too late. My skin prickles, my breath shortens, and a deep, obsessive want crashes through me. A craving to corner him against the first solid surface I can find, press up against him, and dare him to recreate that pose—right in front of me.

You’re screwed, Callahan. Stop denying it.

I huff out a breath, shake my head, and snap myself out of whatever the hell that was.

“Whatever,” I mutter, brushing it off like it didn’t just rock my entire system.

Sam snorts, leaning back. "I’m not gonna lie, I wish I’d been there to see it."

K smirks, nudging his beer toward me. "So, what? Madden got you a phone as a thank-you gift?"

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. "I don’t know what the hell Madden’s thinking, but yeah. Looks like it."

And somehow, that’s almost more confusing than the damn obsessive attraction-slash-rivality itself.

Our conversation drifts into mundane topics, a comfortable togetherness settling between us. I’m surprised by how easily Aphelios’ sister integrates herself into our little group. It’s… unsettling, really. I never expected her to fit in so smoothly. But maybe that’s just because she’s sober this time.

The thought makes me glance toward the sky, trying to gauge the time. I don’t have a damn clue how long I’ve slept or been out here, but one thing is certain—I still don’t know where Aphelios is or when he’s bringing my goddamn truck back.

And while I can admit— begrudgingly —that I’m grateful for this temporary reprieve, this moment where my brain isn’t spiraling into the dark corners of whatever is still lurking there… I do have things to do.

I want to see Mom.

I glance at Alune. Her piercing gaze flicks up to meet mine, unreadable. I realize, for the first time, how similar her eyes are to Aphelios’—dark, but with a cooler undertone. There’s a silvery-white sheen to them, like little rain clouds settling in a stormy sky.

"You," I say, shifting my attention. "Why are you here?"

Alune tilts her head slightly, watching me the way someone might observe an animal, trying to figure out if it’s about to bite. There’s something unnervingly calm about her, a patience I don’t trust. But then she grins, her expression shifting into something almost mischievous.

“To keep you from leaving.”

I frown. "Leaving?"

“We are here to keep you right here,” she elaborates, waving a lazy hand between K, Sam, and herself, like this whole thing is some casual little arrangement instead of whatever the fuck it really is.

I glance at my friends, searching for some sort of clarification, but all I find is the same smug grin mirrored on both their faces. That look. The one that means they know something I don’t.

And I fucking hate it.

The easy way they’re sitting here, lounging like they belong, like they planned this—it confuses the hell out of me. It pisses me off.

I exhale sharply through my nose, my grip tightening around my beer can. "What the hell is going on?"

Alune shrugs, like this isn’t a big deal. "Call it a surprise."

“Nope, bitch.” Sam scowls at me, but it’s ruined by the grin tugging at her lips. “Don’t look at me like that. Not spilling the beans even if I wanted to.”

I glance between them again, frustration simmering low in my stomach. This isn’t just some friendly gathering. There’s something more to this—something I wasn’t clued in on. And the fact that they’re all in on it? That they went behind my back, knowing I’d hate it?

Yeah. I really don’t fucking like it.

In that exact moment, I hear the undeniable growl of my truck’s engine, the familiar sound rumbling through the lot as the beat-up, dirty white beast rolls over the gravel and pulls to a stop.

I’m already tensing, ready to jump to my feet and storm over, but then— what the fuck? —I catch sight of two figures climbing out of the back.

Soraka, still in her scrubs, looking like Aphelios had picked her up straight from work. And Aurora, bouncing out in nothing but an orange swim trunk and a white shirt, balancing a towering stack of pizza boxes in her arms.

“Food’s here!” she chirps, practically hopping toward us while Soraka follows with a more relaxed wave.

My confusion only deepens. I don’t get it. What the hell is happening?

And then, when my eyes snap back to the truck, I see him.

Aphelios has just stepped out, and he’s staring at me.

I can’t read his expression—hell, I don’t even know what kind of expression I want to see on his face—but I know one thing: I’m definitely staring back. Because no matter how much I fucking try, I just can’t not.

His legs, those perfect fucking calves leading up to defined knees, then thighs disappearing into yellow swim trunks with a flamingo pattern —a cancerous choice, honestly, and yet, somehow, it still fucking works on him. Doesn’t match at all with the oversized black tank top, but leaves just enough to the imagination to know exactly what’s underneath.

My throat bobs. My fingers twitch.

And before my brain can go any further into that dangerous fucking territory, he flips me the bird and his head turns away like someone just called him.

I follow his gaze, and—

I freeze.

My mouth might actually be hanging open like a dumbass because stepping out of the passenger’s seat is Mari Callahan.

My mother.

Beaming.

Grinning at me like I’m the biggest idiot to ever exist.

---

Aphelios Madden

I’m sprawled out on one of the old plastic lounge chairs, letting the sun bake into me, my limbs loose and lazy from the heat. It’s the kind of warmth that sinks deep into your bones, makes you feel heavy in the best way.

Good thing I had the foresight to use some of the suncream I found buried in one of the bathroom cabinets before heading out this morning. I should probably put on another layer soon, but seeing how K’Sante is currently squeezing the last of the same bottle onto his palm, I doubt there’ll be anything left for me.

Not that I’m thinking too hard about that right now.

So the only thing I can do is give the peak of my no name baseball cap a little tug to keep my face in the shade. Including hiding my gaze. 

Because my eyes— traitorous fucking things —are locked onto the sight in front of me.

How K’Sante’s broad hands start on working slow, strong circles over Sett’s back, spreading the sunscreen over tanned skin that seems to glow under the sunlight.

It’s not weird. It’s not . K’Sante is just helping a friend, and Sett isn’t exactly the type to ask for it, so if when the big guy offered, it’s because he knows Sett won’t. That’s just how their dynamic works.

They’re best friends.

I know K’Sante is gay. I know he’s actually seeing someone. Hell, I even like the guy—been over at his shop a few times, especially for the Mustang, seen the way K’Sante lights up when he talks about him. So, yeah, there’s no meaning to this. No weird undertones.

And even if Sett is—what, bi ? Still not certain. Not that it matters. The guy’s stubborn as hell, loyal as shit to his friends, and wouldn’t cross any kind of line with them, no matter how much of a reckless, pride-stuffed idiot he can be.

So rubbing sunscreen on each other? No big deal.

Not weird.

What is weird is the fact that I’m still staring.

And there’s this feeling—something crawling under my skin, sitting hot and restless in my chest—that I don’t want to name.

Because it doesn’t make sense. Because I know K’Sante, and I know Sett, and I know that this—this casual, normal shit between them—means nothing.

But my fingers curl against my thigh, a quiet, irritating voice whispering at the back of my mind, telling me that I don’t want to see anyone else touching him.

Or worse. That maybe I want to be the one in K’Sante’s place instead. And I can stop the way my teeth are rolling over my bottom lip at the sight.

“You’re gawking, Phel.”

I flinch. My head snaps to the side just in time to catch Alune smirking at me from her seat, a pair of yellow-colored sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

“No, I’m not,” I refute immediately, shifting on the chair to adjust the discomfort stirring in my trunks with flamingo patterns as I force myself to look away.

My sister hums knowingly. “Sure.”

I frown, adjusting my posture like that’ll somehow erase whatever look I had on my face. “I wasn’t.”

“You so were.”

I roll my eyes. “Even if I was —which I wasn’t —what’s it to you?”

Alune shrugs, popping open another can of soda. “Nothing. Just funny, that’s all. Especially the way your face is turning every shade of red while you're staring at him. Definitely not a sunburn. Pretty sure you’re the one who wants to be rubbing in that sunscreen, Sweet Tooth.”

Busted.

I scoff, shaking my head. Annoying.

I let out a small sigh and silence settles for a moment. I watch her for a moment, the way the sunlight catches in her rainbow-colored hair, tied up in a messy high bun with loose strands escaping, almost weightless in the breeze. Her dark eyes—clearer than I’ve seen them in a long time—glint with something steady, something real behind her yellow sunglasses. Her features are relaxed, no longer drawn tight with exhaustion or dulled by whatever she used to drown herself in. She looks… healthier. Like she’s finally coming back to herself.

“By the way, I meant to tell you,” I say, shifting the topic. “I’m proud of you.”

She looks at me, an eyebrow quirked above the rim of her shades. “For what?”

“For… y’know. This.” I gesture vaguely at her. “For actually doing shit for yourself. For not running away anymore.”

She scoffs, taking a sip of her drink, but there’s something softer in the way her lips twitch into a small smile. “Better late than never, right, Phel? I figured I’ve had to let the past stay where it belongs.”

I glance at her, ignoring the gnawing guilt coiling tight in my stomach—the same guilt that’ll always linger, because no matter what, I was the reason she needed to put herself back together in the first place. But I don’t say that. Instead, I force a smirk, keeping the mood up. “Trying’s better than nothing.”

Something I’m supposed to do too—sooner rather than later. I should probably go talk to old Vance, see if there’s any lot available between now and August.

Our conversation shifts into easy, casual chatting, our words mingling with the buzz of voices around us. Samira has a small speaker set up somewhere, Walk the Moon’s Shut Up and Dance playing in the background, blending into the occasional crack of beer cans and the lively chatter.

The little gathering turned out better than I expected.

It was my idea, after all. Don’t ask me why I decided to push past my social boundaries to organize this—I haven’t the faintest idea. And honestly, I don’t feel like bothering to figure it out. Maybe just something to pull Sett out of his little self-imposed exile for Mari Callahan’s sake. A way to make sure he wouldn’t get lost in his own head and disappear down whatever pit he keeps trying to throw himself into. And make my life a little smoother while I'm cohabiting with him under the same roof.

Sure, organizing this was a hell of a task. Just because I have a phone now doesn’t mean I suddenly know how to plan things like this. Planning a goddamn party. But I made it work, visibly.

The first step was Mari. I had no idea how to even go about getting her a day out of NCH, but a quick search pulled up their number, and I figured the worst they could do was tell me no. I was already preparing for some bureaucratic bullshit, but by some miracle, I ran into Soraka on my way there. She knew the ins and outs of the paperwork better than I ever could, and since I wasn’t technically family, I needed all the help I could get. That was probably the hardest part.

After that, I called K’Sante’s shop, half-hoping he wouldn’t pick up so I could bail on explaining myself. But he did. And when I told him my plans, he sounded surprised—then hyped as hell. He said this could actually work, told me he’d call Samira to help organize the rest. Then, in the way only K’Sante can, he told me to be a little selfish for once, to enjoy it too. I wasn’t sure how to take that, but I let his words sink in.

So I took his advice. I reached out to Alune and Aurora, checking if they had any plans for the day. Turns out, my new phone filled up quickly with numbers, messages flying back and forth. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized I wasn’t just setting this up for Mari or Sett. A part of me wanted this too.

And strangely enough, this kind of gathering doesn’t feel so alien when I let myself relax into it—when I stop thinking about the life I’m supposed to be living and just exist in the one happening right now.

We ate pizza, jabbed at each other, shared drinks—and turns out, this was a fucking good idea.

And all the while, I watch the way Sett and his mother move around each other, like planets caught in perfect orbit. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just an instinctive pull between them, an unspoken understanding woven into every glance and gesture. The way Sett’s face relaxes in her presence, the barely-there smile tugging at the corners of his lips whenever she speaks, the softened amber in his eyes when they settle on her—it’s something rare. A bond built on more than just blood, but trust, familiarity, and years of unwavering care.

It’s in the way Mari absently ruffles his hair like he’s still a kid, and in the way Sett grumbles about it but doesn’t actually pull away. The way he listens when she talks, even if he pretends not to care. The way she nudges him with her elbow when he broods too long, and he exhales, just a little, like she’s the only one who can remind him to breathe.

So yeah. I think I did a damn good job with this surprise gathering.

And, well. Callahan didn’t kill me for it.

So I’d say it’s going pretty well.

I just have to make sure I don’t get caught staring at him again.

Easier said than done. 

Especially when Samira passes Sett and claps a hand on his shoulder, making him scowl at her. She suddenly seems very interested in something on his skin, leaning in with a smirk. And my breath catches—because I know exactly what she’s looking at. What I put there.

I fucking bit Callahan. Twice.

And I wasn’t even drunk—not that I am a person who actually drinks.

Hell, I can still feel it—the way his body tensed beneath my touch, the way his breath hitched when my hands wandered over his cut frame, slipping past the waistband of his briefs, caressing his dick.

A sudden, ice-cold sensation presses against the back of my neck, and I literally shriek, snapping my head around to find Aurora grinning at me, holding out a frosty can.

“You were staring,” she says, eyes flicking toward the reason for my obsession before locking back onto me.

“Fuck off,” I groan, snatching the can of Coke from her hand, cracking it open as I straighten my back.

“He’s so pathetic,” Alune snickers.

I glance between her and Aurora, catching the mischievous grins they’re throwing each other. And something about it makes me wonder—what’s going on between them? They seem closer than before. I mean, sure, I’ve always known Aurora has a thing for my sister—she’s never exactly been subtle about it—but I also keep catching both of them sneaking glances at Soraka. And every time they do, there’s this… look they share.

It confuses the shit out of me, but whatever. Not my business.

We’re deep into another conversation resolving around weird customers at Aurora’s workplace when my head snaps towards Sett’s mother and my brows shoot to the sky in surprise.

“Settrigh Clarence James Callahan!” Mari Callahan’s voice rings across the lot, cutting through the easy chatter and the music like a damn siren.

I’m pretty sure the entire group collectively stops breathing as we all turn toward her, and the way Sett stiffens like he just got caught stealing makes it even better.

“I swear to God. Quit acting like I’ll shatter—unless you wanna find out who hits harder!” It’s the first time I’ve seen Mari genuinely pissed—her eyebrows drawn together, her jaw tight. She looks so much like Sett at this moment that it’s almost uncanny. As the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But right now, I don’t know if I should be surprised or if the sight of Mari seething over her son’s antics is… kind of endearing.

“Mom!” Sett groans, dragging a hand down his face like it physically hurts. “Not in front of my friends!”

Oh, this is gold.

I barely register Aurora and Alune cackling beside me because my brain is still trying to process what I just heard. Settrigh. Clarence. Clarence .

My lips press together as my stomach clenches, desperate to hold in the stupidest fucking grin threatening to spill out. Oh, this is the best thing to happen all day.

James is normal, Settrigh is… something almost cute, but Clarence? I think I just ascended.

Alune, of course, is faster to react. “Clarence?!” she exclaims, hitting her tight with a slap. “Oh, I’m sorry—Settrigh Clarence James Callahan. What a name.”

“Shut up,” Sett growls, slumping back into his chair like he can physically escape this humiliation, but his golden eyes are locked on my sister with a deathwish.

But it’s too late. The damage is done. And Mari is sitting in her chair, holding back a grin like a wicked old woman, Soraka smiling next to her. K’Sante’s shoulders are shaking as he’s trying to contain his laughter, but Samira? Samira is done for. She’s practically wheezing, gripping Sett’s arm for support.

“You—you were keeping this from us?” she gasps between laughs. “Clarence? Clarence?!”

Sett throws his head back with a dramatic groan, letting his arms flop like a man who has just given up on life. “For fuck’s sake. Thanks, Mom. You’ve just officially ruined my life and confirmed that I have absolutely terrible taste in friends.”

But as Sett scans the group, clearly hating every single person laughing at his expense, his gaze finally lands on me. He stares, hard—like he’s silently ordering me not to say a single fucking word about it.

Which, of course, only makes me want to piss him off even more.

I don’t say anything, though. Instead, my lips curl into a slow, mischievous smile that practically tells him to wait . I’m feeling giddy at the thought.

At this moment, Sett’s amber glare could probably kill me on the spot. But I don't care. His eyes are on me, and I feel the heat tingling under my skin

Sam wipes away a tear, then slaps a hand on the cooler like she’s just had a genius idea. “Alright, since we’re exposing deep, dark secrets today, I say we make it official.”

Sett cracks open an eye at her. “What?”

“Truth or Dare.” She grins, pure evil, pushing her Ray-Bans into her brown hairs. “If you lie, you drink. No cowards.”

“Oh, hell yeah.” K’Sante smacks the table. “I’m in.”

“I refuse,” Sett deadpans.

“I second that,” I mutter and for once, Sett and I seem to agree to disagree on the same thing.

“Oh, hell no.” Sam jabs a finger at both of us. “Y’all don’t get a choice.”

I glance around, realizing too late that everyone is already moving, chairs scraping against the gravel as they shuffle to sit closer. Even Mari Callahan, who started this entire shitstorm, drags herself over like she’s ready to settle in for the long haul, grinning.

I sigh, already regretting everything.

Aurora, Soraka, Alune, K’Sante, Samira, Mari, Sett—all of us now forming some chaotic, makeshift circle in the lot. K’Sante grabs the beer cooler to keep it within reach, and Sam reaches over, yanking Sett’s chair closer, right next to mine.

I swallow. Sett is still sulking about the name thing, arms crossed, jaw tight, his skin still faintly gleaming from earlier when K’Sante rubbed sunscreen over his back. I refuse to let my gaze dip lower. But I can catch his scent, and it makes my stomach flip like a gymnast on a trampoline.

“Alright,” Samira claps her hands. “I’ll go first.” She immediately turns to the biggest guy in the round. “K, Truth or Dare?”

And so the round starts with K’Sante choosing dare, which results in him having to call his boyfriend and admit that he got a tramp stamp of his name.

In his lower back, and big. In cursive. With a heart.

The dare ends with Samira scream-laughing, and the rest of us aren’t far behind—all while K’Sante visibly needs a minute to reassure his very unimpressed boyfriend that it’s a joke.

The game continues while Teenage Dream by Katy Perry plays in the background.

Aurora dares Alune to take a shot of hot sauce. Since we don’t have any, she runs into the trailer and comes back with the next best thing—a spoonful of mustard. I swear she holds back tears the entire time she tries to swallow the yellowish paste. In retaliation, she challenges Aurora to kiss the person to her right.

Aurora doesn’t hesitate—leans right in and kisses Soraka on the lips. Not only does Soraka seem to enjoy it, but I also catch the way Alune is looking at her, wide-eyed, almost in awe, biting her plump bottom lip.

When it’s Sett’s turn, he gets dared to shotgun a beer—which he does with obscene ease, crushing the can against his thigh afterward like some goddamn frat bro before grabbing another can from the cooler like he needs it to survive this game. And the whole time, I can’t seem to peel my eyes away from the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

When Mari’s turn comes around, she chooses truth and insists that no one should hold back.

“I’ve been young too,” she says.

So, naturally, Aurora asks, “Where’s the weirdest place you’ve had sex?”

Sett’s breath hitch next to me.

Mari hums, pretending to think really hard. Then her eyes practically sparkle, and she claps her hands together. “Kitchen table!”

Next to me, Sett gapes at his mother, mouth open in pure horror, while she just winks back, grinning.

"Don't worry, Champ," she adds, all casual. "It wasn’t with your dad."

Sett groans, dragging a hand down his face, and I have to bite my lip to keep from full-on wheezing. The snickering still slips out, though—like a damn schoolgirl.

His eyes are on me immediately, staring hard. That gaze is so potent I could combust on the spot, intensity and venom swirling in molten amber. But instead of my cells turning to dust, the heat shifts—deviates—straight to my crotch. And just as I register the pulse of arousal, Sett’s eyes flick downward, lingering for a fraction too long before snapping back to my face.

And then he fucking smirks.

Fortunately, the game rolls on, and Sett’s attention moves elsewhere—not on my half-hard dick anymore.

Get a grip, Madden. There’s an audience.

Samira picks dare, and Mari barely takes a second to think before challenging her:

"Show us what you got, hotshot."

Samira doesn’t even hesitate. One second, she’s lounging back, and the next, she launches herself to the ground like she’s about to storm Normandy.

Then she starts doing push-ups.

One-handed.

Switching hands every time she goes down. Samira moves with the kind of effortless confidence that comes from knowing she could dropkick a grown man without breaking a sweat. Her body is all lean muscle, sculpted and strong, visibly more defined than mine. I can respect that. It’s not that I envy her—I’m just objectively impressed. If anyone here looks like they could bench press Sett or K’Sante, it’s her.

By the time she reaches fifty, she doesn’t even look tired. Just gives us a smug little smirk as she hops back up like she didn’t just flex on all of us for no reason.

Sett mutters something about needing to hit the gym, and I start to wonder if he even does—because, yeah, I’m staring again. The way his taut stomach wrinkles slightly as he shifts in his chair, the sculpted lines of his body all sharp and defined, but not in a way that screams hours at the gym. No, his muscle isn’t just for show. It’s cut from honest, hard work—long days at the construction site, maybe even manhandling his Camaro instead of wasting time lifting weights.

When it’s Soraka’s turn, she picks truth, and Alune is the one asking her her question. “Alright, what’s the dumbest ER case you’ve ever had?”

Soraka takes a leisurely sip of her iced tea, as if she’s about to ruin our lives, then says, “There was a time a couple got brought in on the same stretcher. Stuck together physically.”

She makes the kind of dramatic pause that piques everyone’s interest. Soraka, for all her calm and composed demeanor, has a way of keeping an audience in suspense. As an emergency nurse, I imagine she’s seen things ripped straight out of a horror movie—gruesome injuries, people clinging to life by a thread, sheer chaos unfolding in front of her. And yet, she carries this serene, almost detached air, as if none of it touches her. Maybe it’s resilience, or maybe it’s just how she copes—staying steady while the world around her spirals into panic.

“Turns out,” Soraka continues, “the woman’s son came home early, and she panicked. Her body tensed up so bad—vaginal lock. Full muscle contraction. Neither of them could move.”

Cringing, I nearly choke on my drink as the images try to form in my mind. I don’t feel any compassion for the guy, but I can’t help but wince at the thought—because, yeah, getting your dick caught in a vice grip has to be agonizing.

Samira bursts out laughing, while K’Sante and Sett look deeply, existentially disturbed—no doubt sharing the same horrified feeling as me.

“And the worst part?” Soraka adds, lips twitching. “The guy was her son’s P.E. teacher.”

That earns her a collective gasp before everyone bursts into laughter at the unfortunate story. Aurora is crying from laughing too hard. Mari just shakes her head, muttering “rookie mistake” under her breath and I can't help but give Mari Callahan a dumbstruck look.

All eyes are on me when I suddenly realize it’s my turn.

Yeah, no. No way in hell I’m picking dare. I’m not about to make a fool of myself over some dumb shit, so I go for truth.

And I’m not even surprised who speaks first. The moment Sett opens his mouth, I immediately regret my choice. Maybe picking truth was the real mistake. Maybe this whole game is.

"Tell us, Madden—have you ever taken a nude selfie and sent it to someone?"

My head snaps to my left, and I lock eyes with Sett. Fucking bastard.

His amber gaze latches onto me, searing, relentless—like he’s already decided on the answer and is just waiting for me to squirm. And fuck, I do. Heat floods my neck, prickling along my skin like a fever. My fingers twitch against my drink, gripping it tighter to keep steady.

The way he looks at me—it’s not just amusement. There’s something else, something taunting yet focused, like he’s waiting for me to crack. My throat feels dry. My pulse kicks up a notch.

I try to play it cool, quirking an eyebrow like I’m unfazed, but I can feel my lips parting, my expression betraying the way my brain is short-circuiting under his stare. And he sees it. Oh, he fucking sees it.

Sett shifts slightly, just enough to make it look casual, and I follow the movement. He taps against the pocket of his gray shorts, where I can clearly see the outline of his phone. The one I gave him.

And that’s when I know—he’s trying to get under my skin.

It’s working. Because he fucking grins.

“Why? Suddenly interested in my sex life, Callahan?”

“Answer the damn question, Madden.” His gaze sharpens—silent, knowing. Daring me to be honest.

Instead, I shrug, masking the frustrating heat crawling under my skin. I take a long, slow sip of my drink, dragging it out deliberately, never breaking eye contact.

Sett exhales sharply, his eyes narrowing. Without missing a beat, he mouths a single word. Liar. Before turning away, just like that—like I’m nothing, like I don’t even exist.

And for some reason? That doesn’t sit right.

Because the whole selfie stunt yesterday? Yeah. That was for him. Maybe not for everyone to know, but still—to get his attention. To press the right buttons until he snaps. To crawl under his skin. Or maybe to have him get under my skin. To feel his gaze flicks down my body and back up. Like a damn predator sizing up its prey.

So I lean forward, slow and casual, resting my elbow on my knee as my lips curl into a mischievous smirk. I know this is me walking straight into hell, but damn it—I’d rather burn than ignore the urge to push Sett’s buttons.

“Actually.” It’s enough for Sett’s head to turn back to me. I take my time, watching his expression. Watching him watch me.

"Just yesterday." My voice drops a fraction lower as I take my time answering. "Didn’t send it, though. But the person still got it. Haven’t heard them complain yet.”

I catch it. Goddamnit, it’s not just a sight that satisfies me—my stomach also does this weird knotting and unknotting thing that sends me reeling.

His nostrils flare, his jaw tightens, and those amber eyes darken with something sharp—irritation, challenge, something else simmering beneath the surface. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips in a quick, unconscious motion before he pulls his plush bottom one between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make it turn a shade darker. His gaze flickers, deliberate and slow, from my eyes to my mouth and back up again.

Just like he did that night at the track before I kissed him.

And fuck, I really want to do it again.

“Wow, Phel,” my sister chirps, and like a reflex, I turn my attention to her. But maybe this time, I shouldn’t have. Because she’s giving me that knowing look of hers. “You’ll need to show off this kink you’ve unlocked.”

“Not. Gonna. Happen,” I huff, flipping her the bird before leaning back in my chair.

The game rolls on. More dares, more truths, more shameless jabs. Laughter spills out under the umbrella, blending with the scent of sun-warmed beer and cold pizza. Mari is clearly enjoying herself, her easy laughter cutting through the afternoon air. Somehow—despite my own mortification—I’m actually enjoying it too. Especially when I’m not the one in the spotlight.

But reality nudges at the back of my mind. Soon, I’ll have to drive Mari Callahan back to the hospital. The outside visiting limit is 7 PM. With a sigh, I reach into the pocket of my ridiculous bathing suit for my phone—what? It’s hot, and the heat isn’t going anywhere. Unfortunately, the only second-hand swimsuits that actually had a decent color were… not in my size, and I refuse to wear a dick-mold. I’ll buy a better one with my next paycheck. Right. My paycheck. The one I already asked for in advance. Shit.

I check the time—5:30 PM.

My gaze shifts from Mari, still glowing with laughter, to Sett beside me. He’s laughing too, something his mother said setting him off. And the sound—fuck—the sound does something stupid to the organ in my chest, like a missed beat or a misstep on solid ground. I don’t mean to stare. I just… don’t look away. There’s something strangely satisfying about seeing him like this—relaxed, unguarded. It doesn’t happen often when I’m around, and maybe that’s why I want to commit it to memory.

I remember what Mari told me in the car ride earlier—she’ll be leaving the hospital on Friday to move into a healthcare facility not too far away. I know it’s for the best. She doesn’t seem to have a miserable life here in the trailer park—not in a way that suggests—but she needs the care. And yet, there’s a quiet pang in my chest at the thought. I’ll miss her too.

And Sett—how the hell is he going to cope with this?

Maybe, just for a while, I should put aside our feud—put aside… whatever this thing is between us—and be there for him. Just until I pack my bags and finally get my own shit together.

K’Sante’s laughter booms at whatever Aurora just said, but I barely register it because soon enough, it’s Sett’s turn again. This time, he picks truth.

Perfect.

It’s payback time. Now he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. A slow, satisfied grin curls my lips—wide and sharp—because I already have the perfect question lined up. The words sit heavy on my tongue, waiting, my anticipation thrumming like a cat about to pounce.

"Who gave you the mark on your back, Callahan?" I throw it out there before anyone else can steal my moment.

Sett’s head snaps toward me. For a second, he just stares. Daggers. Like he’s silently asking if I’m actually serious.

And I fucking am.

"Don’t you already know the answer, Madden?" His voice is even, casual—but that damn dark eyebrow quirks, teasing.

I’m not letting him have it. Not when I can see what’s beneath that smug expression—the way his jaw tightens, how he rolls his cheek like he’s biting the inside of it.

He remembers tonight just as clearly as I do.

“Do I?” I snort. "Sure. But I need you to say it. For everyone here. Isn’t that the whole point of this stupid game?"

I expect a reaction. Annoyance, maybe. A flustered excuse, anything. Even getting decked for my audacity. But all Sett does is shrug and without a word, he grabs his beer and takes a long, slow drag.

Nobody gets an answer. Not me. Not anyone.

He doesn’t even bother with a half-assed excuse, no smirk, no cocky remark about some random hook-up. Just silence. Like he’d rather swallow the truth whole than let it slip past his lips.

Like he’s ashamed of it. Or that his pride is one the line. Rather taking this twisted, dangerous secret six feet under before ever admitting it.

And fuck, that shouldn’t sting the way it does. And Sett’s silence grates.

Not that I expected him to shout my name for everyone to hear, but the way he just shrugged, brushed it off like it was nothing—like I was nothing—has my blood simmering.

The bite mark is obvious above his shoulder blade, standing out against his toned back in the sunlight. The indentations of teeth are still a deep, reddish hue—undeniable, unmistakable. A fucking neon sign of what I did, yet he won’t say it. Won’t give me the satisfaction of hearing it.

Fine. No—scratch that. Not damn fine, because I want to hear it. I need to. I can push him, even if I know I’ll burn myself playing with fire.

"What’s wrong?" I tilt my head, voice dipping into a drawl. "Cat got your tongue? Or just don’t wanna admit who put their teeth on you?"

Sett’s fingers tighten around his beer can. Oh, that got to him.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he’s not ignoring me anymore. Good.

"Oh, I get it," I press on, grin widening. "You’re embarrassed. Not very tough guy of you, Callahan."

His amber gaze darkens. "You’re full of shit, Madden."

I lean in, deliberate and slow, letting my knee knock against his. "Am I?"

The air thickens. The easy laughter from before fades into a background hum. It’s just us in this little bubble of hateful attraction. I can feel the heat rolling off him, the tension winding tighter, the way his breath catches just slightly. And he’s fucking ogling my mouth again—just like I’m undeniably doing to his.

Where our knees touch, he doesn’t pull away. And I’m really fighting myself, resisting the urge to grab the back of his neck and pull him closer just to feel—

"I dare you two to kiss." Alune’s voice chirps, slicing through my thoughts, and I jolt back.

"Never!" Sett and I snap our heads toward her at the same time.

Alune lounges back in her chair, arms folded, the picture of someone who knows exactly what she just did. Beside her, Aurora grins, lazily dragging her fingers along my sister’s arm.

Somewhere in the group, someone lets out an enthusiastic, "Oh, hell yeah!"—but I can’t even pinpoint who.

My face must be red. I can feel it—the heat creeping up my neck, settling under my skin like a brand. I should be embarrassed.

I should brush it off.

I should do a lot of things.

Instead, for some unclear, self-destructive reason, I turn back to face Sett. My eyes lock onto his just in time to catch the sneer curling his lips. "This was a mistake."

The words land like a slap, sharp and cutting. But it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. The way his face twists, like the very thought of this, of me , repulses him. Like he’s regretting everything down to the shared air he’s breathing.

And fuck, I feel it. It knots something ugly in my chest, tightens like a fist around my ribs. What did I expect?

A lot of things. But not this.

My tongue feels heavy, and for a split second, the truth is there, right on the edge, ready to spill in front of everyone. That I was the one who bit him. That I am the mistake he’s so disgusted with. That it’s my fault he’s trying so hard to erase each and every one of our interactions from existence.

But I don’t say it.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the last shred of integrity in me that refuses to say it out loud—to admit that I’m the mistake. If I do, then it becomes real. And I don’t think I can take that.

Because a little voice in my head is whispering that it isn’t a mistake.

Instead of dwelling on it, I toss my empty can onto the growing pile, offer Alune a half-hearted middle finger, and push myself to my feet. Ignoring the weight of everyone’s stares, I turn toward Mari. "I'm going to freshen up, then I’ll drive you back."

Her hand comes to rest gently on my forearm, and when I look at her, there’s warmth in her gaze—calm, understanding, knowing. She offers me a small, sympathetic smile before shaking her head.

"Don’t worry about me," she says. "Soraka will drive me back. She’s on duty tonight anyway."

I nod. It’s all I can do.

“Will you come visit me?” she asks.

The lump in my throat is immediate, heavy. Too many emotions claw at my chest, tightening until I have to fight to keep them from showing. The thought of missing her already feels like it’s carving something out of me. The time I’ve spent with her has been short but intense—warm in a way I didn’t realize I needed. Mari Callahan doesn’t look old to me. Not really.

I bite the inside of my cheek until it stings, exhaling slowly before answering. "Promise."

Her fingers give a gentle squeeze before she lets go, her gaze filled with quiet understanding.

"Take a breath," she tells me softly. "You need it."

I lean down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then straighten up and, without hesitation, head into the trailer. I grab the keys Soraka lent me, my headphones, and mentally thank Aurora again for syncing me a playlist during our drive this morning so I don’t need to suck at my credits for downloading stuff.

Then I walk, leaving the party behind like the mistake I am. I pull my cap lower over my eyes, blocking out the world—blocking out him .

Especially Sett Callahan and his arrogant, prick face.

As soon as the beach and its sunset enter my field of vision, I break into a run, Alesti’s “Living a Lie” blasting in my ears. The music drowns out the blood rushing in my head, the voices, the weight pressing down on my chest. My flip-flops are long gone, abandoned somewhere behind me. My bare feet sink into the sand with every stride, but I don’t stop. I push forward, forcing my muscles to burn, to scream—rewriting the pain that’s stinging behind my eyes.

Confusion and hurt. Hate and hurt.

It loops in my head like a sickening chant, each word carved into my skull by Sett Callahan’s voice. This was a mistake.

I grit my teeth and run faster.

Why the fuck does it even matter ?

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care that he sneered when he said it, like the idea of us —whatever the hell this is—disgusted him. Like the taste of me against his skin was something to scrub off and spit out.

The wind bites at my skin as I keep going, keep pushing. My legs ache, my lungs burn, but nothing compares to the fire in my chest. The world unfolds before me in breathtaking splendor—light spilling like liquid gold, the salty air thick with something almost sacred. But no matter how stunning, how untouchably perfect, I can't grasp it. My insides twists, raw and aching, making beauty feel like an unbearable contrast rather than a gift. It’s like looking at a damn masterpiece through shattered glass—fractured, distant, and mocking.

Why did I think it would be any different?

Sett fucking Callahan has always been an asshole. Always pushing, always testing. Always clawing under my skin just to see if he can get a reaction. And every damn time, I come undone like a house of cards at the slightest touch—like some addict chasing the next high.

Maybe I was stupid to think this was different. To think the tension between us, the biting remarks, the way he looks at me when he thinks no one notices—meant something . Even if it’s just a fucked-up, physical attraction, he was looking at me .

I know what I fucking saw. The hunger in his eyes before we kissed. The way his dick hardened when he cornered me, every single time, just to jerk us off . Us .

What I felt when my hand curled around his cock. When he didn’t pull away. When he let it happen .

When he begged me to call him that word again. Babe .

Stupidly wishing for a lust-filled happy ending before it even had a chance to begin.

But then, this was a mistake .

My steps falter.

Sett’s voice echoes in my head, the finality of those words squeezing tight around my throat. I stop running. The momentum stumbles me forward a few more steps before I drop onto my knees in the sand. The music in my ears is just noise now. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my entire body trembling—not just from exertion, but from the weight of it all.

"I’m not a mistake!" I hear myself shout. The sand scrapes painfully against my palms, grounding me in the present, but the sting isn’t enough to stop the flood of long-locked memories. The polished white tiles, the biting cold seeping into my knees. My eleven-year-old self, kneeling and crying, while a woman towers over me in that giant foyer reeking of luxury and wealth.

"You’re not my son. You’re a mistake."

Everything is sharp, clear as day. My mother’s fuming expression, disgust carved into her severe features. Eyes so dark you can’t see emotion in them. Except this time, there is something—disappointment.

Behind her stands my father, his face twisted into an unreadable mess of fear and uncertainty. He clutches my sister’s shoulders, his grip too tight, like he’s holding on to something he can’t control. Alune is crying, her pigtails a disheveled mess of blonde strands, but her blue dress remains perfect. Pristine. Untouched by the chaos around us.

Then he turns away. Just like that. Taking Alune with him.

I wanted to follow them.

I should have. But then came the slap. And another. I don’t remember anything after that.

For a moment, everything stops. The music from my earpiece fades into nothing. The sand scraping against my knees, the burn in my muscles—all of it disappears. It’s like I’m hovering between planes of existence.

And then, finally, my mind goes quiet and I exhale, shoulder relaxing.

The answer is right there, clear as day. No more pretending I don’t know what I have to do.

I do know.

I have to pack my shit and go.

It’s the only choice that makes sense. I failed to do it when I was younger, and look where that got me.

So I push myself up, swiping sweat from my brow, and start walking back. And with every step I take toward the trailer park, I start to build a wall around the last piece of me that still feels raw. It’s so fucking easy.

Two more races. Just two. Then summer break hits, and I’m done with Hawthorne. Done with everything. I’m leaving this place for good and I know Alune will be fine.

I’m fucking grateful when I reach the lot and find it empty, the remnants of the party left untouched. Even more so when I step inside the trailer and it’s just as vacant.

Alune’s shift at Garren’s must’ve already started. Aurora is probably off doing her own thing. As for the rest—well, it’s the Fourth of July, and the fireworks are already going off. They’ve probably found a nice spot to watch, enjoying the night in a friendly gathering where no mistake ruins the mood.

Good.

It doesn’t take long to gather the few belongings I have. A couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, my charger, my headphones. My travel-sized shampoo, the nearly squeezed-out tube of toothpaste, and my toothbrush get stuffed in after. That’s it. That’s all I have to my name.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, I pull on a pair of fraying socks before shoving my feet into my sneakers. The trailer’s key feels heavier than it should in my palm. I stare at it for a second before tossing it onto the counter with a dull clink .

I don’t even glance at the envelope still wedged beneath the couch cushions. It’s for Mari anyway, her name written neatly across the brown paper. Even if it’s my money, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.

By the time I’m outside, I don’t even remember leaving—I just find myself there, door shut behind me. I turn around one last time, pressing my forehead against the cool metal.

Time to leave, Phel. Time to get your shit together. Time to stop being the mistake everyone sees in you.

I barely have time to breathe before a loud thud startles me, and then—

A pair of hands cages my head. “The fuck you’ve been, Madden?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I’m surprised by how even my voice sounds, despite Sett’s sudden presence. Despite how fucking close he is.

I don’t move. I don’t look at him. If I do, I don’t know what will happen—if I’ll break, if I’ll say something I shouldn’t, if I’ll do something I’ll regret. So I keep my eyes locked on the closed door in front of me, tightening my grip on my backpack.

Before I can stop him, before I can push him away, he suddenly hugs me— and my whole body shudders, every nerve ending sparking under his touch.

A solid, warm weight pressing against my back. Strong arms wrapping around my waist, ignoring the bag hanging over my shoulders. The scent I’ve come to know too well—sweat and sun-warmed skin, the faintest trace of orange and sage. He’s so damn warm when he presses his forehead against the back of my head.

" Thanks for today. ” His voice rumbles against my skull, softer than I expect, missing its usual bite.

My breath catches. The gesture confuses me. His voice, his words—they sound genuine . And fuck , all I wish is that he doesn’t take his hands off me, because I have the feeling I’d cease to exist .

But I can’t stay. His presence is toxic for me, for whatever this obsessive attraction is between us. I say nothing, I don’t trust myself.

I’m still building that wall around me, forcing every brick into place—I can’t afford to watch it crumble. My integrity needs to stay buried deep, like the core of a Russian doll, hidden beneath shell after shell, each layer another layer of protection. But the outermost one is already starting to crack.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s not fair . He doesn’t get to do this. Doesn’t get to touch me like this, like he cares , when he was the one who called me a mistake .

“Tell me,” Sett’s hold around my waist tightens just briefly, but I feel it—undeniably, unshakably. “What’s going on between us?”

This question again. Like a hook digging into my ribs, refusing to let go.

I think I’m going insane. I shouldn’t have come back. I shouldn’t have let him touch me. I shouldn’t have given him another chance to rip me apart. My brain is working overtime, scrambling for an answer—one that won’t ruin me more than I already am. One that won’t make me stay.

Because there is an answer. I know it. I feel it in the way my body betrays me, how I want to lean into him instead of tearing away, how his presence makes my chest feel too tight, my throat feel too raw. But if I say it—if I admit it—it becomes real. And I can’t let that happen.

So I do the only thing I can.

I lie.

“Nothing,” I force out, voice flat, hollow. A perfect little knife disguised as a word. “This is nothing.”

The moment I say it, something inside me breaks.

It’s not dramatic. There’s no sound, no sharp pain, no gasp of realization. Just a quiet snap—like a thread pulled too tight, finally giving way. It feels like slipping under deep water, watching the light distort above but not reaching for it.

I brace myself for Sett’s reaction, for the anger, the pushback. But I never expected what’s coming next.

“Calling me babe, meant nothing to you, Madden?” Sett’s question is just a whisper and I hate it, feeling his nose diving into my hair.

I feel my fingers twitch at my sides. I want to push him off. I want to hold on.

I do neither.

“It was a mistake.” I say the words softly, too softly, like I’m afraid of the words myself. They settle between us, heavier than they should be.

Then I break away, a slow, deliberate shrug of my shoulders forcing him to let go. I finally turn, meeting his gaze.

Sett’s brows pinch just slightly, like he doesn’t understand at first. But then I see it—the flicker of realization, the way his face shifts, like something inside him just caved in. His jaw tightens, lips parting as if to protest, but he doesn’t speak right away.

And fuck, there it is.

The hurt.

Raw and open, written across his expression in a way I’ve never seen before. Sett Callahan—the arrogant, smug bastard who always has a retort locked and loaded—just stands there, looking at me like I pulled the floor out from under him. Like he’s trying to piece together what just happened, why it stings. Why I made it sting.

That fucking asshole.

Serves him right to feel what he did to me. To know what it’s like to hear those words, to have them dig under your skin and rot there. But then why does my stomach twist? Why does my chest feel tight like I just kicked myself in the ribs?

Sett’s mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to say something—maybe demand an answer, maybe ask what’s wrong—but I don’t give him the chance. I can’t.

Because for all my anger, for all the ways I wanted him to feel this, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel good. It just hurts.

So I don’t let him.

“I gotta go.” My voice is hoarse, but I don’t give him the chance to call me out on it. I step past him.

But his large hand snaps around my wrist, halting me mid-step. His grip is firm— too firm. Grounding. Too grounding.

His voice is colder now, stripped of its usual arrogance, but I can still feel the edge of something beneath it. It makes my body shudder. “Where are you going, Madden?”

His gaze searches mine, flicking between my eyes, looking for something—an answer, an explanation, a fucking lifeline. I swallow hard. My throat feels like it’s closing up.

I pull my wrist free. It’s not easy. He doesn’t resist, but he lingers just long enough that I can feel the ghost of his touch even after I step away. Then another step. Then another.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, my voice too soft. Too fragile. Like if I say it any louder, I’ll break. “And it doesn’t matter.”

I don’t look back.

And this time, he doesn’t stop me.

And somehow, that’s the part that hurts the most.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Hey there!
I'm back after a hell of a few days and some serious writer's block... Truly, I’ve typed on my keyboard, deleted a whole chapter, started again—only to delete it again… But finally, here I am with the next part!

I really need to thank everyone once again for their support, especially for the amazing new batches of fanart I’ve received. You have no idea how much that means to me!

Also, I shared a playlist on X (https://x.com/MyalescaRox/status/1905659375747731462) if you want some background music while reading~

Before I let you loose, just a heads-up: this part might hit a little hard—but hey, once you hit rock bottom, the only way is up, right?

*starts running*
Enjoy reeeeading~

Sett Callahan

“Yeah, mom, I get it,” I sigh into my phone’s speaker, and her laughter rings through the device, high-pitched and warm.

“I highly doubt that,” my mother’s voice cuts through the line, sharp but affectionate. “I raised you, don't forget it, champ.”

I roll my eyes so hard it feels like they might get stuck. I'm slumped on the sofa, socked feet resting on the coffee table, the worn cushions sagging beneath me. The position is starting to feel uncomfortable, so I cross one leg over the other to relieve the pressure on my knee.

The back of my head rests against the couch, my eyes lazily fixed on the peeling ceiling as I keep my phone pressed to my ear.

I’m practically melting into the sofa, sweat starting to bead down the back of my neck. The air’s thick, too hot for this shit, but I don’t care. I let the laziness roll over me in this brief moment of damn respite, sitting there only in my burgundy briefs because I was eager to peel my work clothes off my sweaty skin.

With the hellish weather lately, my days have been totally out of sync. Since I went back to work on the construction site, temperatures have shot up so high that we’ve been working through the night just to get some relief from the heat. We start at four AM and wrap up by midday. I would’ve liked to spend my Wednesday afternoon doing something else, like visiting my mother, but as luck would have it, she's out of town!

It's been three weeks since Mari Callahan moved into the local healthcare center, and to be honest, I still don’t know how to feel about it. The place isn't your average care facility—it's attached to a retirement home and offers activities for the elderly and independent patients alike. So when the opportunity for an excursion to visit an aquarium came up, my Mari Callahan was all in.

And as ridiculous as it might sound, I’m actually glad she’s taking advantage of this opportunity, soaking up every moment of it. The best part? We don’t have to worry about the damn costs of her stay. For once, my mother can just enjoy life without the weight of bills hanging over her.

I still remember when I helped her move in. It felt like I was unloading my whole life as much as hers, and then she hit me with a secret she'd been keeping for years. Turns out, my mom had health insurance all along from the time she was actively working. She’d signed up for it in secret, terrified that if my father found out, he’d come back and use it against us. I didn't even know she’d been worried about that all these years. But, thankfully, he hasn’t returned to make good on those threats.

It hurt me, in a way, to realize that she hadn't been able to open up to me about it, but I don’t blame her for a second. I don't even blame her for having me financing both our lives all this time. I don’t regret a single cent I spent helping her.

And here's the kicker—part of her health insurance actually covers the first seven months at the care center. The rest of her stay would be covered through a research program that focuses on alternative, non-hormonal treatments for conditions like hers. Sure, it sounds a bit scary, like she’s being used as a guinea pig, but it’s really about exploring healthier options that don’t come with the side effects of traditional medications.

If this research can help others, you can bet my mother, being who she is—Saint Mari Callahan—didn’t hesitate to sign up.

For the upcoming twelve months, at least, she’ll be living in a luxury care center with a fucking private pool for water aerobics. It’s surreal, but I’m glad she’s finally getting the chance to enjoy herself.

“Settrigh, are you listening?!” My mother’s voice snaps me out of my fairy-tale flashback with its picture-perfect happy ending.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about how fucking lucky we were that you got to enjoy a show with damn real sea lions.” I laugh, shaking my head because even though I miss her, I still can't believe how all of this worked out. I hear her chuckling back an adorable Hell, yes! Fourteen-year-old Mari, I swear.

“If only you could see it,” she says, her voice warm, full of something I can’t quite place. “I wish I could’ve taken you to such a place when you were a kid.”

There’s a lump forming in my throat before I can stop it. I swallow hard, forcing it down and I grin, even though I know she can't see me. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. Since I’ve got more money for myself now, there’s nothing stopping me from going somewhere.”

“And taking someone with you?” Her voice lilts teasingly, but I don’t feel like laughing. She doesn’t know and I’m not going to tell her.

The silence stretches just half a second too long before I clear my throat. “I gotta go—I promised K I’d help out at the shop.”

That part isn’t a lie to avoid falling into the subject of it . K’s been keeping me busy ever since my mom moved out, throwing me odd jobs in the garage to make sure my afternoons are packed. I’m grateful for it, honestly. Keeps me moving, keeps me too damn exhausted to think when I finally hit the bed at nine, feeling like the whole day’s been drained out of me.

Because the truth is—I still can’t get used to it being just me in this place.

It’s been three weeks since my mom left. Three weeks since—

I cut that thought off before it forms, shoving it down somewhere deep, somewhere I don’t have to deal with it.

“Call me tomorrow?” My mother asks and I nod, though she still can’t see me.

“Got a better idea. I’ll come visit tomorrow, okay?” I grin, letting myself enjoy the thought of seeing her again. Standing up, I slap a damp palm against my thigh before stretching out my legs. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, champ!”

The call ends, and I don’t let myself linger on the screen before locking my phone and shoving it onto the coffee table.

For a second, the trailer is too quiet. Just the low hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the floorboards as I shift my weight. Too fucking quiet.

I exhale through my nose and roll my shoulders, forcing my body to move. Routine helps. Routine is good. I grab a pair of jeans from the back of the chair and pull them on despite the heat, knowing damn well how much I’ll regret it later. But years of working around cars have taught me that bare skin and scrap metal don’t mix—not unless you want cuts and grease stains that refuse to come out.

I busy myself to put on an old white t-shirt, more grey than anything else, tying my sneakers, grabbing a bottle of cold water from the fridge. Anything to keep my hands moving.

Grabbing the trailer keys, my eyes briefly catch on the new keyring attached—a miniature version of my Camaro's logo, crafted from iron-on beads in the classic Chevrolet colors. It’s a little uneven, the edges not quite perfect, but that only makes it better. I swear, I’ll never stop being grateful to the health center for giving my mother activities that actually bring her joy.

And I’m fine.

I tell myself that as I push open the trailer door and step out into the blistering heat.

I have to be.

Stepping outside is like walking straight into an oven. The air is thick, heavy, pressing against my skin like a second layer. The sun glares down, merciless, and within seconds, more sweat beads at the nape of my neck, sticking my shirt to my back.

And of course, I forgot my damn shades.

A muscle in my jaw ticks as I pat my pockets, already knowing they’re empty. Just a stupid, fleeting thing to forget, but the realization stings more than it should, like a slap to the face. I always grab my shades before heading out. Always. It’s routine, like grabbing my keys, slipping on my sneakers, locking up behind me. But today? I fucking forgot. And now, the sun is burning into my retinas, and my head is already pounding, and I swear, if one more thing goes wrong—

I shake the thought off and roll my shoulders. Doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I don’t even feel itchy by the sound of the crunching of gravel under my sneakers, grating on my nerves.

The walk to K’s shop isn’t long, but in this heat, it sure as hell feels like it. Those twenty minutes feels like an hour already.

Reaching the asphalt way, it shimmers, heatwaves rippling off it, and every breath I take feels thick, almost suffocating. I adjust my pace, settling into an easy, unbothered stride—because I am unbothered. Just another stupid hot summer day, no reason for my blood to be simmering under my skin like this. No reason for my pulse to be hammering a little too hard in my ears.

I focus on the sounds around me instead—the occasional chirp of cicadas, the distant hum of cars passing down the main road, the rhythmic thud of my sneakers against the pavement. Normal shit. Grounding shit.

K’s shop is just up ahead now, the sight of it pulling the tension from my shoulders. It’s a little rundown, tucked between a bigger storage and its terrasse, but it’s got its charm. It’s got shade, for one. And an ice-cold fridge stocked with sodas, for another. Yeah, sodas and water, you hear me fucking right.

And more importantly, it’s got something to keep me busy.

With a breath, I step inside, the cool air of rotating fans hitting my overheated skin, and push away whatever the hell that fleeting moment of anger was. Doesn’t matter. I’m here now. I’m fine.

“Sante, I’m home, babe!” I call out, my voice cutting through the heavy pulse of music shaking the garage’s walls. The words roll off my tongue like muscle memory, easy and familiar. Like nothing’s changed. 

A metallic clang rings out, followed by a muttered curse. The volume of Gary Clark Jr.’s Come Together dips slightly, and a moment later, K steps from behind an old Ford, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag.

“Are you referring to me or your car? Because, babe, that’s new,” he gives me one of his exaggerated looks, but it doesn’t hide his grin.

“Forget it,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. I clasp his hand in mine, giving his shoulder a solid slap with the hand still holding on my water bottle. I hadn’t even realized I misspoke somehow. And if something tightens in my chest—well, I ignore that part.

“You good, bro?” K’s gaze sweeps over me, sharp despite the heat pressing down on both of us.

“Sweating like hell, but I ain’t dead yet,” I tip my head back and chug the rest of my water, then toss the empty bottle into the trash barrel. “Really K, I’m feeling fucking good.”

K raises a skeptical brow, but he doesn’t push it. “What’s up today?” I ask before he can think too hard about it.

His expression shifts, playful now, and I’m grateful he lets it go. “Tires. The Prius right here, the Dodge in the back, and Old Vance’s truck.”

My eyes land on the yellow Prius first. Sleek. Quiet. One of those late hybrid models that feel more like a computer on wheels than a car. I wrinkle my nose.

Damn things are expensive as hell. Not the kind of ride you’d expect to see around here—not unless someone got a real lucky break or had rich parents footing the bill. Most folks in the trailer park drive beat-up trucks, old sedans held together with duct tape and prayers. Something practical. Something you can actually fix yourself without needing a degree in engineering.

And these hybrids? They don’t just cost an arm and a leg to buy—if something goes wrong, good luck getting it fixed without selling your soul. Even K doesn’t own one, and I remember him scoffing once, saying he'd rather push his baby blue truck uphill every day than drop a fortune on some glorified golf cart.

Hell, even if Old Vance invests in a couple of loading poles for the trailer park in case more of these things start rolling in, it’s not that anyone around here can actually afford a charging station. If some dude pulled up with an EV, they'd be shit outta luck unless they planned to plug it into their trailer and drain the whole park’s power.

And the worst part? They’re too damn quiet. I hate that. A car’s supposed to let you know it’s coming, rumbling low like a warning growl, not sneaking up on you like a goddamn ghost. I swear, these things could roll right over your foot, and you wouldn’t even hear it coming.

“Working on this shit?” I ask, motioning toward the yellow eyesore with my thumb.

“Yeah,” K shrugs. “Just the tires. Anything else on these things is a pain in the ass—better to send them somewhere else.”

Rolling my shoulders, I clap my hands together. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

I start with the Prius. It’s light— too light. The tires feel like they weigh nothing compared to the ones I usually handle. Feels wrong. But I go through the motions, jacking the car up, pulling off the old set, fitting on the new ones. The process is methodical, almost mindless, and I let the shop’s music swallow my thoughts whole.

The thing about working in the heat is that it drags everything out. I’m grateful for the rotating fans on the ceiling, but sweat drips down my neck nonetheless, soaking into my shirt and making my grip slip every so often, but I don’t care. I keep moving.

Once the Prius is done, I push the jack back and step away, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my arm as I glance toward the Dodge in the back of K’s shop.

Now that’s a car.

Swapping out the Prius for the Dodge is an instant relief. I can’t help but grin as I climb inside. The seat hugs me better than that shitty Prius ever could, the familiar hum of an old-school engine vibrating up through my hands as I grip the wheel. The weight of it, the sound of it when I rev the engine slightly to reposition it—this, at least, feels right.

For a split second, I think about my Camaro—the car I’ve spent years keeping alive, the car that keeps my life afloat and every rival behind me. No exceptions. Not even for—

I shove the thought away as I park the Dodge where it needs to be and climb out. Rolling my shoulders, I get to work, letting the beat of K’s loud music set the rhythm for every movement. Lifting these tires feels right —the weight, the strain in my arms, the familiar burn. I like it. Makes me feel solid, like I’m here, fully here , and not stuck in my head.

The new tires go on without much trouble.

K strolls over just as I’m wiping the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my not-so-white-anymore shirt.

“Not bad, hotshot.”

“Damn right,” I grin, tossing the cross key onto the workbench.

Then he claps a hand on my shoulder, his grin widening just slightly—and I already know I’m not gonna like whatever he’s about to say.

“When you’re done with Old Vance’s truck tires, it needs an oil change.”

I groan. Of course it does.

Old Vance’s truck is a bitch. The thing is ancient, probably older than me, and it shows. I slide under it, reaching for the oil plug, only for my wrench to slip in my sweaty grip.

“Shit,” I mutter, readjusting. The bolt doesn’t budge.

I exhale through my nose, steady my grip, and try again. But nothing happens.

Scowling at the damn thing like it personally offended me, I grit out, “Fucking move,” and put more force into it.

The heat under the truck is suffocating, my skin sticking to the mechanic's cart where my shirt has ridden up, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat. The metal is scorching under my fingers, but I refuse to give in. I reposition again, planting my feet better, and yank with everything I’ve got—

CRACK.

The wrench slips. My hand jerks back. And pain explodes through my knuckles as they slam into the undercarriage.

“God damn it!” I hiss, shaking out my throbbing fingers. Blood beads up at the scrapes, mixing with grease, smearing across my skin.

K’s voice filters down from above. “You good down there?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing through the sting. Fine. I’m fucking fine.

I swallow hard before answering. “Yeah. Just making friends with Vance’s piece-of-shit truck.”

K laughs, but I barely hear it.

Because suddenly, all the effort I’ve been putting into keeping my mind blank?

Yeah. It’s not fucking working anymore.

I’ve been doing fine.

That’s what I tell myself every damn day. Every time K drags me out to help at his shop, every time Sam calls just to talk shit, every time I pick up the phone to hear my mother laughing, happy, safe. I’ve been doing fine. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

The last three weeks have been hell. I’ve done everything right—kept busy, kept moving, didn’t ghost my friends even when I wanted to disappear. I made sure Mari Callahan was settled in, took every shift I could at the construction site, wrung myself out to the bone in K’s shop. When that wasn’t enough, I burned off the rest of my energy at the trailer park's makeshift gym.

But every time I step into the trailer, into my own home, I suffocate. It feels like being locked in a house where all the doors are open, but none of them lead outside. The air is sick, heavy. The echo of things left unsaid, of people who once stood close but walked away. Every thought circles back to the same question— why wasn’t I enough? —like a chain wrapped tight around my ribs, pulling tighter with each breath. No amount of distraction breaks it. No logic reasons with it. Just the gnawing, hollow ache of being left, of reaching for something that was never meant to stay.

And when I close my eyes, the dreams always start the same. A familiar presence, just out of reach—footsteps fading, a shadow slipping through a doorway, fingers brushing mine before they’re gone. I call out, but my voice is swallowed by silence, the kind that stretches too long and too deep, pressing against my ears like water. Then comes the chasing, the running, the frantic search through endless, shifting hallways that lead nowhere. Faces blur. Time warps. The world bends in on itself, cruel and taunting. And just when I think I’ve found them—just when I swear I can feel the warmth of their touch—they vanish. Again. Always again.

I asked Soraka for something to help me sleep—to shut out the nightmares. The next day, she handed me a pack of Xanax without asking any questions. I take one pill every night. I even stopped drinking.

And yet, no matter how much I try to be healthier about it, no matter how much I tell myself it’s for the best, the truth still gnaws at me like an open wound.

Aphelios fucking Madden is gone.

And I don’t know why that fact tears through me the way it does.

At first, it felt the same. That same hollowed-out ache, like a house with its walls torn down, like a body moving on autopilot because what else is there to do? I knew this kind of loss. I knew how it burned at the edges and settled deep in the bones, how it turned into something you carried without realizing. But this time—this time was different. Because I never wanted Aphelios close, never wanted to need him, and yet, somehow, I did. We fought, we clashed, we wore our hate like armor, but he was there. And now he’s not. And somehow, that absence cuts deeper than the first wound ever did. Because at least when my dumpster dad left, I knew what I’d lost. And won. But this? This feels like losing something I never let myself have.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. All I see is him. The way he looked at me that Fourth of July night—it feels like something in me has cracked open. And the way he walked away, like none of it had ever mattered, leaves me with the gut-deep feeling that he took something with him.

I hiss when a sharp kick lands on my calf. “What the fuck?”

Rolling out from under Old Vance’s truck, I barely have time to sit up before K looms over me, arms crossed over his black t-shirt, brows drawn into a thin line. His eyes flicker between my face to my bloody knuckle then back to my face again before he sighs. One of those exaggerated ones. Again.

“Break time, you stubborn asshole,” he says, nodding toward the shop’s side door. “Terrace. Now. And then you’ll spill the beans, or I’ll hang you by the balls.”

“Yes, Mom,” I scoff, pushing myself up from the cart. My back aches from the awkward position I’d been in, and sweat clings to my shirt, probably making me look like shit compared to K, who at least had the foresight to wear black.

Before heading outside, I make a beeline for the fridge, yanking it open. My fingers brush past a cold bottle of water, but my eyes catch on the Kirin beer tucked in the corner. I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks—Soraka’s Xanax works fine without it—but something in me itches, restless and raw. Without thinking too hard about it, I grab two cans instead. One for K. One for me.

As I step outside, K is already lounging in the shade, feet propped up. Cracking a Kirin open with my free hand, I toss him the second one and he catches the can with a nod of thanks. The sharp hiss of carbonation fills the thick summer air, but I barely register it. My knuckles throb, the fresh cuts still oozing, but I don’t bother looking down. If I don’t acknowledge the sting, maybe I can pretend it isn’t there.

I sit across from him, stretching my legs and taking a long gulp of the beer, letting the coolness settle in my throat.

We sit in silence for a beat before K speaks. “Is it because of Mari?”

I wish it were. That would be simpler. I shake my head. “Mom’s fine.”

K studies me, his amber eyes—darker than mine—sharp. “Then what’s going on, Sett? And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. You’re not fine.”

I exhale, setting my Kirin down on the makeshift coffee table. Dragging both hands through my face, I scrub at my sweat-damp hair, ignoring the sting in my scraped knuckles.

“Truly, K? I have not a damn clue,” I say with a halfhearted shrug. “I just feel like my life’s been flipped upside down lately. As if I were hurled into the fucking past.”

K watches me carefully, sipping his beer, his brow furrowing slightly. “When your dad left?”

I nod.

“He was a bastard,” I swallow hard. My hands ball into fists. “A goddamn drug addict, a liar, a man with blood on his hands and no shame about it. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to Mom. And yet, the space he left behind didn’t just vanish. It fucking stayed, K. This hollow feeling in my chest I can never quite fill, no matter how much I wanted to pretend that walking disappointment never mattered. Because he did. Not in the way a good father should, but in the way a storm leaves wreckage behind. I hated him. I needed him. I lost him. And no matter how I cut it, that loss still felt like a missing limb.”

K’s thoughtful gaze stays on me for a moment, his expression softening as he sets his beer down on the makeshift table between us. He uncrosses his arms, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching mine.

“Hotshot,” he starts, his voice calm but firm, “I get it. That feeling, it’s like someone pulls the rug right out from under you, right? Like you’re left floating, just… stuck, with no solid ground to stand on.” He pauses for a beat, and when he speaks again, something in his voice shifts. A weight, a knowing. “But you’re not alone, man. You’re not that kid anymore. You’ve got people here who are gonna keep you grounded, no matter what. And I’m one of ‘em.”

At first, his words were just noise—well-meaning, sure, but the kind of thing people say when they don’t know what else to do. And then it hits me. It’s more than the kind of understanding only a best friend can have. 

K’s been through similar shit when his asshole of an ex left him. He was broken, too, but he relied on us, his friends, to help him move forward. And yeah, his words hit right where they needed to. 

He isn’t just talking. He’s remembering. And suddenly, his words aren’t just comforting—they are satisfying, in a way I didn’t expect. Because he gets it. The hollow, the ache, the way loss lingers in places you don’t expect. He isn’t trying to fix it. He’s just standing in it with me. And somehow, that makes it easier to bear.

“Thanks…” It’s the only word I manage to utter, and K grins at me like I just handed him the damn moon.

He’s been here. Will always be. And I’ve been too damn stubborn to let him be. I acted like I had to carry this alone again, like I had something to prove, when the truth is—I just didn’t want to need him. Didn’t want to lean on someone and risk them walking away, too. But now, sitting here, hearing the weight in his voice, I realize how unfair that is. He gets it. He’s always gotten it. And instead of letting him in, I’ve been too busy pretending I don’t need anyone. Like a damn idiot.

But—fuck—there’s still a but. The thing is, even if someone’s ready to pick up all my broken pieces and shove me in the right direction, I still have no damn clue where to go or what to do.

Since I met Aphelios Madden all those years ago, it feels like I’ve been run over by an avalanche of conflicting emotions. I’m suddenly unable to fight to keep my head straight—or the stupid muscle in my chest to jump off a cliff.

There’s no logical explanation for this. None. I hate Aphelios—obviously. He’s my rival. He annoys the hell out of me. I hate his stupid perfect face—those dimples that pop up when he’s grinning, like he’s won something, when all he’s really done is get under my skin. And in my head.

I hate that my thoughts keep drifting to him when I should be thinking about anything else. Wondering if I should grab his stupid lotion when I’m out, because I know how picky he was about that shit. Or thinking about getting a chocolate shake at the drive-in, just because he liked them. Like somehow, he’s still gonna come back.

I hate that I want him. I hate those dark eyes of his—filled with hatred and lust, sucking the air right out of the room, twisting my stomach into knots and doing some weird shit with the organ within my chest.

And I hate that, the day he packed up his whole damn life into a single backpack and left, dragged up the same old ache—the one that never really left, just buried deep enough that I thought I could forget about it. But now, it’s got another face, another name, another goddamn absence that stings more than I care to admit.

This isn’t attraction. It’s just… war nerves. Right?

So why can’t I forget that night? The night I was drowning in whiskey and sorrow, unable to wrap my head around being left behind again. The way his hands moved over me—steady, sure—manhandling me until every thought blurred into static. Until the only thing left was sensation. Pleasure. Just fucking raw pleasure, until I was spilling into his hand, breathless.

And now—I crave it again. The taste of his lips, just him . His touch, burning into my skin like lava. His teeth sinking into me. His breath, ghosting my skin with goosebumps.

Feening him so fucking much it makes me sick. 

I want to pin him down, shove my cock deep in his throat, and feel his lips, his cheeks, his throat working around me until I’m spilling down his tongue, until he swallows every drop like he was made for it.

I want to spread him open, push inside, and own him—bury myself so deep he forgets anything that came before. I want to hear him choke on my name, to fuck him senseless, to ruin him until all he knows is me. Until every breath, every ache, every fucking heartbeat tells him that he’s mine.

I want to hear him gasp, moan, beg—want to watch those dark, hateful eyes go hazy with nothing but need. Want to sink my teeth into his skin, leave bruises where only I’ll know they are. I want him wrecked.

More than anything, I want to hear him use that name again. 

But he called it a mistake.

And that’s what stings the most, making his absence feel so utterly wrong.

“I’m sure there’s something else you’re not telling me, Sett.” K exhales, shaking his head, his voice snapping me back to the present. “But I’m not gonna push. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

I manage a weak, apologetic smile—just enough for K to understand. A flicker of gratitude stirs in my chest, but it’s buried under guilt. Because I do want to talk. I just can’t. The words knot in my throat, heavy, refusing to escape.

Because what the hell am I supposed to say? That my brain has swapped roles with my dick, and right now, I’m half-hard in my jeans just thinking about Aphelios? That I still haven’t changed my damn phone background because I’m obsessed with that stupid picture he took? That every time I look at it, my mind blanks, and before I know it, I’m jerking off to the thought of him giving me that look?

The bell above the shop counter chimes, and K pushes himself up, heading inside. The second he’s gone, I groan and shift, subtly adjusting my jeans over my very obvious, very inconvenient problem. Fucking traitor. I grit my teeth and try to think of something—anything—to cool off. Kittens. Yeah. Cute little kittens. Not bunnies. Bunnies definitely won’t help.

My eyes land on my bloody knuckles, and the sight alone is enough to wash away any lingering heat. I should clean them up—stand, rinse the blood off, maybe even bandage them—but as I push myself up, adjusting my crotch beneath my jeans, something inside the shop makes me stop dead in my tracks.

Not only is Alune K’s new customer. But what they’re doing catches my attention.

“What the hell are you two doing?” I narrow my eyes at my best friend and Madden’s sister, my gaze shifting between them.

K curses under his breath, dropping an envelope into the register and closing it, before rubbing a hand over his face. Then, with a sigh, he leans a hip against the counter, looking at me like he’s already exhausted by whatever conversation we’re about to have.

“I promised not to say anything,” he mutters. Then, turning to Alune, he adds, “But understand, Sweetheart, I can’t hide shit from my best friend. Not again.”

Alune exhales slowly, nodding. “I understand. As long as you can continue to help, I’m grateful.”

“I’m doing everything I can,” K reassures her, placing one of his large hands on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I won’t lie—this time, it’s a bigger job.”

My patience starts to fray. Something about this—whatever this is—feels like it concerns me. And not admitting that my eyes sweep over Alune, searching for someone who, obviously, isn’t here.

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

"Follow me," K says, already heading toward the back. The brief look he gives me says it all—I’m not going to like whatever I’m about to find out.

I glance at Alune. She follows, tense, her gaze fixed on the ground. And unless my nose is playing tricks on me, I swear I catch a whiff of… alcohol, making me frown. There are dark patches under her eyes, ugly shadows that make me wonder— has she even been sleeping lately? It’s weird. Not just because she looks utterly drained, but because something about her entire look is off. She's wearing yellow sweatpants and a blue tank top, a combination so unlike her that it almost feels wrong. And her colorful hair? It has more braids woven into it than I’ve ever seen.

K leads us down to the basement, which connects directly to the private garage where I keep my Camaro, safe from anyone’s grubby hands. Sure enough, we pass by my freshly polished baby, and I can’t help but drag my fingers over her sleek red body in appreciation.

But then my attention shifts.

A second car sits next to mine, shrouded under a massive tarp. I can’t make out much, but something about the front looks… off. Almost like it’s been cut short beneath the covering.

Before my best friend can say anything, Alune steps between us, pulling out her phone. “I’ll show you.”

At that exact moment, my phone vibrates. I blink, still half-wondering how the hell she even got my number—or how I got hers. But I have it, somehow.

Ignoring the background picture, I open the chat. Most of her messages are the same: Do you know where my brother is? Please, answer me.

I’ve never answered her. I know she’s worried. And I won’t admit that I am too.

“I know you're not much for social media,” Alune murmurs, swallowing hard like the words physically hurt coming out. Her fingers clutch her phone like a lifeline. “But if you watch this video, you’ll understand.”

My gaze flicks to my screen. My thumb hovers over the YouTube link she just sent me, hesitation thick in my chest. Something about the way she says it makes my gut clench, like whatever’s in this video is a punch to the throat waiting to happen.

But I open it anyway.

The first thing that jumps out at me is the title, loud and vulgar, all caps screaming back at me: MIND-BLOWING CRASH DURING ILLEGAL RACE. Posted two days ago by FunnyCarTuber. Monday.

My stomach drops.

I know this track. Asphalt, backstreets, barely legal. The kind of race you don’t just stumble into—you need contacts, a name, a reason to be there. The cash prize is high—two grand—but not enough to gamble your fucking life for.

And then I see it.

A midnight-blue Mustang. His Mustang. The car I know too well—the one I haven’t seen in weeks at our track. First, the usual three-week break. Then, a storm that canceled a meeting. And last Saturday, for whatever reason, Aphelios never showed up to the next one. I didn’t exactly throw a fit about it, but I sure as hell was pissed. And everyone noticed.

And now—now my eyes are glued to the screen, my breath locking in my throat as the shaky, amateur camera work follows the race. The roaring of engines, the fever-pitched screaming of the crowd.

And then—

“Oh my fucking God,” the guy filming gasps.

It happens so fast.

A car swerves, cutting into the Mustang’s inside lane—too close, too sharp. A dirty fucking move. The Mustang fishtails violently, tires screaming against the asphalt as Aphelios fights for control. The sudden shift throws him straight into the side of another racer. Metal crunches, sparks burst in a violent spray. The Mustang jerks backward, skidding, nearly spinning out—but for a split second, it grips the road, refusing to go down.

Then the third car slams into him at full-speed. Right into the Mustang’s side.

The midnight-blue car is ripped from its path, sent careening sideways across the asphalt, hurtling toward the barrier at breakneck speed. The wall meets it with an explosion of force—dust, debris, body panels ripping through the air.

I can’t breathe. My chest locks up, ribs squeezing tight like a vice. Panic presses on me like a lead weight as my limbs go cold. My ears ring—fucking high, shrill, relentless.

It’s not real. It can’t be real. The seconds tumble past, collapsing like dominoes, one after another, and I can’t catch them. Can’t stop them. My phone feels too heavy in my hands, and that’s when I realize— they’re shaking.

My heart slams against my ribs, each beat hard, heavy, and all wrong.

Something else happens at the same time. K moves beside me, grabbing the tarp covering the mystery car in the garage. He doesn’t say a word, he just yanks it back.

And my world tilts .

The wreckage before me isn’t just some totaled junker. It’s his car.

The same midnight-blue Mustang now sitting gutted and broken, its front and side crushed in. The windshield is a spiderweb of fractures, the airbags hanging limp, deployed.

I don’t know when I stopped breathing, but my lungs feel empty, like something inside me just caved in. I feel like crying and choking at the same time.

Alune shifts beside me, arms crossed tight over herself, nails digging into her sleeves. K exhales, rubbing his jaw, the scratch of his fingers against his dark beard gratingly loud in the silence. And me?

I just stare .

Because three weeks ago, Aphelios Madden packed up his entire life into a single backpack and disappeared.

Now I’m looking at proof that he might not have disappeared at all. He might have been fucking erased .

And I know that tonight I'll need more than just one Xanax to close my eyes.

---

Aphelios Madden

The world blinks in and out. Pain rips through every nerve in my body—jagged, unforgiving. It crashes over me all at once, sharp and suffocating, like I’ve been crushed under something massive, something unmovable. It fucking hurts.

I don’t know where my arms are. My legs. My body doesn’t feel like mine. Just a weight being shifted, lifted, dragged. Like I’m being torn apart and stitched back together—only for it to happen again, and again, in a sickening loop.

Something presses against my chest, solid and heavy, and I can’t breathe. My lungs stutter, ribs locking tight, refusing to expand. I try to move, to push against the weight, but nothing answers. My tongue is thick, useless. My mouth won’t work right.

My eyes are open—I think—but it doesn’t matter. I see nothing. Just an opaque veil smothering my vision, shielding me from the harsh, shifting blur of colors and motion. There’s light, too bright, cutting through the murk in piercing flashes—but none of it makes sense.

I try to think. Try to remember.

Nothing.

Every thought slips away before I can grasp it. My mind is a blank canvas, wiped clean.

My skin burns everywhere, but my body won’t fight back. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening.

"BP’s dropping—"

Noise filters in, distant and muffled, bleeding through the cracks of my awareness. A siren wails—it coils through my skull, dull and aching. A voice cuts through the fog, sharp, urgent, but the words dissolve before I can catch them.

"Stay with us—"

Something inside me seizes. A flash of brightness sears through the dark, burning the edges of my vision. It’s too much. I want to turn away, but I can’t move. The pain is too loud, too present, anchoring me in place.

The world tilts. My stomach lurches, a sickening freefall with no ground to hit. I don’t know if I’m the one moving, or if it’s everything else.

Something presses over my nose and mouth, cold and plastic. It hisses with every inhale, but it doesn’t feel like enough. My breath drags, shallow and strained, like I have to claw each inhale from somewhere deep.

Then—silence.

The kind that stretches too long. That pulls me under like a riptide.

Darkness swallows me whole.

I’m drifting somewhere between existence and oblivion—I think. Or maybe I don’t think at all. It’s just black. A vast, endless void where time doesn’t exist. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or unconscious. My mind is present, but everything else is empty.

I feel like a hostage in the dark, trapped behind something I can’t break through. There should be light—somewhere—but there’s nothing to reach for, nothing to crack through the black.

Something feels wrong.

Shapes loom at the edges of my vision, shifting in the void like shadows with no source. Moving, pulsing, distorting. It makes no sense. None of this does. I want to move, to see, to tear myself out of this suffocating nothingness, but I can’t.

I try to open my eyes, but there’s nothing to open them to.

Panic coils in my gut, pressing into my ribs, not like the sharpness of physical pain but the slow, crushing weight of something deeper. Something that makes me want to curl in on myself, to shrink so small that I disappear entirely.

Light again. Blinding. A sharp, sterile brightness pressing against my eyelids, slicing through the black. My head throbs—slow, insistent, like a drumbeat against the inside of my skull. The pain is different now. Not sharp. Not all-consuming. Just there , dull and relentless, gnawing at the edges of my awareness.

A sound cuts through the fog. A steady, rhythmic beeping.

I try to move. A hand. A finger. Anything. But there’s nothing. No response. No sense of weight or limbs or self. Just the same floating emptiness, except now, I know I exist in it. And that’s worse.

A new sensation pricks at me—a sharp sting, precise and fleeting, somewhere on my body. But my brain is too sluggish, too drowned in static to understand where. Just an intrusion, distant and impersonal, barely breaking through the haze.

A voice. Soft. Distant. Words slipping through the thick murk of my mind.

"It’s too early to wake up."

And then, like a hand pressing me under, I sink back into nothingness.

There’s a ticking, echoing somewhere far away. And I’m floating, like my back has melted right into a damn cotton-soft cloud. That’s the only way to describe it.

I’m not fully here, not fully anywhere, drifting between layers of reality that won’t settle. The air around me feels thick, like wading through water. I try to move, but my body is sluggish, distant, like it doesn’t belong to me. I think I managed to make my little finger twitch—and right now, that feels like a win. 

The pain is there, lurking beneath something dense and numbing. A cushion between me and the real world.

Drugs?

Probably.

A slow, creeping warmth seeps into my limbs, dragging me deeper into the haze. And damn, I feel fucking good. My thoughts slip like water through my fingers, too slow to catch, too fleeting to hold onto.

Muffled voices filter in, dipping in and out of clarity. Words slipping between the cracks of my sluggish mind.

"…called by someone who found Mr. Madden in an alley."

No. That’s wrong. I wasn’t in a fucking alley, was I?

Something tugs at the edge of my mind. A memory, blurred, slipping in and out of reach. I was driving. The Mustang beneath my hands, the wheel steady. The low hum of the engine, the grip of the tires on the road. Streetlights bleeding past, shadows twisting with the speed.

And then—nothing. Just a cut in the film reel, a jarring gap where memory should be. As slow as my damn brain is working, I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened. It’s frustrating—to stand on the edge of a thought but never quite reach it. I know it’s there, right within grasp, but the harder I try to seize it, the more it slips away. Like trying to grab smoke. Like staring at a locked door with no damn key, convinced I’ve opened it before but unable to remember how.

It’s utterly disorienting.

And one question keeps nagging at the back of my mind—

Where the fuck am I?

The words drift back in. "…albeit the initial apprehension of Mr. Madden condition, his injuries aren’t that severe. The nurse…"

Mr. Madden? I want to snort at that. Instead, my stomach twists as my fogged-up brain sluggishly processes the words. Pieces of the puzzle click into place, slow and jarring. The air feels heavier now, pressing against my chest, thick and suffocating.

A slow, creeping realization unfurls, wrapping cold fingers around my gut. I’m in a goddamn hospital.

Opening my eyes, I breathe in. Or try to.

Because it hurts. A sharp, dragging pull rattles through my ribs, like something inside me is too tight, stretched too far. My fingers twitch against the sheets, but the movement feels foreign. My body is slow, unresponsive, wrapped in layers of fog.

I swallow, my throat dry, raw, like I haven’t used it in days.

Everything is too bright but blurred at the same time, like my damn eyes won’t focus. My vision swims, the world around me shifting in and out of clarity.

Then, a prickle at the edge of my awareness. Eyes are watching me. I can’t see them, but I feel them—unignorable, pressing in, like I’m some wounded animal on display. Which, honestly, I probably am.

Their gazes weigh heavy against my skin, but my sluggish brain can’t keep up, can’t piece together who they are or why they’re here. The room tilts, edges blurring. My eyelids drag lower, heavier.

The pull of sleep is different this time. Not like before. Not forced by drugs.

It rolls over me, thick and suffocating. I don’t fight it. I let it take me.

Because I’m fucking tired.

The next time I wake up, the world is different. It’s dark. Not the murky, drugged haze that swallowed me before. Not the endless, suffocating void where time slipped through my fingers.

This darkness is different. Still. Heavy, but not crushing. No more blinding, sterile light burning through my eyelids, no distant murmur of nurses or the steady beep of machines drilling into my skull. Just quiet. Thick, almost unnatural—like the world itself is holding its breath. Because it’s nighttime, I realize.

My mind is clearer this time, no longer drowning in fog. But my body? It still feels like it’s been through a goddamn meat grinder despite the softness pressed against my back.

And, fuck—I need to take a piss.

That’s what really gets me moving. Not some deep epiphany, not the overwhelming sense of wrongness clawing at my ribs, just a primal, human need. I push myself up, or try to. My left arm doesn’t respond. Instead, a sharp, biting pain shoots through it, and my breath catches as reality slams back into me.

Something’s wrong with my elbow.

I glance down. My left arm’s locked in a brace, stiff and useless. My ribs ache with every inhale, a deep, dragging soreness that makes me want to curl up and never move again. But I can’t. Because I really need to take a piss.

Dragging my other arm up, I rip the IV out of the back of my hand. A sharp sting, a warm trickle of blood—but I don’t care. I just need to move. To get the hell out of here.

But before I can even swing my legs off the bed, a hand clamps around my wrist. Firm. Unyielding. Warm.

I freeze. There’s a shuffle, the faint rustling of fabric, but the grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t let go. Just stays there, firm, unmoving, grounding in a way I don’t want it to be.

With a click , a dim glow floods the space as the bedpost light flickers on, washing the room in muted yellow. 

My breath snags, and my sluggish brain scrambles to process the sudden weight against my skin. Slowly—almost against my will—my gaze drags up along the arm, following the tense line of muscle, the familiar tan skin, the rough callouses pressing against me.

And I almost fucking die on the spot.

Sett Callahan is standing right there. Right in front of me. Like some cruel trick of the universe, like I cracked my skull open too hard and started hallucinating. Because there’s no way— no way —he’s actually here.

But he is, staring right at me, brows dipped and scowling like I’ve personally offended him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Madden?” Sett’s voice cuts through the fog in my head, weighted with something I can’t quite place. Sharp? Amused? Frustrated? I don’t know. And I hate that I don’t know. Hate the way my chest tightens with something more aching as the throbbing in my broken elbow.

“Bathroom,” I croak, because I can’t help it. Because I really, really need to go before my bladder explodes.

For some reason, I expect him to argue, to chew me out for ripping the IV out of my hand like an idiot. To grab my shoulder, push me back down, tell me to quit being so fucking stubborn.

But he doesn’t.

He just nods and steps aside.

I grit my teeth, pushing myself upright, and instantly regret it. My legs are nothing but wobbling dead weight, and for a second, I’m convinced I’m about to eat shit on this linoleum floor. 

But I don’t—because there are hands on me. One pressed against my lower back, broad and steady, radiating warmth through the thin hospital gown. The other grips my uninjured arm, firm but careful, grounding me without force. They’re holding me up, keeping me from crumpling.

And I lean into him. Not by choice, not consciously—just a slow, inevitable shift until my shoulder brushes against his chest. Solid. Unmovable. Too close, too steady. The heat of him seeps through, chasing the cold that’s been clinging to me since I woke up. And I hate it. I hate the way it soothes something in me and makes my heart rate shoot into the sky.

I tell myself it’s just because I don’t want to fall. That my body’s just reacting on instinct, gravitating toward the nearest solid thing, seeking balance. Every step is agony, pulling at bruised skin and torn muscle. And yet the weight pressing down on my chest has nothing to do with my ribs, nothing to do with my injuries. It’s something else entirely.

Something worse.

Something that makes me want to shove him off and hold on tighter in the same breath. But I’m too damn exhausted to shake him off, so I let him lead me toward the annexed bathroom like I’m a robot running on a dying battery.

The door creaks open, and I force my thoughts to shut the hell up and turn the light on. Because I’m too drained for this. Sett guides me inside, steady and unrelenting, and I let him. Because right now, just walking is hard enough and I have to clench my teeth so hard, I’m sure my jaw is gonna burst. 

Thinking? Thinking is impossible. My thoughts scatter in every direction like glass marbles knocked from a jar, rolling too fast for me to catch.

“You need help, Madden?” Sett stays just behind me when I take an unsteady step forward, and I hate the way my body reacts—like it expects, like it needs, something to hold on to.

“Fuck off, Callahan,” I grumble, forcing the words past the unease curling in my gut. My legs feel like they might give out at any second, but I push through it.

Sett huffs, something between amusement and exasperation, but then—mercifully—he steps back and closes the door behind me.

I use the reprieve to sway toward the toilet, willing my body to keep it together for just a little longer.

However, I realize a problem. A fucking annoying problem.

The hospital gown gets in the way when I try to hold it up, slipping from my grip at the worst moment. I try tucking it under my arm, but of course, my elbow is useless. When I finally manage to pin the fabric against my side and reach for my briefs, the whole damn thing shifts again, making the simple act of pissing feel like some humiliating battle.

By the time I finally free myself and relieve my bladder, my frustration is boiling beneath my skin. Getting dressed again is just as awkward, the gown tangling where it shouldn’t, my movements stiff and uncoordinated. I grit my teeth and force my way through it before flushing the toilet, cursing every step of the process.

At least the sink isn’t a hassle. The tap turns easily, and the soap dispenser isn’t some push-down mechanism designed to make me suffer. Still, as I rinse my hand, my brain is already drawing up a mental list of all the things that are going to be impossible with one functional arm.

And fuck, it’s a long list.

The fluorescent light hums above me, casting a cold glow over the mirror, and I force myself to look. An ugly double of myself stares back.

My nose is dark and bruised, swollen along the bridge like it took the worst of whatever happened to me. Cuts mar my cheekbone and forehead, angry red lines standing stark against too-pale skin. My eyes—fuck, my eyes. Hollow, shadowed, like I haven’t slept in years and funny enough, I'm pretty sure I just woke up from a goddamn long nap.

The hospital gown hangs loose over my frame, gaping at the neckline, exposing my collarbones. The fabric is stiff, suffocating. Hideous with its little green and violet dot pattern on white fabric. My good hand lifts to pull it away from my skin, but the motion stirs something deep in my ribs, and I hiss, sharp and involuntary.

Beneath the gown, my torso is a mess. Dark purple bruises bloom across my ribs, ugly splotches spreading over the sharp lines of bone and muscle. Some look fresh, others beginning to fade into sickly yellows and greens. Scratches litter my skin—some still raw, others scabbed over, a roadmap of something I can’t fucking remember.

My left elbow is wrapped in layers of gauze beneath a black brace, stiff and useless, throbbing with every pulse of my heartbeat. My head aches, but the concussion must not be too bad—I wouldn’t be standing if it was.

I look like hell. Worse than hell.

A cold weight settles in my gut. My mind scrambles for something—anything—but the memories won’t come. Just blank spaces. Fractured pieces that won’t fit together, like I’ve woken up in someone else’s body. I grip the fabric, my knuckles white, trying to steady my breathing. What the fuck happened after leading the race?

“Madden?” Sett’s voice is right behind me.

I almost crawl out of my fucking skin. My body jerks, legs suddenly weak, and before I can catch myself, there’s a steady grip on my right arm, keeping me upright. I didn’t lock the damn door.

“Can’t you knock?” I snap, heart hammering against bruised ribs. I drop the hospital gown, wanting to cover myself, hide the mess of my body. But before it can fall completely, Sett catches it.

“I did,” he says. “You didn’t hear.”

His voice is calm, unreadable, but his fingers grip the fabric too tightly, knuckles pale. I force myself to meet his gaze in the mirror.

Sett looks…different. His brows are drawn together, a crease deepening between them. His mouth is pressed into a line—not quite a scowl, but not neutral either. Something lingers behind his amber eyes, something I can’t quite name.

His gaze flickers over me, tracing every bruise, every cut, and the way his jaw tenses makes my stomach turn. It’s not anger. Not annoyance.

Something else.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

I grit my teeth, swallowing down another layer of irritation, and yank the gown from Sett’s grip. The fabric rustles as I adjust it over myself, hiding the ugly canvas of bruises from his sight. Hiding from him.

His gaze is still on me—heavy, unrelenting. Watching.

I can’t stand it. It’s not just the way he’s looking at me, but the way it feels. Like I’m being inspected, every bruise cataloged, every cut analyzed. Like I’m some wreck laid out before him, waiting to be evaluated, judged, or—fuck, I don’t even know. And I don’t want to know.

My legs are trembling from standing too long, my body wrung-out and barely holding together. I need to get out of his orbit, away from the intensity of his golden eyes that literally absorb my soul and the weight of whatever-the-fuck he’s thinking.

I push past him, staggering back into the hospital room. Every step rattles through my ribs, each breath catching on something tight and sore.

With the need to sit, I reach for the edge of the bed, gripping it for balance as my vision swims for a second. There’s a clipboard hooked to the rail, a patient chart hanging within reach. I skim it with unfocused eyes.

Broken left elbow. Sprained ribs. Light concussion. Nothing I couldn’t have figured out myself, even with what felt like at least one broken rib. As for the concussion, I think it’s gone—I no longer feel like a jackhammer is pounding into my skull.

The last check-in date. Friday.

I blink, caught between utter disbelief and creeping paranoia—like I’m on the verge of losing my damn mind.

No. I try to persuade myself that the date is wrong. That whatever this is, can’t be right. Because the last thing I remember is Monday. The race. The Mustang’s tires steady rolling over the asphalt under my grip, the rush of headlights streaking past. 

I’ve been out for fucking days!

My fingers tighten around the clipboard, knuckles going white. The date doesn't change, no matter how hard I stare at it.

My knees finally buckle when a sick feeling settles in my gut. The bed catches me before I hit the floor, but the impact still jars through my ribs. A sharp, dragging ache tears through my chest, exactly like the chart says it should.

I hiss between clenched teeth, squeezing my eyes shut. My body feels wrong, too tight in its own skin, but my thoughts feel worse—spinning, spiraling, slipping away before I can grasp onto anything solid.

It's only when I hear a chair scrape against the floor—soft, deliberate—that I remember I’m not alone in this hospital room. Sett settles himself in front of me, arms crossed, eyes pinned on me with that same unreadable intensity. His presence grates on my nerves.

“Go home, Callahan,” I mutter, grabbing a cushion to place under my elbow because my arm weighs down heavily, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in my ribs. “I don’t need you here.”

I don’t need myself here. I hate hospitals. They drag up things I’d rather keep buried—Mari, the helplessness, the suffocating weight of watching someone waste away while I could do nothing but stand there. The dread of waking up in this place, once again.

Sett doesn’t budge. He exhales sharply, tilting his head as if I’ve just said something particularly stupid. “Not a chance.” His leg bounces once, a restless movement, but his gaze never wavers. “Call me paranoid, but I don’t believe for a second you’re gonna stay here like a docile little patient.”

Busted.

I roll my eyes and look away. “What do you want? It’s the middle of the night. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

Sett huffs, shaking his head. When I make the mistake of glancing back at him, I see the shift in his expression. The casual, unreadable mask cracks, and something darker takes its place—his brows knit together, lips pressing into a hard line. Like he’s holding back from shaking me.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Madden?” Sett’s voice is low, forced even, probably because we’re in a hospital. But I hear the tension laced beneath it. “You’ve been MIA for three weeks—three fucking weeks—while I tried not to lose my goddamn mind over your sorry ass. Then your sister shows me a fucking YouTube video of you crashing the Mustang at a goddamn illegal race.”

Goosebumps ripple across my skin as a strange, unsettling sense of disconnection settles over me. And then it’s there again—that sinking feeling in my stomach, a slow, lurching drop, like missing a step on a staircase I’m not even walking on.

Sett keeps going, voice tight with something too raw to name. “K showed me the wreckage. I thought you died, Madden. Twenty-four hours passed with no ID on you. Then someone at this hospital finally recognized you and called Alune to tell her they found you.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And you really think I’d just turn around and let you run away again?”

There’s too much to process. Too much Sett is saying at once.

If my brain weren’t running through mud, I’d point out that this is probably the most he’s spoken in one go since I met him. But right now, my brain isn’t just slow—it’s stuck.

I stare at him, frowning. My mouth is dry and I swallow thickly. “I crashed the Mustang?”

That doesn’t make sense, but the hollowness in my head is definitely there.

Sett hesitates, eyes like molten clusters of gold narrowing in the muted yellow light of the hospital room. “…Well, not you, but—” He stops, looking at me like I just sprouted another head. “Wait. Madden… you don’t remember?”

I shake my head, slow and deliberate, because suddenly, I can feel my headache clawing its way back.

“Shit.” Sett drags a hand down his face, and I get the distinct impression that he’s far more shaken than I am about the fact that I can’t remember the accident I was in.

I mean, I am terrified. The thought of losing time, of blank spaces where memories should be, sends a cold prickle down my spine. But at the same time, there’s a twisted relief in not remembering a crash that apparently made it onto YouTube.

Still, here in the middle of the night, in this sterile, too-bright hospital room, Sett looks like he just found out he accidentally knocked up one of his many conquests. And I don’t like the way jealousy creeps in at that stupid line of thinking.

“Maybe you should sleep,” Sett starts, lifting his hands in some half-assed gesture like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. But the second he does it, he seems to realize he has no fucking clue what to do with them. He hesitates—then scratches the back of his neck instead, fingers raking through his hair. “Or maybe I should call a nurse to check on you.”

If he thinks he needs to handle me like I’m fragile, he’s dead wrong. Yeah, I’ve been unconscious for days. Yeah, I feel like absolute shit. But I survived, didn’t I? The accident that apparently wrecked my car and wiped out the likelihood of settling my debt. I walked away—sort of. That’s proof enough that I don’t need him tiptoeing around me like I’m about to shatter.

Not after what he said to me.

That’s still there, still lodged in my ribs like another bruised bone. Sett made it perfectly clear where we stood before I disappeared. And now? Now he’s sitting here acting like he gives a damn. It’s throwing me off worse than the memory loss. And I wish that part had been erased from my mind.

“Shut your rambling mouth, Callahan.” My voice comes out rough, more like a growl than words, and I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers, trying to stave off the headache building behind my eyes. “You want to help? Just shut up, because your fucking voice is drilling into my skull. Then get me out of here, and after that? Just fuck off. Get out of my sight, and I’ll get better.”

I expect him to snap back—throw something sharp, something cutting, something that’ll make me want to lunge at him despite my ribs screaming in protest. To keep coming up with a billion reasons why I shouldn't get out of this hospital bed. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches me, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked onto mine with a kind of infuriating steadiness.

“Fine, Madden.” His voice is too calm, his expression darkening with that signature Sett determination. It’s worse than if he’d fought me—unsettling in a way that sends another wave of goosebumps prickling over my skin. “Three conditions.”

He lifts one finger. I groan, already regretting everything. Sett holds up his other hand before I can tell him to shove those conditions somewhere painful.

“One.” He leaves the first finger up, and his voice drops, low and firm. “Soraka gets to know you’re leaving. She’s on duty, and she’s the only reason my sorry ass is allowed to be here in the middle of the night.”

I’m not trying to cling to the moral compass Sett is swinging around just to drive me nuts, but—annoyingly—it actually makes sense. I don’t want to be here. And if it weren’t for him, I probably would’ve already tried to sneak out, disappear into some hole, and figure out how the hell to get my shit together. Just like I promised myself I would. Just like I swore I wouldn’t let myself sink further when I already have one foot in the damn pit.

There’s one advantage of knowing that Soraka—not well, but well enough—is on shift tonight. She knows me just enough to let me sign whatever papers I need to walk out of here without worrying about the cops tracking me down for vanishing from a hospital bed. They can’t keep me here against my will. And that means Sett won’t be dragged into it either.

So yeah. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point.

I’m still stuck on that when he lifts a second finger. “Two. I’m not letting you out of my sight for one second, Madden.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

And fuck, I don’t know whether I want to punch him or lean in until his warmth is something I can’t ignore anymore.

Because I want to be anywhere except around him. I’ve been fine, I tell myself. I survived three weeks without his constant presence. But the second he touched my wrist, the moment I saw him standing there in front of me—yeah, doesn’t matter how fucked up my brain is from the drugs and the memory loss, the attraction comes rushing back like a sucker punch to the gut.

And it confuses the hell out of me. Like watching all the Star Wars movies in the wrong order, everything feels backwards. Because this Sett, the one in front of me, is the caring one. The one I’ve been falling for. The one I wish would hold me together—except I know that, eventually, he’ll push me away and hate me again.

A little voice in my head tells me to just let go. But I don’t know what it’s telling me to let go of—my feelings, because they’re a confusing, tangled mess? Or my resistance, my attempts to keep him at a distance? Maybe I should just accept his unhealthy presence in my life like some masochist and get over it.

Sett doesn’t let me dwell on my internal battle.

He lifts a third finger, leaning in, crowding my space like he’s daring me to argue.

“Three. You text your sister and tell her something—anything—to stop her from worrying herself into another drinking downhill.”

I was about to take my chance—wait for Sett to step out, slip away while no one was looking, and disappear. Screw the damn papers and his stupid conditions. I’d figure it out. Anything to get the hell away from this place.

But when Sett said Alune was spiraling into alcohol again, and it stops me cold. It hits harder than I expect. A dull, aching thud right against my ribs.

Alune’s been fine. Hasn’t she? I’ve seen her happy at Mari’s party and she obviously had a grip on her drinking. Right?

But how could she be fine when all I ever do is give her more reasons to worry? Me and hospitals . That’s how it started. Before our parents left us drowning in debt. When I was fourteen and my mother invited her friends over to correct the mistake she had given birth to.

Because she saw me. My mother saw me kiss a boy.

And Alune—my twin saw everything. She was there before my father and Thresh Hawthorne dragged her away. Before I ended up in a hospital bed with a bullshit excuse about school bullies pushing me down a staircase.

A fucking understatement. They didn’t just push me down a staircase—I was beaten with baseball bats the moment I reacted, forced to watch the kind of thing that was supposed to "fix" me. Because I needed correction. Because my mother decided that instead of therapy, instead of professional help, the only way to keep the Madden name clean was to take matters into her own hands.

Worst of all, sometimes I wished it had worked—wished I could have just changed and avoided the beatings altogether. But there was always a part of me that refused, that knew exactly who I was—a boy who thought girls were ugly and wanted to marry another boy—and told my parents to go to hell, even if I never said it out loud. The part that wanted to run. Again and again.

But Alune’s face was always there, burned into the back of my mind. I told myself she was fine—she’d always been their favorite, never got into trouble like I did. But I never had the courage to leave her behind.

And when our parents vanished, I shoved every memory into a locked drawer in my mind, forcing myself to forget. But it turns out, there’s only so much space in that drawer. And no matter how hard I try, my past refuses to stay buried. It clings to me. Always. And I’m still dragging Alune down with me.

So I just nod. Because what else am I supposed to do? Fight him? I can barely stand.

Sett pushes himself up with that effortless strength of his. “Can you lift your right arm?”

I do, biting back the wince when my ribs protest. Sett watches but doesn’t comment, just unties the hoodie knotted around his waist. It’s an old one, I realize, a little frayed at the cuffs, the color faded from too many washes. Without a word, he bunches the fabric, carefully working it over my head and guiding my unbroken arm through the sleeve, taking extra care to cover my left side under the fabric. The hospital gown bunches awkwardly beneath, but the hoodie is warm, thick, and—fuck—it smells like him. Faint traces of his body wash mixed with the underlying musk of sweat and the lingering scent of his laundry detergent.

I hate how grounding it feels.

I don’t say anything. Just keep my head low, letting exhaustion pull at my limbs, and before I fully process it, Sett is already moving. He’s reached out to Soraka, said whatever needed to be said, and gotten me cleared to leave. He’s at my side as we make our way out, his hand hovering near my lower back but never quite touching, waiting to steady me if I stumble. The hospital hallways blur past, dimly lit in the late hours, and by the time we step outside, the moist summer air clings against the skin of my bare, bruised legs.

Sett doesn’t give me a choice. He helps me into his truck, and I let him. Not because I want to, but because I don’t have the fight in me to resist.

The engine rumbles to life, a familiar low growl, and soon enough, he’s driving. The silence in the truck is thick, but not exactly uncomfortable—more like the kind that’s waiting to be broken. I don’t offer anything, though. Sett doesn’t either. His hands grip the wheel, knuckles—his right one is bruised—faintly taut, jaw set, eyes flicking toward me now and then, like he’s making sure I don’t disappear. 

With this fucking seatbelt pressed painfully against my chest, I’m not going anywhere. And don’t even get me started on the way Sett’s truck rattles over the oh-so-nice and smooth roads, each jolt sending sharp spikes of pain from my toes to my skull.

Sett speaks, keeping his attention on the road. “You got stuff to pick up from somewhere?”

I blink, sluggish, barely processing the words. But then it clicks—I need to contact Alune. Which means I need my phone. And the rest of my stuff.

So I tell him where to go. The place I’ve been staying is nothing more than the backroom of another bookstore. Not the one I used to work at—the thought of anyone finding me there was too much. So, three weeks ago, I lied to my boss, told him I felt unsafe, made up some dumb excuse about needing a fresh start. He was fine with it. Said he owned another shop near the northwestern docks, told me I could crash there, out of sight. Specifically, it was no longer part of Sett’s morning commute to work.

It was supposed to be temporary. A way to figure shit out. A way to break ties.

But now, with Sett driving me straight to it, I can’t help but feel like I never really left anything behind.

Reaching the place, I tell him to wait before hobbling out of the truck, making my way to where I’ve hidden the key for the back door. I can feel his gaze on me—not just because I’m swaying on tired legs, wearing only briefs and a hoodie that’s too damn comfortable. It’s something deeper.

And I’m a mess. I don’t know which side of him I’m falling for. The hateful, gorgeous asshole straight out of a bad-boy fantasy, with that perfectly cut body shaped by a hard life. Or the soft, thoughtful side he’s shown me at my lowest, paying attention to me in his gruff, fuckoff ways.

The attention I crave.

That desperate part of me is clawing to the surface, fighting tooth and nail to break free, to become someone who can accept his care, his presence. But my mind is playing tricks on me, twisting everything. It tells me to remember what I am—a mistake. 

A mistake weighed down by too many hidden burdens, falling for the way he focuses on me—because no one else has ever made me their spotlight.

Even if I let myself ignore the moment he hurt me, even if I’m desperate enough to forgive him just to feel him again, my mind won’t shut up. It tells me that Sett will get tired of me the moment he sees everything I’m trying to hide.

That he’ll go back to people like his casual hook-ups, the ones who can offer no-strings-attached nights. Because I am all the strings. A damn tangled, messy web. Pull the wrong one, and I’ll fall apart. Hold on too long, and I’ll drag anyone down with me—until all that’s left is fucking resentment.

But when the door shuts behind me and his gaze is no longer there, I feel so utterly lost.

And alone.

I try to shove the feelings aside, too damn exhausted to deal with them. I feel pathetic, struggling to hold my backpack with one arm while my other hand fumbles to stuff my things inside. My damn elbow won’t cooperate. Frustrated, I drop the bag onto the kitchen counter with a thud and drag my heavy feet back and forth across the small space, aimless.

Everything hurts.

I glance down at myself and suddenly feel too exposed, too bare. I reach for a pair of jeans, gripping the denim tight as if that alone will ground me. But when I try to pull them on, pain flares sharp and unrelenting. My ribs scream, my elbow throbs, and I can’t do it.

I hate this. I hate my life. I hate that I can’t even dress myself without feeling like I’m going to snap in half. And worst of all, I hate that I don’t even remember the accident that put me here. If my memory was going to fail me, why couldn’t it take everything with it? Every regret, every mistake, every scar that still burns.

My gaze lands on a bottle of wine sitting on the counter. It’s not mine—I don’t even drink—but it’s been there for as long as I can remember. The cork is halfway pushed down the neck, an old, abandoned temptation.

I don’t think.

I let my jeans stay half-pooled around my knees and reach out to grab the bottle instead, but it’s too far. I take a step but my damn jeans, tangled around my legs, stop me cold as I brushed the wine container.

The world tilts around me and my body follows its movement.

Shit.

I’m falling. Or at least—I should be.

But suddenly, I’m not. There’s warmth. A solid grip. Strong hands catch me before I hit the ground, steady arms bracketing my waist. The impact sends a ripple of pain through my body, and I hiss, but I don’t hit the floor.

A voice, rough but steady, murmurs close to my ear. "I’ve got you… But we’re leaving that bottle here, Pretty Boy. Let’s go home."

The words settle deep into my chest, familiar in a way they shouldn’t be. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the pain. Or maybe it’s his presence, always messing with my head. But I believe him.

Because Sett Callahan said home.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hey there, I'm back—finally.

First off, I owe you all an apology or two.
This chapter took me way too long to finish. I got a little sidetracked by a new stack of books (Ce Ricci, you're a goddamn blessing of an author), and I couldn't resist diving into Khazan the moment it dropped. But truthfully? I was mostly distracted because I couldn’t quite figure out how to write what I needed to express. So yeah, I’m really sorry for the wait.

Second, I want to apologize for not replying to the lovely comments on the last part. I felt a little overwhelmed and stuck with the writing, and that left me feeling confused and kind of helpless. But please know—your words absolutely reached me. Every single one warmed my heart, and I’m so grateful. I’ll take the time to respond to each of you, even if it’s just a smiley, okay? Because I truly, truly love you guys.

Third—okay, I’ll stop rambling now and let you get to the chapter.
I believe this one marks a real turning point for both of our idiots.

PS: I may not have beta-read this part, if you think there's something... weird, please, let me know

Sett Callahan

The last few days have been… weird, if I do say so myself.

There’s something unsettling about feeling settled. Like my body got used to a weight that isn't there anymore, and I keep bracing for the crash. Except the crash isn’t coming. That creeping void I felt every time I came home? It’s gone. And I don’t know what to make of that. It should piss me off, make me feel trapped or cornered, but instead, it’s like something in me finally uncoiled. And that’s dangerous.

Call me stupid all you want, but that feeling almost makes me step on the gas and ignore the red light in front of me. Almost. Because I'm a decent guy and I'd like to stay out of trouble with some damn authorities.

The midday sun beats down on the hood of my truck, heat shimmering off the asphalt, and I don’t even feel bad about it. Normally, I'd be bitching about work and the weather, about how my AC barely keeps up, about how some asshole cut me off earlier. But none of that matters. My head’s too full of him.

Aphelios Madden is back in my trailer. 

It feels different now to have him there, because I’ve realized I need his stubborn ass to be around. Before, it was just a circumstance I’d already regretted before it even started. He got under my skin, made me question things I wasn’t ready to face. But now, now , it’s like the universe dragged him back just to fuck with me.

And the unpleasant part? I’m not mad about it.

I should be. I should be pissed as hell. Aphelios disappeared for three weeks, left me stewing in my own fucking mess, in my own head, trying to pretend like I didn’t care when I obviously fucking did.

But I’m not mad.

I’m relieved.

Like a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying has been lifted. Like I can finally take a full breath after weeks of holding it in. Having him back in my sight, in my space, it settles something in me. But it also pisses me off because it shouldn’t feel like this.

Because I haven’t forgotten the other feeling either.

The weeks he was gone were miserable. And not in a normal way—not in a fuck, I miss my friend way. Because Aphelios and I? We aren’t even friends in the first place. No, it was worse than that. I didn’t cope properly. I couldn’t.

I barely lived in my own damn trailer—just went there to crash, to shower, to maybe eat something before passing out with a Xanax popped in my mouth. And when I was there, I could still fucking smell him. His damn body lotion of lavender and mint he actually left in my bathroom like it actually belonged there.

And yeah, okay, maybe I went looking for a fight once or twice. Picked a few dumb bar brawls just to feel something other than this goddamn hole he left behind. Not that I ever let them get bad—hell, K and Sam had to drag my ass out more than once before I did something really fucking stupid.

Because believe me, I tried.

Tried drowning my frustration in someone else’s touch, in someone else’s body. Hooking with anyone who could give me even a second of distraction—tall, dark-haired, sharp-eyed. They all started looking the same after a while.

But no matter how sexy they were, no matter how much they leaned in, whispered in my ear, dragged their hands over my skin—it never felt right.

Too much perfume. Not the right cologne. Too soft-spoken, or too loud, or too eager. Their fingers weren’t calloused the right way, their hair didn’t curl quite enough, and their eyes—fuck, their eyes were never his .

And my dick? Yeah, it wasn’t fooled either. The only thing that ever got a reaction was the picture on my phone screen. So I gave up. Stopped wasting my time before even the first piece of clothing fell to the floor. Because if I had to fake it, then what was the damn point?

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

I caught myself waiting. Like some pathetic idiot, I’d come home and expect to see him there. Sitting at the table, ignoring me with his nose buried in a book borrowed from the store where he works, with that blank, unreadable expression. Or sometimes with a scowl directed at me. Sleeping on the couch like he had every right to make himself comfortable there.

But the trailer was always empty. And every time, I’d get this sinking, gut-deep feeling that he wasn’t coming back. 

I don’t let my mind go there. Don’t let it replay the way my stomach fucking dropped when I saw that video—the Mustang spinning out, the sickening impact, the way the front crumpled like a damn soda can.

Because the second I do, all I see is him . Aphelios, bruised and battered, looking too pale under the shitty hospital lights.

Lucky. That’s what Soraka called him. Lucky. As if walking away from a wreck like that with nothing more than a few busted bones was some kind of fucking blessing.

She comes by every day after her shift, checking on him before heading home. She’d been reluctant to talk with the doctor and let him sign those discharge papers, reminding him— and me —that his fractured elbow would need aftercare and rehab, that his bruised ribs weren’t something to take lightly. She even explained the reason behind his short-term memory impairment, though that part didn’t seem to worry her much. As long as he remembered everything else, she figured it was just the shock. No severe head injuries, just a light concussion and a broken nose.

Still. Lucky.

I don’t buy it.

He didn't look lucky when I saw him in that hospital room. He looked small. And fuck, I hated that.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles going white. It’s not my business. Shouldn’t be my business. He’s not my fucking responsibility.

But he’s in my home. Again.

And now I’m here, driving back home, feeling something that isn’t anger or regret.

I don’t know what it is.

And that scares me more than anything. I don’t know how to define what I’m feeling, but beneath all the feuding and button-pushing, the snarky comments, and the constant need to get under his skin, there’s something real. Something strong. And the fear of losing him? It’s like a bucket of cold water over my confidence, dousing every ounce of bravado I have.

By the time I pull up to the trailer, I spot Alune. She looks a hell of a lot better lately since Aphelios has been back from his solitary trip. Still a little tired, maybe, but not nearly as drained. She’s dressed for work—worn-out denim shorts, a white button-up tied at the waist—ready for her shift at Garren’s. Her hair is up in two messy knots, streaked with pink, yellow, and green, with a few braids woven in. There are fewer than before, and I’ve come to realize she braids her hair more when she’s stressed. Well, I can’t blame her, not after the shit her brother pulled.

Yet, she’s a Madden too—I can’t always read her. She’s like a damn weathercock, moods shifting with the wind, and more often than not, they seem to shift when she’s around me. Sometimes sharp, sometimes soft, like she can’t decide whether to put her guard up or let it down. But I’ve noticed the pattern—how she hesitates just a little before stepping inside, how she gives me those small, apologetic smiles, like she thinks she’s overstaying her welcome. Like she knows she’s been around my place more than I probably like.

And maybe she’s right.

Alune and I—we’re not exactly friends, but we’re not just passing acquaintances either. Acquaintance feels too distant, like we don’t know each other, but anything closer? That doesn’t quite fit either. We’re something in-between, stuck in a gray space I don’t have the words for.

But today, she’s not hesitating.

The moment I pull up, the trailer door slams hard enough to make the whole thing rattle, like she’s trying to shake the damn hinges loose. Alune storms out, cursing under her breath, her strides sharp and deliberate. She’s scowling like someone pissed in her cornflakes, shoulders stiff, hands balled into fists.

“Dramatic shithead!” she groans, and I don’t even know if it’s meant for me or if she’s still cursing out whatever just happened inside.

I don’t flinch, just raise a brow as she marches closer. “Hello to you too,” I deadpan, not bothering to ask what’s got her so wound up. Instead, I tilt my head and say, “How you doin’? No wait, don’t answer. Let me guess—your brother’s acting like a stubborn asshole again?”

Not much of a guess. The guy’s been holed up in my bedroom since he got back, barely stepping out when I’m around, and when he does, it’s only to glare at me like I’m the one invading his space.

Alune huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That obvious, huh?”

Juggling my keys, I shoot her a look—one that should say who do you think I am? “Well, you’re both Maddens, so you shouldn’t expect to see your picture next to the word jolly in the dictionary.”

She snorts, but it’s half-hearted at best, her expression tightening as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her eyes flick toward the trailer, like she’s weighing something in her head, before they land back on me. Her lips press into a thin line, jaw tensing like she’s bracing herself. “Maybe you’re right…”

I feel my eyebrow twitch because there’s something in the way she says it, something in the way she looks at me—like she’s sizing me up for a fight I don’t even know I started.

“There’s a but , right?” I ask, watching her closely.

She exhales sharply, arms crossing over her chest, and then—

“No but ,” she says, voice firm. “Fix this shit, Callahan.”

I blink. The fuck?

Fix what ? I must’ve misheard her. Or maybe she’s being deliberately vague, expecting me to read between the lines when there’s nothing to read. My confusion must be written all over my face because she takes a step forward and jabs a finger into my chest, hard enough that I actually feel it.

“Your misstep.”

I stare at her. Come again?

Then, without warning, she shoves me.

It’s not enough to move me much, but damn, she actually tried. Last time a woman even attempted to push me around was—hell, I don’t even remember. And the only one who has a real shot at taking me down is Sam.

I barely stumble, but the instinct to shove her right back flares hot in my veins. My hands twitch at my sides, muscles coiled, ready to push— except she’s not some asshole at the bar looking for a fight, and she sure as hell isn’t him .

So I grit my teeth and plant my feet, forcing myself to stay still.

“You triggered him, Callahan!” she snaps, dark eyes blazing. “That’s why he ran away in the first place.”

That makes no fucking sense.

“I did what ?” My arms shoot out in exasperation. “Because I’m pretty damn sure I did nothing like that.”

Alune shoves me again. And now she actually hisses at me, like an angry cat, before stabbing a finger into my chest once more. “You called him a mistake !”

I snort . “I did not!”

Except… fuck. That stupid Truth or Dare game. I truly didn’t want to play that shit.

That afternoon had been one of those rare, perfect days—the kind that made the weight on my chest feel just a little lighter, the kind that reminded me that maybe, just maybe, this summer wasn’t so bad after all. The sun was out, hot but not unbearable, and the breeze carried the scent of the ocean.

K and Sam had been in peak dumbass mode, while Soraka sat back with Mom and a soft drink in hand, shaking her head like a disappointed parent but enjoying the afternoon with us. Even Aurora and Alune were there—not exactly my usual crowd, but they weren’t bad company. Aurora had brought pizza from the best shop in town, the kind with the perfectly crisp crust that made every other pizza in town taste like cardboard. My mom had been laughing, really laughing, her eyes crinkled at the corners in a way I hadn’t seen in too long.

And then there was him.

Aphelios had been different that day. Quieter, sure, but not in his usual closed-off way. More open, more at ease—like for once, he wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He even laughed at something Alune said, a real, unguarded laugh, like he forgot to be careful.

And I couldn’t stop fucking watching him.

Not just because of… well, everything . Not just because I wanted him, though I did. But because I felt him looking at me. His eyes on me, burning like the damn sun itself. Every damn time I glanced his way, his gaze would dart somewhere else, like he hadn’t been watching at all. Like he hadn’t been studying me the way I’d been studying him. But I knew better. I could feel it.

I knew he wanted to be the one running his hands over my back, smoothing sunscreen into my skin instead of K. And I hated how much I wanted him to.

That alone had me spiraling, trying to play it cool while my brain was a goddamn mess. 

Then that stupid game had to fuck it all up. Before I fucked it all up.

Honestly, it wasn’t the game’s fault. It was my desire—my want. To crush my mouth against his, to feel his skin under my hands, to relive every damn thing he did to me the night before. Right there, in front of everyone. It was so intense, so overwhelming, that it scared the shit out of me.

And I said it. Not him—not Aphelios. But whatever was happening between us. The obsession. The attraction. The way I kept getting caught in his orbit, my thoughts always circling back to him no matter how much I fought it. This feeling—like some addict, some sex junkie on the verge of losing control, barely keeping my impulses and my dick in check.

I called that a mistake.

Alune sees something shift in my expression because her shoulders relax a fraction. She sighs, no longer looking like she’s two seconds from slapping me upside the head.

“I was there. I provoked both of you, and for that, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice softer now. “But I heard it. Everyone did. And that word… mistake —” She hesitates, pressing her lips together before continuing. “Phel grew up with that word, and not in a good way. It’s not my story to tell, but if you care about him, even just a little—fix it. Please, fix him.”

I don’t even get the chance to respond before she steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a quick, firm hug. "I need to go to work. And before you get pissed at us, my brother literally threw me out of your place. Sorry for the mess in the kitchen.”

I stand there, stiff in the heat, my sweaty self probably making this a goddamn awful experience for her, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And then, just like that, she pulls away and heads off toward work, leaving me standing there like a dumbass.

Because I know—I know I never called him a mistake. I wouldn’t.

Would I?

The memory stings, creeping in whether I want it to or not. The weight of that word, the way it twisted in my gut. Not just because it hurt him—but because it hurt me, too. And I remember his face. That look . Like I’d ripped something open in him. Like I’d just confirmed whatever shitty thought had been haunting him his whole damn life.

I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. My fists are tight at my sides, nails biting into my palms. Because this is a misunderstanding— it has to be —but how the hell do I fix something like this? Just saying sorry won’t cut it. Not with Aphelios. Not with us.

He’s too goddamn stubborn, and I’m too goddamn stupid.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? We don’t talk things out. We don’t sit down and sort through our shit like normal people. We push and pull, piss each other off, dig under each other’s skin until we’re too deep to claw our way out. And now? Now, I don’t even know where to start.

Because the one thing I do know is that he won’t make this easy for me. And maybe I don’t deserve it to be easy.

The kitchen is not just a mess. It’s a goddamn battleground .

Breadcrumbs dusts the counter like a fucking crime scene, scattered everywhere , and there’s a half-empty jar of peanut butter knocked over, its lid rolling off to the side like a casualty of war. A butter knife lies abandoned near the sink, smeared with something suspiciously red—probably jam, but knowing Aphelios, I wouldn't bet on it.

And then there are the tomatoes and lettuce leaves.

Big, bright red slices and green particles everywhere . On the counter, on the floor, on the fucking chair like they tried to escape whatever monstrosity he was making.

“Madden, you fucking asshole !” I shout, stepping forward just as my sneaker nearly smears a tomato chunk across the linoleum. I kick my shoes off, grab the damn thing before I step on it, and chuck it into the trash. “Where did you learn to cook?”

Of course, there’s no answer.

What should I expect? Since I let him crash here again, we’ve barely talked. Except for the groceries—when he ordered me to bring something sweet, hence the jam. 

From the shopping trip. He’s either sleeping or avoiding me altogether, and when he does speak, it’s to his sister when she’s around or to Soraka when she checks in on him.

And no, I’m not eavesdropping. I just happen to be in the trailer when they’re talking, that’s all . 

It’s not like I’ve been lying on the couch, pretending to scroll on my phone, pretending not to hear when Aphelios sighs or his voice goes softer when he talks to Alune. The walls are thin in this place. It’s not like I’ve been giving him space—too much space, probably—since he’s too damn petulant to have stayed in the hospital like he should have.

I let out a sharp exhale and start cleaning up, shoving my irritation into the mindless motions of wiping down counters, picking up crumbs, and sweeping the floor. By the time I’m done, I’m starving and sweaty as hell.

I head to the fridge, yanking it open with the full intention of grabbing whatever’s easiest—

And then I freeze.

Because there, sitting dead center on one of the shelves, is a plate.

Two sandwiches, stacked haphazardly. One’s slightly squished, the other’s uneven, like they barely survived being put together. But I know exactly what they are before I even touch them. Chicken strips and cheese, garnished with whatever vegetables he could scavenge. Peanut butter.

My stomach clenches—not with hunger, but with something else. Something heavier.

Because Aphelios made them. For me. With one goddamn hand.

I exhale through my nose, staring at the sandwiches like they might disappear if I look away. It’s not perfect—hell, it’s far from perfect. The bread’s misaligned, the peanut butter is smeared too thick on one side, and the chicken looks like it’s ready to make a run for it. There are a few stray crumbs on the plate, a smear of sauce on the edge, like he struggled to keep everything together.

But he still made them. He tried when there was no need for it.

I run a hand down my face, the hunger in my stomach twisting into something heavier. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Madden?

Grabbing the plate from the fridge, I close the door and turn toward the coffee table—but sitting alone doesn’t appeal to me.

Alune’s damn words echo in my mind. Fix this shit.

And well… how the hell am I supposed to do that when Aphelios is ignoring me?

I sigh, heading toward the bedroom door, a small, stupid hope creeping in—maybe we could eat together. Isn’t it easier to talk over a good meal? Maybe, just maybe, this could be a start.

I knock once. No response.

Maybe he’s asleep. If that’s the case, waking him up wouldn’t be fair. But if he’s not asleep—if he’s just choosing to act like I don’t exist—then how the fuck am I supposed to apologize? How do I fix something when he won’t even give me a chance?

He's definitely awake. I could just barge in, force him to listen. But I already know how that would go. He’d dig his heels in, get even more pissed, and we’d be stuck in the same cycle, pushing each other’s buttons until we exploded. Being around him lately is like walking on goddamn eggshells.

My phone pings in my jeans. And suddenly, I have an idea.

I set the plate on the coffee table, drop my phone beside it, and head to my mom’s room—where I’ve been sleeping. Kicking off my work clothes, I swap them for my red baseball shorts. Heading back to the sofa, I plop down, plate balanced on my thighs, phone in hand. My eyes flick to the wallpaper, and yeah— that stirs something. But now’s not the time. Blue balls can wait. Sexual frustration’s just part of the daily routine these days.

I open the camera app, snap a quick, careless shot of the plate resting on my lap, and switch over to the chat app. Scrolling down, I find Aphelios’ empty chat log and start typing.

Me: Thanks 4 the sandwiches, but u joining? Don’t feel like eating alone.

A ping echoes from the bedroom. Message immediately marked as read.

Silence.

I shouldn’t have expected an answer anyway. I take a bite of the chicken and cheese sandwich, the soft bread giving way to the crisp lettuce and the cool, juicy burst of tomato against the savory mix of chicken and cheese. Except, now I know he’s not sleeping. So, I try again.

Me: Juicy. U don’t want a taste?

This time, I send a different kind of picture. Same plate—except now my abs are in the background.

Dots pop up. Typing. Then they disappear.

I huff a quiet laugh, a flicker of disappointment curling in my chest—but I can be a cocky asshole, so I keep going.

Me: C’mon, I’m lonely.

Then I toss in a flood of random emojis, just to be a pain in the ass. I feel stupid. And really, I hate emojis. They’re ugly. But the message is still marked as read.

Then, finally, I hear movement. The bedroom door slides open, and a pissed-off, black-haired figure steps out, seething. "The hell you want, Callahan?"

I grin, because I can’t help myself. "You."

Aphelios' scowl deepens, his dark eyes narrowing—somewhere between annoyance and murderous intent.

He looks like hell. Good hell.

Shirtless, hair an absolute mess, still sleep-warm, with his left arm wrapped up in that damn brace. Beneath it, his side catches my attention—the deep bruises still lingering over his ribs from the crash, ugly and blackened against his pale skin. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, I guess. His nose, still healing, is slightly swollen. The cuts on his face have faded, but the reminders are there. I see them. I just don’t linger.

Because my fucking gaze is already trailing lower.

The waistband of his sweatpants is riding low on his hips—too low, dangerously low. His chest rises and falls with irritation, the bruises shifting with each breath, but damn if I’m not looking at the way his abs tense instead. He’s all sharp edges and frustration, still flushed from whatever position he was lying in, and somehow, somehow, he still manages to look like something straight out of a fucking fantasy.

I take another slow bite of the sandwich, chewing deliberately—mostly to keep my damn mouth busy before I say something even dumber. Or worse, let my second brain take over completely. I shift on the sofa, casually adjusting my position, hoping the movement looks natural and not like I’m trying to hide the obvious.

“So? You gonna stand there looking all sexy and pissed, or are you gonna sit your ass down?” Smooth , Sett. And really? So much for avoiding saying something even dumber.

Aphelios’ nostrils flare. “You’re an asshole .”

Maybe. But at least you’re talking to me.

“And you’re avoiding me.” I wave the half-eaten chicken and cheese sandwich in his direction. “C’mon, sit down. Unless you wanna keep glaring at me from the doorway?”

He exhales sharply, his jaw working, but then he moves. Slow, reluctant steps. The tension in his shoulders is still there, stiff like he’s bracing for something, but he crosses the small space between us and sinks onto the other end of the couch.

Not next to me. But close enough.

Small victories. I take it. I push the plate toward him, keeping my voice casual. “You want a bite?”

“I already ate,” Aphelios scoffs, gaze fixed anywhere but on me. “I don’t even like peanut butter.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Then why’d you make it?”

His jaw tightens. I watch the way his throat moves, how his fingers curl into his sweatpants like he doesn’t want to answer. And for a second, I think he won’t.

Barely above a murmur, he mutters under his breath, “ Because you do .”

There’s a beat of silence, and I swear I see his ears go a little pink before he looks away. I let it slide. For now. Or I try hard to. Something twists deep in my chest, unexpected and sharp. And my damn heart thwacks .

The words throw me back—way back. To coming home late, to exhaustion weighing down my bones, to seeing those fucking sandwiches waiting for me on the counter. Always peanut butter. Always there, like an unspoken gesture of something I couldn’t name back then.

I chew slowly, but I’m not really tasting the sandwich anymore. The desire to finish the chicken and cheese one fades, replaced by the urge to reach for the other one instead. I’d rather bite into that one. I swallow it down anyway, keeping my expression unreadable. 

But inside? That does something to me.

Something that wants me to lay myself bare, consequences be damned. But no matter how much I want to lift the oppressive weight from my shoulders, the words refuse to form. And even if they did, they’d get stuck in my throat.

I have to remember—I have something to fix first before I dive right into my own problems. And I’m damn sure that whatever mess is churning inside me won’t matter after this talk.

Not gonna lie… that thought makes me chicken out. Instead, I keep up the cockiness and say, “I’ve seen roadkill with more culinary expertise than you. You sure made a mess of my kitchen.”

Aphelios groans and tilts his head back against the couch. “I don’t cook.”

I arch a brow. “Obviously.”

“Shut up.”

For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve never actually seen Aphelios cook for himself. Not really. The most I’ve caught him doing is smearing something on bread or tossing a ready-made meal into the microwave. Simple. Quick. No mess. 

I glance toward the kitchen I’ve cleaned. He’s definitely the type to throw a tantrum if things don’t go his way—especially if he’s forced to fumble through something he’s not used to. And judging by the fact that he apparently kicked his own sister out before even cleaning up, I’m guessing today was no different.

So, what? He actually tried? Just for me? A smirk tugs at my lips, but I don’t push it. Instead, I sneak a glance at him. He’s still tense, arms crossed like a damn shield with that fucking brace, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me. But at least he’s here, sitting next to me, back resting against the couch.

And yet, I can’t stop looking at him.

This is it. Time to get it over with.

I exhale slowly and set my plate aside, fingers drumming against my thigh. I just need a little confidence. Just enough to push through this. Running a hand through my hair, I shift slightly, leaning in just a bit.

I call him out, softer than I thought I was capable of. “Hey.”

His dark gaze locks onto mine, and just like that, my confidence wavers.

I hesitate. My throat feels tight. I want to say it, want to fix this, but words have never been my strongest suit when it comes to shit that matters. How can you express something when you don’t even understand it yourself? Saying sorry is easy, but the word feels empty without any real meaning behind it.

Still, I try.

“Look, about… before. The shit I said.” I exhale sharply through my nose, my jaw clenching as I force myself to keep going. “I never meant—you—when I called it a... you know.”

Aphelios doesn’t react. No twitch of an eyebrow, no shift in his expression. Just that same, steady stare that makes me feel like I’m being stripped down to the bone.

I press on, stomach knotting. “I couldn’t handle it, alright? How bad I wanted—how bad I want you. It fucks with my head.” I shake my head, running a hand down my face. “But I never meant you. And truly, I get it. Well—no, I don’t get it. I mean, I had no right to blurt out that word. I acted like an asshole. So, yeah, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

There’s a fraction of silence before Aphelios exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. His eyes darken—not with sadness, but something sharper. Angrier. His eyebrows furrow, and fuck, even when he's angry, he's still hot

“Say it.”

I blink. “What?”

“Say. It.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a challenge in it, a demand.

My chest tightens. I know exactly what he means. But I don’t want to say it. I hate that fucking word. It’s just a word, but when it’s thrown at you like a fucking grenade, it leaves a mark. I came to understand that tongues are like guns and words are bullets. Once they’re out, you can’t control the damage they do… Mistake. It stings, that word—cuts deep when you’re the one labeled, when it feels like someone’s telling you that everything you are, everything you’ve done, was wrong. It’s the kind of thing you can’t take back, not even if you wish you could.

I fucking regret it. I blamed Aphelios for what’s happening between us, convinced that our connection—or whatever the hell it is—was a mistake, even though deep down, I know that’s not true. I didn’t care about the consequences, because honestly, I don’t even know Aphelios like I thought I did. Everything spiraled out of control, and the anger, the frustration, all of it broke down my defenses and made my mouth run.

But did I really want to trigger painful memories for him? Memories or experiences he hasn’t worked through, the ones that might explain why that word cut him so deep? I didn’t.

The weight of a single word can go beyond a simple insult—it can rip apart a person’s sense of self-worth. Hell, he labeled me as an error too. Was it directed at me? Or to the adorable alias he used for me? I don’t know, but I sure as hell know that it left an emotional wreckage behind.

But I’m not gonna ask Aphelios to apologize for it. Not when I know I’m the one who kicked this whole damn mess off. Some things you just bury. And this? This is one of those things.

My hesitation is all he needs. His expression twists, and his voice turns sharp as a blade.

“For fuck’s sake! I’m not breakable, Callahan. Say the damn word.”

I almost snort. Not breakable?

I've seen it—the cracks he tries to hide. The way exhaustion drags at his limbs some days, how his fingers tremble when he thinks no one's looking. The silence, the avoidance, the way he clenches his jaw like it’s the only thing holding him together. There’s something in him that screams fragile, like glass stretched too thin, like one wrong move could shatter him into pieces too small to put back together.

And yet.

The way he stares me down now, eyes dark with fury, his chest rising and falling with each controlled breath—it makes me think that maybe I’m wrong. That maybe he’s not breakable at all.

Maybe he’s just… relentless.

I drag my feet off the table, leaning forward. My hands clench into fists, because I don’t know what the fuck else to do with them. I hate this. I hate that he’s pushing me, that he won’t let this go. But mostly, I hate what I’m about to say because he just wants to hear it.

"A mistake!" I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "I called it a fucking mistake, alright? That what you wanna hear? Happy now?"

My brows furrow as I stare at him. Shit. Seeing his expression shift, his features hardening—I fucked it up. Again.

But what the hell does he want? He was the one who asked me to say the word. The one that triggers him. The one that makes him miserable. What did he expect? More importantly—what did I expect?

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t shove me away either. I can’t read him, and that pisses me off even more. Or maybe it makes me nervous. I don’t fucking know.

He just keeps staring at me, like he’s waiting for something. Or like he’s thinking, processing, or whatever the hell is going on in his mind. And damn, I wish I could read it.

Or maybe not.

And I think I’m about to go insane.

“No,” Aphelios finally huffs, eyes snapping away like even looking at me might crack something in him. His jaw tenses hard, clenched so tight I’m almost afraid it might break from the pressure. 

I swallow, forcing the next words out even though they feel like gravel. “I know I screwed up, okay? I’m not asking you to erase everything. I just…” My voice falters, the weight of it all starting to suffocate me. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

But again—silence. Cold and punishing. Either I’m dead—because I’m damn sure my heart must have stopped—or I’ve landed in my own personal hell, because this silence? It grates me. His silence grates me.

It stretches long enough that my gut twists in on itself, long enough for my brain to whisper maybe it’s time. Maybe all this—whatever the hell this is—isn't worth the damage. Maybe I should bury every messy, burning thing I feel for him and just part ways. Cut the losses before we ruin each other for good.

But then I look at him.

And there’s something in his silence—not rejection, not anger, not even indifference. Just something held in. Like he's fighting the same war I am, and neither of us knows how to win it.

And damn it… I can't let go. Not yet. Not when a part of me still wants him to look at me like he used to. To let me in, even just a little. Even if it was with fire in his eyes, like he wanted to rip me apart.

I’d take that over this silence. The insults, the scathing looks, the way he used to seethe just from being near me—it meant something. It meant I was there. In his head, under his skin. I was seen. But now?

He’s just quiet. Closed off. And it’s killing me more than any shouting match or bruised ego ever could.

So yeah, maybe I don’t want peace. Maybe I just want him —angry, proud, too stubborn for his own good, but always looking at me like I was the only thing worth burning for. “Say something, damn it.”

"You're a dickhead, Callahan." Aphelios runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands like they’re knotted with frustration. Then he starts messing with the strap on his brace, tugging at it like it’s been driving him insane. Probably sweaty under there. Can’t blame him.

But it’s not what he says—it’s how he says it.

The bite is still there, sure, but it’s familiar now. That old snark sliding back into his tone like a second skin. Sharp, but not cruel.

Guess the topic’s off the table. Fine. That’s my cue. Subject buried—maybe not forgiven, but at least shelved. I’ll play along. It’s better than that goddamn silence.

I lean back with a grin. "Yeah? And you’re a fucking cock tease, Madden."

His head snaps toward me, eyebrows shooting up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I stretch out, obnoxiously casual, flicking my fingers toward him in a loose, lazy gesture. Like I’m outlining the whole damn picture. “You walk around here, shirtless, all moody and tragic—what am I supposed to do, not look?”

I let my eyes drift, deliberately. Slow. Obvious. From the messy strands of his hair sticking up at odd angles, down the line of his throat, the bruises blooming over his chest like watercolor stains, that damn brace making his whole frame look rough and breakable and somehow hotter for it.

Then lower. Sweatpants slung criminally low, hips just barely concealed like it’s some divine joke.

I hum, real low. “Honestly? You're lucky I haven’t pounced .”

He huffs, eyes rolling so hard it’s a miracle they stay in their sockets. “You’re insufferable.”

“But charming.”

“More like brain-damaged,” he deadpans, shooting me that classic are-you-fucking-serious look.

“Still hot, though.” I grin, because of course I do. Can’t help it—even less when I catch the way his face snaps away like he’s just been smacked with a compliment. And fuck, he’s blushing. Like a goddamn schoolgirl with a crush.

From the side, I catch it—his lips twitching. Barely. But it’s there. A flicker of something softer, lighter. And just above his cheek, one of those rare dimples almost peeks out. It's fucking cute, and I hate how much I like it.

Aphelios flips me the finger—which, fair, I probably earned—then grabs his phone, scrolling through some app like I’m not even here. But he doesn’t head for the bedroom. It’s not a peace treaty. But it’s the truce I needed. And damn, it’s good to breathe again. Before I grab my plate back and let my thoughts drift somewhere dangerous—like how much I want to touch Aphelios right now—I stand and head to the fridge.

The cold hum fills the room as I fish out a beer for me and a soda for him, nudging the fridge shut with my hip. When I turn, he’s still working through his phone, scrolling over some social media, slower now, like he’s finally letting himself ease into the silence instead of bracing against it. Comfortable, not cautious. I’ll take it.

I drop back onto the couch, cracking open my beer and nudging the soda his way without a word. My brain’s still buzzing, but not in that chaotic way from earlier. Just... oddly normal. Domestic, almost.

At some point, I catch myself eyeing the busted TV in the corner, wondering if it’s finally time to get that thing working again. Maybe re-sign up for a subscription. Something easy—Netflix, HBO. Something to fill the air when silence gets too heavy.

And then I think we should get it.

We.

Not I.

I glance at him. He doesn’t even blink before saying, “Both.” Like he heard me thinking it. Like there’s an us to plan for.

By the time I’m scrolling through my phone, checking for bundle offers, the knot in my chest loosens just enough. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’m setting myself up again. But something about this—about him , sitting on my couch like he never left—makes me want to risk it. The crash. Because there’s a version of this story where he doesn’t make it.

It’s the conversation I’ve been needing to have. Hoping he’s ready to answer. “Why did you race that night, Madden?”

Aphelios stiffens. His grip around the phone tightens, locking the screen with a sharp flick of his thumb. The silence stretches. Heavy. Tense. And I'm really starting to develop a damn allergy to silence.

I watch him carefully. The way his jaw ticks, the way his gaze avoids mine and flickers toward the floor. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. And he hates it. I can see it, feel it in the way his whole body draws taut like a pulled wire. Coiled, waiting to snap.

His thumbs move over the dark screen—restless, like he needs something to focus on before the frustration boils over. He doesn’t look at me when he finally speaks.

“If I had won,” he says, voice low and tight, “I would’ve been done with Hawthorne’s debt.”

My stomach twists. I almost forgot about that bastard Hawthorne—how he sinks his claws into people and doesn’t let go until there’s nothing left but scraps. Aphelios included.

“Wait.” I lean in, the tension snapping through my spine. “It was Hawthorne’s idea?”

Aphelios doesn’t meet my eyes. Just gives a slight shake of his head.

“No. I got an anonymous invite.” He lets the back of his head drop against the couch, voice hollow. “Less than two grand and I’m free, Callahan. Two more races. That’s all I needed to pay him off. But after the one at the trailer park got canceled, someone broke into the garage. Slashed the Mustang’s tires the night before. I had to forfeit.”

“And Hawthorne?” I spit the name like it’s poison. “What did that fucker do?”

Aphelios shrugs. Shrugs. Like it’s nothing.

“He didn’t even get pissed. Didn’t wave a gun at me like last time.” His voice dips into something bitter, brittle. “He offered to take care of the problem himself. I didn’t argue.” 

He looks away, jaw clenched, and I swear something in me snaps. Hawthorne pulled a weapon on Aphelios and he just shrugs it off like it’s no big deal—like getting threatened at gunpoint was just part of the damn deal. He said it like it was just another Tuesday.

The second I hear it, my vision tunnels. The image hits me like a punch—my letdown old timer, shitfaced and high. Shouting some damn nonsense and waving his gun like a fucking trophy before he pulled the trigger.

It’s not the same. I know that. But fuck, it feels the same and I help but feel the anger crawling under my skin, burning through my veins. But Aphelios is still talking and I swallow the rage. Choke it back like broken glass.

“Since it’s summer break, there aren’t any more legal races ‘til next season, so…” He trails off. And I don’t need him to speak. Driving’s the fastest way to make money and it’s like his life isn’t worth more than Hawthorne’s blood money. Like he’s just another name on the bastard’s list.

I respect the hell outta him for not giving up. For clawing his way out of the mess. For still trying. But anonymous invite? Anonymous , my ass. Someone wanted him out there, and they knew exactly what they were doing.

“It’s the fastest way to get yourself killed in that illegal shit, Madden.” I stare at him in disbelief. “You were damn lucky. How the hell did you even get out of the car? They found you in an alley, and when K towed your car, you were nowhere to be found.”

When the nurse—Hwei, remember?—explained to Alune and me that he’d been found in some alley, not even wearing his suit or helmet, it lined up perfectly with what K told us beforehand, when he admitted he’d been the one to retrieve the Mustang.

K’s not the type to stick his nose into illegal races, but every now and then, he gets calls to tow wrecked cars before the cops show up. Usually, he refuses—wants nothing to do with that scene. But that night, he just happened to be nearby with his trailer when he got a call. A midnight blue car, apparently ditched mid-race. The driver was gone. That’s what piqued his interest.

And when he pulled up? It was the same Mustang Aphelios had been driving. Helmet inside, but no Aphelios fucking Madden. No one actually saw him get out. No medical team showed up either—because of course there wouldn’t be one. Not during one of these bloody illegal races.

Aphelios shrugs again, and I swear, if he does that one more goddamn time, I’m gonna deck him—already busted nose be damned. “Guess I was running on adrenaline. And, like you said, lucky.” He exhales through his nose. “Maybe I thought if someone found me in the car, I’d end up in jail because of the race. I don’t remember, but I must’ve just… reacted. Instinct or panic, I don’t know. Just… bolted.”

I catch the way his brows crease, how he pinches the bridge of his nose with deliberate care, avoiding the bruise like it’s second nature.

“You still can’t remember?” I ask carefully.

He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s better that way.” He glances at me. “I saw the video. And yeah, like you said, I was lucky. Maybe I should be glad I don’t remember.”

Lucky. Another word I’d erase from existence, right alongside mistake and fine . Those three together? They rot in the same pit of my stomach. Not because they’re overused, but because of how they’re used—how they patch up pain with bullshit, how they slip out like a reflex when something’s gone horribly wrong.

And now they’re all tangled in this .

Something doesn’t sit right. The whole thing smells off. Even though I hate admitting it, Aphelios is a damn natural behind the wheel—he wouldn’t have ended up like this without something else happening. He’s reckless, yeah. But not stupid. Not suicidal. 

He should’ve been fine during that race. No stunts, no spins—just another round, in and out.

He had the skill to avoid a rookie mistake . Wouldn't have swerved even if someone had brushed past him, throwing him off balance.

And probably, he was not lucky .

“Tell me what really happened,” I push. “Try to remember.”

“I already told you, I can’t!” he snaps, frustration laced through his voice. “I was driving, everything was smooth except for some rattling, and then—I woke up in the fucking hospital.”

“Rattling?” My brows furrow.

---

Aphelios Madden

“What kind of rattling, Madden?” Sett repeats, like I didn’t hear him the first time. His brows furrow, and something like concern crosses his annoyingly, stupidly good-looking face.

I shoot him a what the fuck look because clearly, it still hasn’t sunk into his thick skull that I don’t remember how I crashed the fucking car. And yet here I am, trying anyway—like some desperate idiot.

“I don’t know. It was…” I close my eyes, trying to latch onto something solid, but it’s vague—mostly darkness. Still, I felt something. My hands tightening around the wheel, the unnatural vibrations running straight into my bones. “The vibrations weren’t normal. That I’m certain of. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“Try again?” Sett pushes, staring at me like I can just summon a memory from thin air.

Because that’s what it feels like—trying to dig up puzzle pieces made entirely of black and trying to put them together. Not a single piece fits in the damn scenery.

“Fuck you, Callahan.” I snap, irritation rising fast. “I can’t remember anything!”

Sett lifts his hands, whether in surrender or a peace offering, I don’t know. I don’t care . My pulse pounds in my ears, and frustration coils in my gut. I wish I could remember. But what does it matter?

Great. Another headache. Fan-fucking-tastic.

At first, yeah, it freaked me out—waking up and not remembering the crash. Not the moment it happened, not what led up to it. Just darkness, like someone clipped the reel and tossed that part in the trash. But the rest of me? Still here. Still intact.

I haven’t forgotten about the people who drift in and out of my life like stars, bright and brief, but still there. Alune—she’s my sister, even if she hovers too much around me lately. My only family left. I remember Mari too, her voice more than her face sometimes, like a song you forget the lyrics to but never the melody.

I remember Soraka, the kind woman with the steady hands and warm pastries that always tasted like comfort. K’Sante, Samira, Aurora—the people who drift in and out of my life like stars, bright and brief, but still there.

And Sett.

Unfortunately , I remember Sett vividly. Not just his voice or that cocky grin or the way he constantly gets under my skin. I remember the weight of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way we kissed like we were both trying to win something. Or lose everything. I remember that —clearer than anything else.

So no, it’s not like I’ve lost everything . It’s not like I woke up and didn’t know who I was. That would’ve been worse. This? Just that one night. Just the part I was the only one involved in. This is just... unsettling. Like something important's missing and I don’t even know what it was .

But I’ve already made peace with it. Sort of. What’s the point of obsessing over a blank space that won’t fill itself? If the memory wants to come back, it will. Until then, I’ve got enough ghosts without trying to chase one more.

I don’t know if fate’s trying to humor me, because I sure as hell don’t find it funny.

It’s like every time I hit my lowest, it’s not me chasing ghosts—it’s them chasing me. More vivid, more alive than ever. And no matter how fast I run, I can never outrun them.

Every time my life nosedives, somehow, I end up orbiting around Sett. Like some kind of fucked-up gravitational pull I can’t escape. I don’t know if it’s fate or just bad luck, but he’s always there—pulling me back from the edge, keeping my head above water. Even when it stings. Even when being near him hurts more than the fall.

But the very first time? That was the real start of it all. The night my life flipped upside down and Hawthorne said I could pay my parents’ debt by racing. And I did. I stepped onto that track like it might save me. That’s when I saw it. The red Camaro. And him. The guy who looked like he belonged to another world. My world. I didn’t even know his name, just that he looked like trouble. The kind I wanted.

I thought it was just attraction back then. Just a spark. But whatever it was, it never left. It sank its claws in deep and stayed. And now, all these years later, I wonder if I’ve ever stopped being haunted by him.

The answer is no. I can't run from him. Not anymore. No matter how painful it gets, I can't. Like some stupid masochist, I keep staying until it's too late. Being around Sett feels like being alive and drowning at the same time.

No matter how many times I try to get away, he always crashes right back into my life like a damn boomerang. And I cling to it—cling to him —desperately.

Just as desperately as he looks at me now. The way his golden eyes, dim and unyielding, like coins lost in shadow—dull until they caught you staring—are trying to dig into my soul and drag out the memory I’ve lost.

But what’s the point? It won’t suddenly make my shitshow of a life any less pathetic.

I’m still homeless. And now, the popped cherry on this sour sundae—I’m fucking jobless. My boss fired me after I went MIA. No surprise there—disappear long enough and people stop waiting.

There’s still that envelope. The one I tucked away with what little money I managed to scrape together. I could use it. Should use it. But I won’t. Because it’s not enough—not to repay the kind of patience and kindness I’ve been met with. And because I made myself a promise: that money’s not for me. It’s for the Callahans. Not just for Mari anymore… but for Sett, too.

Using it now would feel like betrayal.

And I won’t ask Alune for help. She’s trying to get her own shit together. I won’t be the reason she stumbles.

“And really, it doesn’t change a damn thing,” I say, voice rough and sharp like gravel in my throat. “I crashed the fucking car. Lost my job at the bookstore without so much as a word. I’m squatting in your damn trailer like some parasite that won’t leave. And I still don’t have a single clue how I’m supposed to cough up Hawthorne’s two grand.”

Because even if I wanted to fix things— how ? Who the hell is gonna hire some half-broken idiot who can’t lift more than a paperweight without wincing? I can’t stock shelves or do shifts standing all day. Can’t even fake a smile for a register job.

And even if, somehow , I got lucky enough to find something… there’s still the hospital bills looming over me like storm clouds ready to burst. The painkillers Soraka helped me get aren’t free either. I owe her. I owe everyone.

And I still need money for a place of my own. Can’t stay here forever. Can’t keep sticking around Sett like some damn stain he can’t scrub off.

There’s also the Mustang.

Repairs are going to cost more than I want to think about. I keep telling myself I don’t care. That I don’t miss the wheel. That I hate the noise, the smell, the blur of adrenaline.

But I’m lying.

I miss the engine’s roar like it’s part of my own heartbeat. I miss the feel of the steering wheel under my fingers. That car doesn’t even belong to me, and still… it feels more like home than anywhere else.

“Okay, Madden.” Sett leans in, way too close. His scent—light hops from his beer, work sweat, and bitter orange—fills the space between us. “First off, I’m ignoring that whole ‘parasite’ bullshit. And yeah, I do feel bad for your lousy situation—especially when you're too damn stubborn to ask for help.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” I growl, crushing the empty can of soda in my hand.

“You know that’s such horse shit,” Sett rolls his damn beautiful eyes. “Anyway, listen. You’re not some shitty driver. You might have a rotten personality, but you were born to drive that Mustang.”

Something warm flares in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the praise or just the way Sett says it so matter-of-factly. I expect that cheeky grin to flash on his lips, to show he’s just fucking with me. But his expression is genuinely hard, serious. I swallow hard, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck.

"Yeah, still not seeing your point." I deadpan, pretending my ears aren’t burning.

Sett sighs like he’s dealing with a dumbass. “What I’m saying is, it’s not normal for you to crash like some rookie. And since someone already broke into Hawthorne’s garage before your race… what if they tampered with the car?”

The thought makes my stomach twist. “I—What? That’s…” I rub my temple. “That’s crazy, right?”

Sett shrugs, shifting to face me—one leg bent up on the sofa, the other foot planted firmly on the floor, his elbow hooked lazily over the backrest. “Is it?”

I want to say yes. Want to tell him he’s reading too much into this. But something about it sticks —like a piece of a puzzle I didn’t realize was missing—and those three damn letters won’t make it past the knot in my throat.

I don’t remember the crash. I remember the start —the way the wheel vibrated too much on the drive to the race, how the Mustang felt off before I even lined up at the starting point. I remember the green flag dropping. The engine roaring.

Then, still nothing.

Sett can’t be lying. That’s not his style. He’s a lot of things—loud, cocky, stubborn as hell—but he’s not cruel. Not when it matters. I force myself not to recoil at the memory of the mistake. That night still lingers somewhere under my skin, bruised and sore, but now isn’t the time to pick at that scab.

He wouldn’t throw out a theory like that just to mess with me. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Determined. Obstinate. Like he’s daring me to tell him he’s wrong. And I can’t. Because I don’t know. I don’t remember. And suddenly, that missing stretch of time feels like a sinkhole beneath my feet.

Which means... if he’s right—if someone tampered with the car—then it wasn’t just an accident. It wasn’t my recklessness or some dumb mistake. 

The question is: who?

As far as I know, I’m the only one who drives the Mustang. Sure, the whole setup with Hawthorne is a damn joke, but I never questioned it before. And Hawthorne—he’s not stupid. If I’d died behind the wheel of his car, people would’ve noticed. Someone would’ve put the pieces together. He’s got cops in his pocket, yeah, but even he wouldn’t risk that kind of heat to bury me six feet under. He needs me alive to get his damn money back.

What really throws me, though, is the message I got from Hawthorne after the crash. Don’t worry about the deal. Take care of yourself.

That was it. No threats. No deadlines. Just... that. The man’s never said anything remotely human to me, let alone something that sounded like concern. And how the hell did he even get my number?

I stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for the rest of the message to drop like a guillotine blade. But it never came.

So everything… right now? It doesn’t add up. None of this adds up.

And the more I try to deny it—try to tell myself Sett’s just clinging to some made-up bullshit—the next question crashes into me like a damn freight train: Why?

It won’t stop. The more I think about it, the more my brain spirals, burning itself out trying to remember what the hell actually happened on that track.

But there is this.. certainty. That nagging feeling, deep in my gut, that I know how to drive—like it’s in my bones. I remember the damn car—the way it hummed beneath my hands. The precision. The instinct. It felt wrong, the way the steering wavered. But I never lost control of it, not until that last jolt.

I should've been able to fix it. I could’ve kept going. I’ve always been a damn good driver. It’s just... something was off. And now, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever happened, it wasn’t me.

Suddenly, I can't breathe. It hits me all at once—like a weight pressing down on my chest, heavy and suffocating. It's not the goddamn bruised ribs, though they throb like a warning. No, this is something deeper. Something inside me’s burning, tightening, making everything feel raw. My skin’s too tight, too hot, and sweat starts to trickle down my neck.

I try to take a breath, but it's shallow, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. My skin itches beneath the brace, my left hand desperate to scratch away whatever's crawling under my skin, but I don't. Can’t.

There’s no denying anymore. The realization slams into me like a freight train. Having a gun pointed at your face is one thing. At least then, you know what’s coming. But this—this was different. A crash. A setup . Someone wanted me dead, and I didn't even see it coming.

I try to inhale, but it’s not enough. The air doesn’t reach my lungs. My vision tunnels, the world narrowing into static.

Sett is saying something. I see his lips moving, but the words don’t reach me. All I hear is the deafening ringing in my ears, pounding in time with my speeding heartbeat.

I blink rapidly, but my eyes burn, tears threatening to spill over. My throat feels tight, like it's closing up on me, and the urge to scream is suffocated before it even starts. My chest tightens, the pressure rising fast—too fast. Bile surges up, burning like acid at the back of my mouth, my stomach twisting with the desperate urge to puke.

I don’t even know where the hell I am anymore. This is it, isn’t it? I’m fucking spiraling into a panic attack.

I can’t—

I can’t breathe .

I’m staring at something, but I can’t see it. My mind spirals, grasping at fragmented memories.

The wall .

The speed .

The impact .

I relive it.

The Mustang’s front slamming into concrete with bone-rattling force. The shriek of twisting metal. The sickening jolt as the wheel jerks from my hands. The sheer helplessness, knowing—I can’t stop it.

Then, the explosion of white as the airbag detonates, swallowing my vision. A phantom pain explodes across my face, ribs caving in like they’re folding under a sledgehammer, elbow bursting with fire as it hits something—hard.

I feel it all. Too real. Too fast. Like I never left the wreckage in the first place.

A choked, terrified sound escapes me. My body jerks like I’m about to jump out of my own skin .

No, no, no—

Strong hands grip my face and I barely register the touch. Warmth. Firm.

Sett.

He’s right there. Or maybe just a mirage—his face bleeds into the edges of my vision, too close, too intense. His eyes lock on mine, wide and wild, like he’s trying to pull me out of a place I can’t escape.

His thumbs press gently into my cheekbones, grounding me with a kind of care I can’t process. I think he’s speaking. His lips are moving, forming words, but they’re drowned out by the deafening rush in my ears, the static screech of panic that coils around my brain like barbed wire.

My chest rises and falls too fast. Too shallow. Too much and still—never enough.

I’m suffocating.

It’s not the bruised ribs. It’s my own body turning traitor. Sweat breaks across my skin in a cold flash. I want to claw out of myself, escape this tight, unbearable heat beneath my skin.

Make it stop. Please.

I’m begging whatever cosmic joke put me here—make it stop. I can’t take another second. That murderous wall keeps flashing before my eyes—again and again, like it’s branded into my brain.

I need air. 

I. Need. To. Fucking. Breathe.

Firm and steady, something presses against my lips—and just like that—and all the screaming memories crash to a standstill.

My entire body seizes up. And for a moment, I feel suspended in time—floating—only to slowly realize that it’s Sett fucking Callahan’s mouth on mine.

The breath I couldn’t take—I feel it now, not through my lungs but in the shape of him. It overtakes the panic like a tide washing over flame, smothering it just enough for me to stop spiraling.

He holds me there, steady. His hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones, mouth sealing mine with a calm certainty—like he knows what I need better than I do.

The air trapped in my lungs burns. And for a moment—just a moment—the panic pauses .

But the connection doesn’t.

Sett doesn’t let me pull away. He doesn’t give me space to gasp, to spiral again—and he sure as hell doesn’t show any sign of retreating. His lips stay pressed to mine, firm and insistent, grounding me with the heat where our mouths meet, forcing all my scattered thoughts to anchor here.

And maybe it’s the lack of oxygen making my head light, or maybe it’s something else , but I don’t fight it.

I. Just. Give. In.

My lips move against his naturally. He tastes warm, a little salty from the summer air. When his tongue presses against mine—coaxing, demanding—I let him in. I meet him with my own, slow and uncertain at first, but then—then it’s just instinct . A deep pull in my gut. A hunger I haven’t let myself acknowledge for weeks. My eyes flutter shut, and a shaky breath finally slips through my nose.

“You doing good, Pretty Boy,” Sett murmurs against my lips, voice low, rough. “Keep breathing through your nose. Let me be your painkiller.”

And I do.

Each inhale still stirs painfully in my chest—partly because my ribs are still bruised, but mostly because my lungs are tired , straining after the suffocating grip of panic. But the more I breathe, the more I taste him, the more the heat of it all starts to settle something in me.

His hands move slowly, grounding me, thumbs smoothing over my cheeks, fingers holding my jaw just firmly enough to keep me here. To keep me with him .

My fingers twitch at my side, hesitating, because I shouldn’t—because I shouldn’t —but I want —

I let my fingers slide up, tentatively, over his shoulder. His skin is warm under my touch, muscles flexing slightly beneath my fingertips, and it makes my stomach flip. A reminder of how solid he is, how real this moment is. And fuck, my left hand snakes around his neck, grabbing the back of his skull and my grip tightens, fingers clinging to him, desperate to hold onto this—onto him . To make up for all the time we lost. For all the time I’ve spent pushing him away. 

Anchoring myself. Right. Here.

Sett makes a sound low in his throat—something approving, something smug—but he doesn’t stop me.

His hands wander, trailing from my jaw, skimming along the sides of my neck, fingers brushing lightly over my pulse. It’s still racing, but not from panic this time.

When my breathing finally stabilizes, when the last remnants of panic have bled out of my system, Sett’s touch shifts, breaking the kiss.

Not abruptly. Not like he’s pulling away. Just easing back, his lips parting from mine, his forehead resting gently against my own. We just stay there. Neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I take in a full, deep breath.

The tight grip on my chest loosens. I still feel the tremors in my limbs, the echo of impact flickering like a stuttering film reel behind my eyelids—but it’s distant now. Muted. Like a whisper buried under thick wool.

I feel calm.

Not fixed. Not whole.

Just calm. And I haven't felt that in a long, long time.

Because I’m fucking alive .

When I open my eyes, Sett’s are closed. His face is so close, my vision blurs around the edges, the only thing I see clearly are the dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. I can’t make out much else. But I feel it. The warmth of his breath ghosting my skin, the weight of his hands still cradling the back of my neck. The slight twitch of his brow against mine, like he’s still clinging to something that just slipped through his fingers.

And then it crashes in—this isn’t some fever dream. He really kissed me. Sett fucking Callahan kissed me. To break my fall. To drag me out of the wreckage clawing at my brain.

My lungs tighten again—not like before, not that jagged, feral panic, but something deeper. Hotter. It burns in my throat, low in my gut. It aches. Because I want this. I want him . And I hate that I do.

I flinch, jerking my face away from his, and his hands slip from my neck. I almost crave the sensation back, the warmth, the grounding. I manage to put several inches between us, but my entire body tenses. There’s no more panic, but the aftershock pulses through me like static. My breath is shaky, uneven.

Sett doesn’t say a word. He just watches me—his eyes unreadable, but steady, not moving to touch me again, not pulling away either. Just there , letting me have the space I apparently asked for without really asking.

I curl inward, furious at myself. At him. At whatever fucked-up instinct made him think that a kiss would fix me. And the worst part? It kind of did .

Why would he do that? Why would he care? He could’ve said something—grounded me with words, or anything else. But no. He used his damn mouth and kissed me.

And I let him, like a desperate adrenaline junkie clinging to his next hit, ignoring whatever consequences will come crashing down if he slips.

And now I’m stuck in the wreckage all over again, praying he doesn’t notice the sharp embarrassment pressing against my sweatpants. Because obviously , my dick didn’t get the memo, tenting the fabric when I glanced down at myself. And Sett—Sett is fucking shirtless, all cut lines and carved muscle, the kind of body that makes it impossible to not look. His chest rises and falls with every breath, abs sharp enough to cast shadows in the low light. A perfect V cuts down his waist, leading to a faint happy trail disappearing into the waistband of his basketball shorts. It’s obscene. It’s unfair. It’s designed to get someone hooked.

And fuck, part of me wants to map every inch of his body with my hands, pinch his nipples between my teeth, trace the slope of those abs and the sharp cut of his hips with my mouth.

I wonder if he’d come undone—if that sharp mouth of his would go slack, if he’d let go beneath me .

The thought burns hotter than I want to admit.

Because this isn’t just attraction. It never was. It’s a dangerous obsession—low and gnawing and stupidly persistent, like a fever I can’t sweat out.

It’s time I get the fuck away.

“I need a shower,” I mutter, already moving. I don’t give him a chance to stop me—at least, that’s what I think.

But the moment I turn, two strong hands clamp around my waist and spin me right back around. I almost fucking trip, my foot catching on the floor, but my only free hand shoots out, landing firmly on Sett’s shoulder to keep myself from falling.

And just like that, I’m standing there, my tented sweats embarrassingly level with Sett’s face.

“The fuck are you doing, Callahan?” I hiss, heat crawling up my neck. 

The position is humiliating. I try to step back, but his hands won’t budge. He keeps me there, fingers curled tight around my hips like he's decided this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. I shove at one of his wrists, only to have the other hand clamp tighter, and the second I let go to free myself again, his grip returns like we’re playing a fucked-up game of whack-a-mole.

I curse under my breath—and curse my useless elbow even more. If I had both hands, maybe I could get free. I should just deck his face.

“Look at you, Madden. Getting shy now?” Sett grins, that cocky, teasing smirk stretching across his face. There’s a bit of mischief in his eyes. “If it makes you feel better, that kiss did the same damn thing to me.”

My eyes wander downward before I can stop them, tracing the slope of his tumbled jaw, the strong line of his throat, then the curves of his dimpled pecs and abs—until they land on his red shorts. The same damn tent is straining beneath the fabric, matching mine in its shamelessness. And even through the slack material, I can see the outline. Thick. Heavy. I remember what he’s packing—how fucking huge he is. I swallow hard, pulse spiking, and without thinking, my teeth sink into my bottom lip.

Without warning, Sett pulls me closer. His lips press against my stomach, the heat of his mouth sending a jolt straight through me. I want to shove him away—but I don’t. I just stand there, helpless, letting the soft, sweet pressure of his attention unravel me.

And then—he sinks his teeth into my skin. Not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to make my breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to my dick, and if I was already hard, now I’m fucking diamond-grade.

Before I can recover, his mouth is on the move again—trailing lower, slower. He’s not kissing me there, just letting his lips drag across my skin, a maddening tease that makes my nerves burn in anticipation. My fingers dig into his shoulder, the only thing anchoring me as the rest of me completely gives in.

It feels nice—too nice—like it’s exactly what I’ve been craving all along. And yet, there’s still that stubborn voice in the back of my mind, ragged and fading, begging me to stop this before it goes too far. Telling me to be careful. To push him away before we cross a line that can’t be undone. A line I won’t be able to come back from—not without losing something I’ve spent so long trying to protect. Myself, maybe. Or whatever’s left of that’s been keeping me afloat.

But what am I even pretending? Every second his mouth is on me, another crack splinters through my resolve, and all the reasons I built up like armor start slipping through the cracks. And in their place, all I can feel is want—hot, sharp, all-consuming. I’m already too far gone to fight it.

Sett’s hands are still glued to my waist.

“Give me a taste,” he mutters—blunt, filthy, and so goddamn certain it knocks the air from my lungs. “I know you’re dying to get to know how my mouth could feel around your dick. Promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

I’m staring down at him and again, I can’t help rolling my bottom lips between my teeth. And damn right, he is. The way his honeyed whiskey eyes crinkle at the corners into a smirk dares me to prove him wrong—they tell me he knows exactly how right he is.

Before I can get a single word out, his nose brushes against my erection. Then his lips are there—pressing through the fabric of my sweatpants, slow, deliberate, mouthing at my hard as steel dick like it’s something he’s been starving for.

And fuck, I’m done. My knees nearly buckle. I can’t think, can’t breathe—just feel. A stifled moan claws its way up my throat, and I’m already unraveling.

But it’s like a switch flips in my brain. All that want, that simmering need, and the hate—blended together in one sharp, jagged line of clarity. And then, it's all I can think about: I want to fuck that cocky arrogance right out of him, push it down his throat with my dick and show him just how much I hate him while I can’t seem to stop wanting him.

“You want to blow me?” I murmur, low and commanding. My voice feels foreign, sharp with control I didn’t know I was capable of. I take a step back, my eyes locking with his, daring him to defy me. “Then get your fucking knees, Callahan.”

Without missing a beat, Sett’s grin never fades, and he’s on his knees. But he doesn’t just obey, no, he’s got that damn swagger. He slides his fingers into my waistband and yanks my sweatpants down in one smooth motion, like a kid tearing into a present on Christmas morning the moment he drops on the floor.

I can't stop the immediate rush of heat that spreads through me, a sharp sting of desire sinking deep in my gut the moment the fabric slides over my dick. It bobs free, standing at full attention and throbs, harder than I’d like to admit, but I force myself to look away, clenching my jaw to suppress any hint of weakness.

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Not yet. Not when every inch of me is screaming to let go, to feel his touch and give in. But fuck—my body’s already betrayed me.

“No underwear?” He arches an eyebrow, that same teasing grin stretching across his face. He’s fucking amused by this, and it pisses me off more than it should, but I won’t let it show.

I can’t help but feel the slight tug of a smirk pulling at the corners of my lips as I realize—no fucking boxer briefs. Honestly, it’s more comfortable this way, and it's one less thing I have to worry about. Basically, less laundry for clothes I barely own.

Sure, I might hate the idea of settling into anything too comfortable, but damn, it’s easier when I don’t have to think about it. And when it’s this hot, the last thing I need is extra fabric digging into my skin. I’ve barely got enough clothes as it is anyway, so fuck it. Why bother?

Before Sett can do anything else, my hand shoots down, grabbing his chin, forcing his face up toward mine. I press my thumbs against his bottom lip, nudging his mouth open, staring at him like I’m daring him to back down. “Time to put your money where your mouth is, Callahan.”

Sett’s tongue darts out, licking over my thumb, a slow, deliberate move. His golden stare never leaves mine, the challenge in it unmistakable. But that’s fine. Let him think he's still in control. If only he knows how wrong he is.

If both of my hands were free, I’d force his mouth wider, press the head of my cock against his tongue, and make him tease it like he’s the one begging for it. But I can’t—not with my left arm strapped in this damn brace. So I settle for gripping his face with the hand I do have, daring him to test me.

My thumbs press harder against his lip as I flick my hips forward, closing the distance between my cock and Sett’s mouth. Just enough to make my intention crystal fucking clear.

My intent is transmitted when Sett’s fingers finally leave my waist. He moves slow, deliberate, like he knows he’s being watched. His hand drags down the curve of my pelvis, knuckles grazing the sharp dip of my hip before his fingertips slide lower, brushing past the length of my cock without giving it the attention I crave.

Then he cups me. Barely. Just enough to let his fingers skim over my balls with maddening precision—like he’s memorizing how I twitch under his touch. The contact is featherlight, maddening in its restraint. I shudder, jaw clenched so tight it aches, trying to hold back the sound clawing up my throat when he gives my balls a light tug.

It feels too fucking good.

I hate the teasing. It’s short. Frustrating. Calculated. I know he’s playing with me, dragging it out just to watch me squirm. And the worst part? There's a part of me that wants it—wants to come undone for him. Wants to let go.

That’s when Sett wraps his hand around the base of my cock—thick, aching, and more than ready. He gives it two slow, deliberate strokes, like he’s testing the weight of it, feeling every inch pulse beneath his grip. Precum beads at the tip, slick and shameless, and I swear—for a second—I forget how to breathe.

His voice comes low, mocking, rasped out like a fucking reward. “Attaboy.”

The asshole is clearly talking to my dick. I see it in his face—the glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips despite my thumb still pressing against his lip. He wants it. Wants me. Wants to take me apart with that smart mouth just as bad as I want to fuck it.

And fuck, I will do it.

It hits me all at once—Sett’s not gay. Or at least, he wasn’t. I’ve never seen him flirt with a man, not once. It’s always women—always some girl parked on his lap like she owns it, like she knows he’ll take her home before the hour’s up.

So what the fuck is this?

Because right now, Sett doesn’t look confused. He doesn’t look unsure or disgusted. He looks hungry . Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s done it before. But I doubt that. I doubt it so hard it coils low in my gut, makes heat lick up my spine like a fuse catching flame.

What if I’m the first?

The thought lands heavier than it should. What if no one’s ever done this with him? What if I’m the first to push past that cocky grin and make him taste something he can’t swagger his way out of?

The image alone—the idea of being the first one to put my cock in that arrogant mouth—sends another bead of precum welling up from the tip. It’s fucking obscene how badly I want it.

Sett adds another slow stroke, then leans in—his tongue finally flicking out to lap at the crown, tasting the slick my body’s already offering up like a fucking invitation. There’s nothing eager about it. It’s calculated. Lazy. Like he’s doing me a favor. And it makes my patience wear thin.

His tongue drags along the slit, then dips lower, tracing the underside of my shaft with maddening precision. When he reaches that spot— that exact spot under the V of my cockhead where every nerve is alive and screaming—he presses in, slow and deliberate.

My thighs tense. My brain’s already gone to static.

“You’re stalling, babe,” I rasp, voice low and frayed. I hate the words even as I say them, but I can’t stop myself. I need him to understand— do it , take it —but I can’t just beg. Not when I’ve come this far holding the upper hand. Not when he makes me feel this fucking weak.

My eyes roll back the second that velvety heat finally wraps around my dick—it’s like being swallowed whole by something molten and alive. After what felt like an eternity of teasing, it hits all at once.

My only free hand fists into his hair, yanking at the crimson strands like reins I can’t let go of. I don’t even think before I thrust forward, hips jerking hard, need spiking like fire along my spine. I push in deeper, until I feel the back of his throat catch around the head of my cock. He gags—just a little—and the sound nearly undoes me.

“Fuuuck—” It comes out long, low, desperate, a half-whine curling from the back of my throat. I didn’t mean to make a sound, but the second he takes me down, all the way, I can’t help it.

His hands snap to my hips, gripping hard, fingers sinking into the meat of my ass like he’s anchoring me there. I swear I feel his fingertips tremble with restraint, and fuck, I wish they’d slide down, slip between my cheeks, push me further over the edge.

I glance down.

Sett’s eyes are still locked on mine—wide, heavy-lidded, dark with lust, but steady. Not flinching. Not breaking. Just there , staring up at me like he’s taking everything I’m giving him and daring me to give more. His mouth’s stretched around me, spit slicking his lips, jaw tense, throat working to take me deeper.

And we’re connected like that—my hand in his hair, his mouth full of me, his fingers bruising into my skin, and his stare pinning me in place. It’s not just sex. It’s a fucking challenge.

There’s a sadistic part of me that wants to pull back and start fucking his mouth with zero finesse—no warning, no patience. Just ruin him like he’s ruining me. But I don’t. Not yet. I give him a moment to adjust.

When he taps two fingers against my ass—once, twice—his wordless go-ahead.

That’s all I need.

I pull back just enough to drag my cockhead over his flattened tongue, savoring the heat, the wet, the submission. Then I slam back in, pistoning my hips with sharp, dominating thrusts. Quick. Deep. Claiming. I force more of myself into his throat with each push, until I feel him swallow around me—tight and clenching, like he wants it.

My grip tightens in his hair, locking his head right where I want it.

“Oh fuck,” I groan, low and broken, never tearing my eyes away from the sight below me. “Your mouth was made for me, babe.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, too honest, too filthy—and I don’t care. I’m too far gone. The burn in my chest has nothing to do with my ribs anymore. I don’t know if Sett groans, laughs, or hums around me, but the vibration rockets through my cock and all I can do is chase it .

Chase the pleasure. Chase the power. Show him I’m not his fucking toy.

The pain in my ribs should be enough to stop me, should have me pulling back and breathing. But fuck it. I don’t care. The ache is nothing compared to the fire racing through my veins, the way my cock slips in and out of his mouth, forcing his throat to take me deeper, harder. Every time I push in, I feel the sting, the strain of my bruised ribs, but I ignore it, my breath coming in strained gasps. It’s just background noise to the symphony of heat and want that swallows me whole.

I grit my teeth, pushing harder, my hips snapping forward without mercy. The only thing that matters right now is taking what I want—showing him that this is mine to control. Every thrust is a strike, and every strike makes my body burn. So I swallow the pain. I take it, just like I take him, forcing my lungs to hold it all in, pushing past the ache.

But the more I look down, the more I watch Sett take me deeper, his throat swallowing around me with each breath, the growls and vibrations sending shockwaves through my spine—I know I’ve lost. I’ll never dominate him, not truly. Even with him underneath me, mouth fucking him, he still holds the power.

I should pull away. I should stop him. But I don’t.

His gaze locks with mine as he practically swallows around my cockhead again, the tight heat nearly enough to make me go off like a rocket. I have to dig deep, clenching everything to keep from losing it right then and there, to hold back the wave of building ecstasy threatening to rip through me before it ends too soon.

Blunt fingers are exploring, trailing over my ass, parting my cheeks with slow, deliberate pressure. One finger slides down my crease, teasing its way toward my hole. I feel the pressure there—a gentle nudge that doesn’t push in past the puckered rim, just teases, just waits . And the way his hands grip my hips, forcing my movements, guiding every thrust— he’s in control.

I fucking hate it.

I hate the way he makes me feel like I’m not in charge. I hate that even though I’m the one fucking him, I’m the one surrendering to him. I hate that I’m not fighting back.

I should fight. Again, I don’t.

Just as I can't hold back the barrage of insults and groans that spill from my mouth, each one slipping out before I can stop them. I fucking hate it, but it feels too good. The building heat in my groin, the pure, mounting bliss that takes over every part of me and pushes my hips to piston my dick faster and harder down his scorching throat. I’ve become a damn prey to my own need, to the hunger twisting inside me, and I can’t do a thing to stop it. My brain’s gone offline long ago.

The moment Sett’s finger grazes my hole again, I’m completely undone. The sensation, that familiar pressure, sends a jolt of heat through me, and I can feel myself twitching , helpless against the rising tide. I don’t have to say a word—he knows what’s coming. He could pull away, could stop this before it consumes me, but he doesn’t. He leans in, closes his beautiful eyes and swallows.

And then it hits—pleasure explodes through me, white-hot and blinding. My legs tremble, threatening to give way as the storm inside me rips through my body. I can’t hold it back anymore. My hand grips Sett’s head, keeping him in place as I spurt, the first wave of release flooding his throat. A deep, guttural groan escapes my lips, and even though I try to hold back, I can’t.

Every muscle in my body tightens, my spine arching as if I’m about to snap in two. I hold him there, forcing him to take it all, my cock twitching in his throat, and he doesn’t back down. Eventually, he sucks me—hard—pulling every drop from me, coaxing out a release so intense it feels like it’s consuming me. I can’t think, can’t breathe. It’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.

But it’s not just my body that reacts. A sound from him—a wince, or maybe a whimper—slips past Sett’s lips, and the noise makes my stomach tighten even more. That small sound, that vulnerable sound, only makes the pleasure surge again, and I come harder, feeling my release slip down his throat in frantic pulses.

Sett doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, draining me dry, and for a moment, I think I might actually shatter when his tongue circles the sensitive tip of my cock, and my knees buckle beneath me. I’m on the edge of collapsing, but before I can hit the ground, Sett catches my neck with one hand, steadying me, and crashes our lips together, while he holds me steady with his other arms wrapped around my waist.

I hiss under the bruises but the pain is rapidly erased when he forces my cum into my mouth, his tongue sliding in, making me taste myself— fucking hell . It’s filthy, and I hate that it makes my stomach twist with need. 

But I’m not in control anymore. I don’t think I ever was. And now—now it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

I’ve already unraveled. He owns this moment, owns me .

I grit my teeth, swallowing the ache in my throat and the shame curling under my ribs like something rotten. This was nothing. Just another release. It can’t mean more than that.

My breath’s ragged, my legs still trembling, but I force myself to move. I stand and shove at his shoulder—not just to get him out of the way, but to push myself upright and to release the frustration tightening in my chest. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but there’s heat behind it, a silent demand to not make this more than it was.

When I reach down, fumbling one-handed for my sweatpants, my grip’s clumsy, my coordination off. The waistband twists, catches awkwardly around my thigh, and the fabric bunches instead of sliding up. I curse under my breath as I fail miserably to get them on, the whole thing feeling more pathetic by the second.

Of course, Sett notices. He mutters something under his breath—too soft to catch—and helps me without asking, guiding my flaccid cock back behind a layer of protection. His hands are steady. Gentle. Like I didn’t just use him—let me fuck his mouth until I couldn’t see straight.

Something uncomfortable churns in my gut. I shouldn't feel guilty. But the weight is there, simmering under my skin like a rash I can’t scratch out.

“What about you?” I breathe, not even sure why I ask. I tell myself it was just release. Just biology. I’m a man. He’s a man. We both know what it's like to walk around with an aching hard-on and no relief in sight.

Sett chuckles—cocky, casual, like he didn’t just let me use his mouth like it meant nothing . He steps back with lazy confidence, crossing his damn muscular arms over his chest, biceps flexing like he knows I’m looking.

“Well,” he says, voice all grit and amusement, “I’ll need a minute to jumpstart my dick again.”

I blink, caught off guard—not by the way my brain short-circuits at the sound of his voice, the smugness of it, but by the words. My eyes flick down before I can stop them, skimming over the sharp line of his jaw still slick with spit, the slope of his upper-body. His chest rises, falls, steady—like he’s not the least bit wrecked.

Before I see it.

Right there, a dark patch blooming on his red basketball shorts, low and obvious and utterly damning.

My breath stutters in my throat when it hits me—Sett, that arrogant, self-confident prick, actually painted his shorts with cum as he came like a helpless idiot. He’s not in control anymore, and something about the sight of him, his body still affected by me, does something to my own spent cock. I can feel the stir of new arousal, even as I try to push it down, my teeth sinking into my cheek to keep myself from reacting. It’s pathetic, but I can’t help it.

“You came?” I deadpan, eyes narrowing. “You came from me deepthroating you?”

I can’t help it. A laugh rips out of me, sharp and strained. My ribs protest violently, but damn, it feels good. Sett has the decency to look stunned for half a second—but only half a second.

He just rolls his eyes and grins, utterly unbothered. “Laugh all you want,” he says, brushing a thumb over my cheek like it means nothing. “So what if I came in my shorts? I don’t mind it happening again—especially if it means I get to hear your moans again.”

His touch and sentences make me freeze, every nerve in my body locking up. My heart beats harder, a drum in my chest that I can’t ignore, but I refuse to let it sway me.

“It won’t happen again,” I mutter, motioning vaguely between us.

This can’t go any further than it already has, letting myself fall into whatever this is, whatever he's pulling me toward. I’m not some fucking toy to be used for his amusement, no matter how good it feels when his fingers brush against my skin or when his voice sends sparks down my spine.

“Your cock begs to differ,” Sett’s voice drops lower, almost a growl, and there's no mistaking the certainty in his words. His gaze sharpens as his eyes flick down briefly, then back to my face, pinning me with an intensity that leaves no room for argument. “You like it. You like me.”

His eyebrows furrow, a serious, almost challenging expression clouding his features, like he’s daring me to deny it. He’s not teasing anymore; there’s an edge to his words that feels like he’s asking more than just for confirmation. He wants the truth, and he’s damn sure he already knows it.

“I don’t” I hiss, the words leaving my lips before I can stop them. It’s too late to take them back, because he’s so damn right.

I take a step back, my body stiff, my breath shallow, but Sett follows my movement without hesitation. His hands close around my waist, firm and unyielding, pulling me toward him like I’m nothing but a ragdoll in his grip. The sudden proximity is suffocating. His warmth wraps around me, his scent so overpowering that it feels like it's crawling under my skin, sinking into every inch of me.

“You do,” Sett growls, his whisper thick with intent. “You called me babe —again.”

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

And I fucking can’t move. The pressure is unbearable, and my body reacts against my will, the pull toward him stronger than any shred of resistance I thought I had left. His chest is so close now, the rapid beat of his heart vibrating against mine, and all I want is to close the distance even more. His hands on me, his touch, they’re both a godsend and a curse.

Because every time he touches me, I feel something inside of me unravel. Each second in his presence is like being torn in two—torn between wanting to push him away, to retain the control I fought so hard to build, and wanting to give in, to drown in him, in the heat he radiates.

It’s like I’m being consumed every time he pulls me closer, but when he pulls away—when there’s distance—something inside of me withers, and I fucking hate it. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I’ve already crossed those lines. I’ve let him in. There’s no going back.

Even if I try, how could I even run away? Because I know, deep down, I'll always end up coming back to him—one way or another.

The way he controls me shows me that he’s willing to give me control over him—the one thing I’ve craved since the beginning of this fucked-up mess that is my life. Every part of my life is out of my hands. I didn’t choose this debt that’s strangling me, didn’t choose the way Alune’s life is falling apart because of me, didn’t choose to carry the weight of the past that’s still breathing down my neck. Every damn step I take is a reaction to something bigger than me, something I can’t stop. The anger, the confusion, the desperation—it's all just me trying to hold on, to push against things I can’t control.

And it does something dangerous to me, threatening to wash away every inch of the perfectly crafted façade of indifference I’m trying to uphold.

As much as I try to deny it, there’s this chemistry buzzing between us—undeniable. I’d have to be completely dumb to not feel it, to not recognize what’s simmering just beneath the surface.

To see him unraveling again. Because Sett fucking Callahan orgasming in his pants because of me fucking his mouth? Next time , I want to see it with my own damn eyes.

And damn if his hardening length against my pelvis isn’t just another reminder that I have some control over him—maybe the only kind I’ll ever get.

“I don’t,” I repeat, wriggling myself out of Sett’s grasp, taking another step back. I'm half-shocked he lets me go. I wish he wouldn’t.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the war raging under my skin. The ache. The longing. The part of me that wants more than what he can give, that wants to believe in something— anything —beyond the chaos. I shove it all into a drawer in my mind, slam it shut, and twist the lock until it squeals. None of it matters. Not right now. I already know I’ll hate myself for this later, but I’ll take that over the suffocating emptiness clawing at my chest. I’ll deal with the fallout when it comes.

Because if the only thing I can own is how hard I make Sett come—then fuck it. I’ll take that. I’ll strip away whatever’s left of my dignity and wrap myself in the heat of his body like armor, even if it burns straight through me.

I meet his gaze, throat dry, heart thudding with something closer to surrender than courage, and say the words that taste like blood and ash on my tongue.

“But I do love your cock. Just don’t you fucking dare fall in love with me.” I plaster on a smirk—crooked, dishonest, all teeth and deflection—and hope he doesn’t notice how close I am to falling apart.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Hi everyone,
The next chapter is finally online!
Sorry for the wait—I'm not feeling super inspired for a big intro this time.
Wishing you all a happy Easter and happy reading!

Uugh, and don't kill me (yet) xD

Sett Callahan

“Don’t be soft about it, Callahan” he mutters, breath hot against the skin of my tights. “This is just sex, remember?”

I almost laugh. Almost. But instead, I dip my head and suck him into my mouth like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. Aphelios tastes like desperation and defiance, his hips twitching every time I take him deeper. He moans against my thigh like he hates it, but it doesn’t stop him from picking up where he left off.

I didn’t think I’d get another taste this soon. Hell, I didn’t think I’d get one at all after the way he slammed the bathroom door in my face earlier. But here he is—lying sideways across the bed I haven’t stepped into for two weeks, his braced elbow awkwardly propped over my hip while he bobs his head around my dick like a goddamn champion sprinting toward the edge of glory.

And true to his word, he’s addicted to it. To my cock of course. As far as casual goes, this has been happening a hell of a lot more regularly than not. Not that I’m complaining.

I’d like to say he’s the only one addicted. But there’s nothing silent about the way he breathes when I touch him. And I hate how much I like that sound.

But every time he touches me— really touches me—I lose a little more ground. Every time Aphelios touches me, it’s like striking a live wire—that buzzing jolt of electricity that shoots straight through my nerves and makes every hair on my body stand on edge. It’s not just heat—it’s static , it’s danger . Like standing too close to a fire you know’ll burn you, but still leaning in. Like his fingers know exactly where my switches are, and he flips them with zero hesitation.

It shouldn’t feel this good.

It shouldn’t feel this right .

But my skin lights up under his, making me unable to think—I’m just burning .

Like my body's keeping score, and every breathy moan he lets out rewrites the rules I swore I'd follow. This was supposed to be easy. No strings. Just tension relief and friction and silence after.

It’s dangerous, the way I’m starting to need this. Need him. Even if we’re both pretending this is just sex, like that’ll make the fallout hurt any less when it all goes to hell.

Because yeah, I know it will. And I know I won’t stop anyway.

He’s already dripping onto my tongue, needy and flushed, and fuck if that doesn’t make my hips jerk. I suck him deeper, feel his thighs tense under my hands, his breath stuttering against my skin like he’s trying not to moan again. Like he’s holding on by a thread.

So I take him slower. Drag it out. Hollow my cheeks and work him with my tongue just the way he likes—like I want to praise him, even if he won’t believe it. Even if I’m still pretending this is just sex.

His mouth is working my cock with that same quiet violence, like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. Maybe we both do. Every time he bobs down, my whole spine threatens to short-circuit. He doesn’t even care how awkward his elbow is—he still finds a way to take me deep, and when I twitch on his tongue, he groans. Like he’s proud of it.

And yeah, maybe I am too.

Because no one’s ever done that to me. No one’s ever made me feel that powerless and crave it.

It’s not just about the orgasm. The one that made me blow untouched like a goddamn idiot when he came down my throat. That moment cracked something open in me.

Because it’s more than just giving a good head. It’s the way he wants to take control. The way he digs his fingers into my hips like he needs something solid to hold onto. Like he’s desperate to own just one part of this mess of a life he’s been handed.

And maybe I want to give him that.

Let him use me, if it gives him something back. Let him ruin me with that mouth again if it means he gets to feel like he’s not spiraling for five fucking minutes.

I don’t know what that makes me. I used to hate him.

Swear to God, I did.

All sharp edges and pretty silence and that smug way he looked at me like I wasn’t worth the dirt on his boots. 

But now? Now I’m here, aching to give him something I’ve never handed over to anyone else, and not because he asked for it. And maybe… maybe I need it too.

To be needed like that. To be the one person he can still grip tight when the rest of the world’s slipping out of his hands. It’s stupid. Messy. Dangerous as hell.

But I can’t stop. I don’t want to and I give in, chasing that feeling I get when his mouth is on me. Maybe it’s not hate anymore. Maybe it’s something worse. It’s got to be the rush. The bliss of it all—the kind of sex that scrapes your mind clean and leaves you chasing the next hit. That’s all this is. Lust, release, the perfect distraction. Nothing more.

Addiction.

The kind that makes me his and makes me not want to fight it.

But not today.

Not after the stubborn ass refused my camping trip offer again. One more day to go before I hit my annual days off, and all I wanted was to drag him out of this damned trailer and into the wilderness with Sam and K—under the stars, away from whatever storm is always clouding his expression.

He didn’t know it yet, but I’d even roped in Aurora and Alune, trying to pass it off as a surprise. I don’t even know why I went that far. Hell, I asked Soraka too—she said she might swing by for a day or two depending on her schedule.

But no. He just looked at me like I was asking him to skydive without a parachute and said, “I don’t do group activities.”

Like hell.

He’s not an introvert. I’ve seen introverts. Aphelios is something else. A loner wrapped in mystery and bruises, hoarding pain like it’s currency. I can tell he’s hiding, and it pisses me off—because I can’t decide if I want to fight him or fix him. Probably both.

So I made a bet. Whoever comes first? Takes the next request—no questions asked. A full week of laundry duty, a camping trip, a secret, anything. Seemed fair enough. And he accepted, because I know he thrives on competition.

But now he’s doing that thing again—slow, calculated, grazing his fucking teeth along my shaft like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knows I’m hanging by a thread.

And I am.

Too bad for him—I’m not about to lose this one.

I suck him deeper, hollowing my cheeks and humming low in my throat just to feel that shiver roll through him. My hands grip his thighs tight, steadying both of us, and I only pause to lick my finger—enough saliva to keep things smooth—before pressing it back toward his crease. He jolts like I flicked a live wire, and the expletives spilling from his lips are music to my ears, sending a wave straight down my spine and pushing another bead of precum from the tip of my dick.

How unfortunate his mouth isn’t around it anymore.

“Oh, what’s this?” I murmur, smug against his skin. “Losing focus already? Thought you said this was just sex, pretty boy.”

He exhales sharply, body twitching as my finger circles his rim, teasing but not quite pushing in. “You’re a goddamn cheater,” he pants.

“Nah,” I grin, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his tip. “You’re just easy to unravel, Madden.”

He tries to buck his hips, but I press him down, holding him in place. Not today. Today, I keep the control. Because even if I want to give it all up to him—and God knows I do—today, I need to win the challenge I threw at us.

Because I’m a stubborn-ass idiot too, just like him, especially when it comes to winning.

I pull back just enough to trap him between my lips, then press in, right beneath the tip—just under that swollen ridge where he’s stupidly sensitive. I suck there, slow and deliberate, adding a little tongue flick for good measure. And that’s when I slip my finger lower, teasing around his hole until he clenches tight.

Then I push.

Just the tip at first, testing his reaction—and fuck if it isn’t instant. His whole body jolts, a strangled sound tearing from his throat that shoots straight down my spine. He moans so loud it vibrates through my thigh, his mouth breaking off my cock entirely.

“Tch,” I smirk around him, pulling off just enough to throw a jab his way. “Better focus, Mad’. You stop now, you lose.”

That gets him.

Like flipping a switch, Aphelios drops his head again and takes me back in like his life depends on it. Greedy and frantic. His lips seal around my shaft, cheeks hollowing, throat working like he’s trying to prove something. And maybe he is.

I groan—low and guttural—my hips jerking before I force them still. Shit, he’s good. But I’ve got the edge.

My finger slides deeper—slick and unrelenting—curling just enough to make his legs twitch as I search for that spot that’ll send him off like a rocket. My mouth stays on him, sloppy and relentless, each suck dragging out another choked sound from his throat. I can feel every inch of him straining not to break.

He hums around my cock like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, and fuck—he might just take me down with him. I’m dangerously close, and for a second, I realize I might actually lose my own damn game.

If only he’d ditch that damn brace already—because God, it’s killing me not being able to do what I really want with him. Like, I don’t know, turn him into a pillow-biter.

Six fucking weeks. Two down. Four to go.

At least his ribs have healed enough for this position—because this sixty-nining? Promises to be fucking explosive. No need to admit to my sex-driven self that I want more of this —to keep peeling him open, layer by layer, until I know every raw, hidden part of him that has me unravelling.

“Oh fuck, babe, do that again,” Aphelios gasps as he lets go of my dick. But I’m not mad. Hell no—I’m thrilled . I found that sweet spot, and I’m not about to let go of it now.

I ignore the ache of being left untouched and focus, diving right back in that velvet heat. I press the pad of my finger against his prostate again, slow and steady, just to feel that twitch in his muscles—confirmation I’ve got him exactly where I want him. Then I take him deep into my throat, burying my nose in the tight heat of his hard balls, letting the weight of him fill me completely.

And God , the way he moves—

Aphelios arches into it like his body can’t decide what it wants more: my mouth or my fingers. His hips roll in tight, desperate circles, grinding down on the pressure I give him, then buck forward into the heat of my throat like he’s chasing the edge he’s already teetering on. Every thrust is shaky, uncontrolled, like instinct’s taken over and he’s no longer thinking—just feeling.

He’s meeting me, greedy for more, fucking himself on my hand while his cock slides deeper down my throat with every twitch and pull of his hips. It’s messy and perfect. Every time I curl my fingers, his thighs tremble. Every time I swallow around him, his hips jerk up like I’ve lit a fire under him.

His ass clenches hard around my fingers, and that’s it. That’s the sign.

Another greedy press—and shatter, he fucking does .

“Ohfuckingmotherofholyshit—” the words tumble out in a single, broken breath right as his cock jerks and spills warm, raw release down my throat.

And fuck, the sound he makes? That wrecked, throat-gutted moan? It's all I need.

My own orgasm blindsides me, untouched and overpowering. I barely register the hot spill in my own shorts, hips jerking into nothing as I choke down the last drop of him.

For a long second, I just breathe through it, dizzy from the high and the way my nerves are still singing before I pull back, sliding my finger free, and let my eyes wander down Aphelios’ body.

And shit, my stupid heart does that thwack thing again.

He’s lying on his back, panting like he just sprinted ten miles through hell, his chest rising and falling with every shallow breath, his hair damp and clinging to his temples. His skin’s flushed, glistening with sweat, and my cum stains his jaw and throat, the slick, pearly fluid glistening obscenely against his skin. It’s raw, almost too much to look at, but I can’t tear my eyes away. His lips are swollen, red from the way he ravaged himself around me. His eyes are half-lidded, glassy, barely holding onto reality.

And something inside me turns over .

My stomach flips like a gymnast doing a bridge kickover. My lungs forget how to work, and I almost forget how to breathe altogether. Every fucking organ in my body clenches tight, desperate, like it’s trying to figure out the meaning of what I’m seeing. His body is sprawled out on the bed, absolutely wrecked, and for some reason, I don’t want anyone else seeing him like this.

Seeing him as mine only.

The possessiveness is sudden, sharp, and unexpected. It’s like a bolt of lightning straight to the chest.

And fuck if that doesn’t feel good .

If this is casual, I don’t even want to know what "sentimental" feels like. And God help me if this feeling doesn’t become something else.

Shoving the thoughts aside, I prop myself on one elbow and grab the crumpled t-shirt—mine, tossed from earlier—off the floor, leaning over to swipe at the mess on his skin. He twitches but doesn’t pull away, just glares up at me with those dazed, glassy eyes like he’s too wrecked to argue.

So I keep dragging the soft cotton over his neck with all the fake gentleness of a man who is absolutely going to gloat .

I’m not even smug about it.

Okay—I’m a little smug. Actually, I may be totally.

But apparently, I’ve been lingering too long with that cocky look on my face, because Aphelios groans and swats lazily at my hand. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, not even bothering to hide it—I’m definitely looking at him like that.

“Like you just won.”

I toss the shirt across his stomach and lean in, grin wide, but before I can press in closer, he props himself up fast on his one good elbow. I jerk back just in time to avoid a headbutt. He peels the shirt off and tosses it right back to the floor like it offended him. The urge to kiss him flashes through me—fast and reckless—but his lips are pressed into a flat line, brows drawn tight. He’s brooding, pissed at his loss, and I’d be the dumbest asshole alive to push my luck right now.

Still, he sighs, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “Fine. What’s your damn request, Callahan?”

My grin sharpens, teeth and trouble. “You’re coming on the camping trip.”

His head snaps toward me like I’ve just suggested blood sacrifice. “No.”

“We established the loser'd follow through if he lost. And you did lose, Madden.”

He glares at me, jaw tight, nostrils flaring—like he’s trying to calculate whether the hit to his pride is worth surviving a few nights in the wild with me, and probably worse, other humans. Then, after a long, dramatic pause, he grits out, “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” I hum, dragging a finger lazily down his side just to watch him twitch, “you’ll still come back to worship my dick.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like fuck you , before he slaps my hand away.

But he grabs the tee I’m handing him and, with a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, threads his braced arm through the sleeve first—slow and practiced. Only then does he tug it over his head in one smooth motion, before carefully adjusting his brace, every movement radiating annoyance and reluctant surrender. He doesn’t look at me.

“You better have good food. And if anyone tries to get me to sing around a campfire—”

“I’ll protect your broody honor,” I promise, hand over heart.

He just huffs and slinks over to the bed’s edge, planting his feet on the floor. I watch as he slips into his boxer briefs and shorts, all one-handed. There’s a part of me that wants to reach out and help, but again—I’m not pushing my luck.

Instead, I use all my willpower not to stare, not to get caught on the way he bends to put his sneakers on, flashing that stupidly gorgeous ass. I redirect myself and start getting dressed too—minus the shirt I used as a makeshift cleaning rag. Because yeah, this is just casual, roommates-with-benefits stuff. I shouldn’t expect cuddling.

Or another kiss.

Because ever since his panic attack, every attempt to kiss him has failed spectacularly. When we agreed to this whole hooking-up situation, he laid out two rules. First: don’t you dare to fall in love with me. Second: no more kissing.

And yeah, it bothers the hell out of me. Because I’m not blind. I see the way his eyes flick down to my lips when he thinks I’m not looking, how he bites his bottom lip like he’s holding something back. Like he wants it just as bad.

But we’re not close. Not really. Sure, we’re close in the physical sense—skin on skin, breath against breath—but ever since that day, he’s been building walls higher and thicker. Like he’s bracing for something worse, something he can’t even name. And it scares me, how fast he’s slipping behind it.

So yeah. He’s not just putting space between us because he lost a bet—he’s distancing himself every time the heat fades, every time that sexual high wears off, it’s like a galaxy opens up between us. Cold, vast, and pulling him farther away.

“K’Sante is waiting,” he says, already taking hurried steps to put metaphorical distance between us, still avoiding my eyes like I’m some kind of fire he doesn’t trust not to burn him.

“And you just go?” I huff, because yeah, it irks me. “Where’s my goodbye kiss?”

And damn, my whole mouth and brain connection is so poor, or I truly lack any shred of self-preservation. Because what I get is Aphelios turning on his heel with the sharpness of a knife and staring daggers at me. At least I have his attention—just not in the way I want.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” he snaps.

“Liar, Mad’ ” I shoot back, stepping in, not giving him the space he’s clawing for. I catch his chin in my hand and tilt his face up. I feel his breath against my lips, warm and shaky, and there it is again—the bottom lip caught under his teeth, the flick of his eyes to my mouth, and back up, like he’s fighting himself more than he’s fighting me.

And in this exact moment, I want to kiss him—drown his stubbornness and make him crack. I could so easily throw him back on the bed, strip him down, and watch the truth bleed out in the way his body reacts to mine. But I don’t. “Because your mouth is lying, but your eyes aren’t.”

He jerks his head out of my grip and shoves me—hard enough to make me stumble half a step back. “You don’t get to read me like a fucking book,” he growls, his voice tight and colored with too many things—anger, shame, want. His blush deepens, betraying him more than any words could. “Keep your smug shit to yourself, Callahan.”

For a second, I almost let him walk out—because God, I feel the need to punch him awake. But I don’t.

And I can’t let him go. Not without saying something real.

I sigh, cross my arms over my chest, and shift my weight to one side. My eyes flick briefly around the bedroom I’m not even using anymore, as if the right words might be hiding somewhere between the unmade sheets and the discarded clothes.

They land back on Aphelios, standing there—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, breathing like he’s holding back either a punch or a scream.

He looks like a beaten dog, I think—one that’s learned not to flinch but to bare teeth first. All bark, no bite left. Just defense and deflection, like he's lost faith in everything around him, waiting for the next hit.

And shit if that doesn’t gut me.

Because every instinct in me is screaming to cross the space between us and pull him in. Wrap my arms around him. Keep the world off his back for a while. But I know better. You don’t charge at a wounded animal. You approach slowly. No sudden movements. No pity—he’d smell that on me like blood in the water.

Still, I feel it. Not pity. Empathy.

Whatever weight he’s dragging around, I’d carry it with him if he let me. Hell, I’d carry it for him if I could. But I know he won’t let anyone touch it yet.

“You know,” I say, softer now, ditching the grin for something real, “You don’t have to keep pushing everyone away just because you’re scared they might actually give a damn.”

His whole body goes still. Rigid. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

“I hate you,” he mutters, voice low and brittle, more shaken than furious, before simply turning around and stomping toward the door.

No you don’t.

And you don’t love me either , but I keep the words to myself and my brief thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Because it’s not love—absolutely not. But his words still knock the wind out of me like a gut punch I never saw coming. He’s said them before, countless times. Back when we were just rivals, back when it was all bark and bluster and the sting never made it past my pride. But now?

Now it lodges deeper. Because we were rivals. Past tense. And somewhere along the way, the line blurred. Somewhere between stolen glances and forbidden touches, the rules changed—and I never noticed until it was too late.

There’s something growing—slow and stubborn like weeds through cracked pavement. He’s getting under my skin in ways I can’t stop. Every sharp look, every snide comment, every time he bites his tongue instead of his lip—it’s like a fucking magnet, pulling at the deepest part of me. Every time his eyes flicker back to mine, like he’s daring me to make a move, his defiance stoking a fire in me I thought I could control. But I can’t. Because I want to give him control.

He’s carving himself into the parts of me I didn’t even know were soft. And I’m letting him.

And that’s the scariest damn part of all.

So I shove the thought aside like it doesn’t rattle me and lean into the grin instead, lazy and crooked.

“Don’t forget that make-up sex is the best sex in the world, Madden!” I call out, half-laughing, because I know I’ve pushed just far enough.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a firestorm still burning in his eyes, cheeks still tinged pink. “Don’t forget your ego—it’s taking up the whole room.”

He flips me the bird, and the door slams behind him before I can fire back.

But it’s fine.

Because I won the goddamn bet.

And I know I’ll need a helluva lot of work to make this camping trip one of his best experiences. As far as Alune explained to me, Aphelios is a virgin in a lot of domains.

Like cohabitating and cooking. I wouldn’t say he’s lazy—maybe a little—but mostly, it’s clear he just lacks experience. And beyond that, he’s not comfortable living with someone else. I can see it. It’s like he’s constantly trying to prove he’s a burden, waiting for the moment I’ll confirm it.

And yet—he surprises me. I never asked him to split the chores, but somehow, they get done. Quietly. When I’m not around. I’ll come home and the laundry’s folded, the trailer smells like something vaguely edible, or the place’s been half-assedly cleaned. And yeah, kitchen duty’s off the table for him—not because of his elbow, but because he sucks at it. Still, he tries.

And damn if it doesn’t make me want to reward him by desecrating the nearest horizontal surface. Well, maybe I shouldn’t get ahead of myself just yet.

After a beeline in the bathroom, I take my stuff and head outside where I’m immediately greeted by the summer heat. 

Navori’s trailer park doesn’t exactly scream “fitness haven,” but the makeshift gym tucked beneath a row of old pines has character—and it does the job. Someone had the bright idea to throw up a roof held by thick wooden pillars, a patchwork job of corrugated tin and plywood that creaks when the wind gets too curious. The whole area’s boxed in by a rusty iron fence, the kind with a portal gate hanging on by a prayer and a busted hinge. Still, there’s shade, and right now, that’s more valuable than a thousand-dollar treadmill.

Inside, the equipment’s as rough as you’d expect—benches built from cinderblocks and warped plywood, a pull-up bar welded into the skeleton of old scaffolding, and a weight rack full of mismatched plates that clang like hell. My favorite piece? The truck tire leaning in the corner like it’s waiting for a fight. It’s been flipped, beaten, and cursed at more times than I can count. Solid, unmovable—just the kind of workout that makes you forget your own mess for a while.

I need something to sink my focus into before my thoughts spiral back to him again.

And yeah, my thoughts keep drifting back to him. That stubborn, sharp-mouthed prick with a god complex and a busted elbow. He’s like a splinter under the skin—impossible to ignore, and just when I think I’ve stopped thinking about him, there he is again, sharp and burning at the edge of my thoughts.

I’ve started learning not to take his words at face value—especially the ones he flings at me like weapons. I hate you , my ass. He could’ve said anything else. Could’ve shrugged, stormed off in silence, or even just glared at me like he usually does. But no—his reflex is to go for the kill shot, straight for the one thing that’ll stick. Like if he hurts me first, I won’t get the chance to do it to him.

I know armor when I see it. That wasn’t hate. That was defense—a trigger pulled too fast, too easy. Doesn’t mean it didn’t sting.

When I get there, Sam’s already mid-set, arms flexed and glistening as she curls her dumbbells like she’s just getting warmed up, her favorite NEFFEX playlist’s playing from the Bluetooth speaker in the back, loud enough to keep the rhythm going. She looks good—confident, strong, sharp. No wonder she’s got half the park afraid of her and the other half trying to impress her.

She barely glances up as I step into the ground, but there’s a smirk already curling her lips like she smelled me coming.

“Took you long enough,” she says, lowering the weights with a light clunk and wiping her forehead with the hem of her tank top. “You better be ready to sweat, Sett.”

I roll my shoulders, giving her a cocky grin. “Thought I’d let you get a head start. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you too early.”

She snorts. “Cute. Let’s see if your mouth can keep up with your reps.”

Truth is, even after the early shift, the damn heat, and a full-blown sixty-nine that should’ve wiped me out—I’m not tired. Not even close. My body’s still buzzing, and not just from the blood that’s stubbornly parked in the wrong head. I’ve got too much energy, and it’s all crackling under my skin like I’m one bad idea away from setting myself on fire.

That joke about make-up sex? Yeah. I meant every damn word of it.

I hate to admit it, but I’ve gotten addicted to his body. The sounds he makes, the way he moves, the way he shakes when I’ve got my mouth on him. And fuck, I never thought I’d be the guy on his knees for anyone—but for him? I’d do it again. Over and over. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

And it’s not just that. I want to know what it’s like to be deep inside him, to feel him unravel around me and finally let go of all that shield he’s been gripping like a lifeline. Not just to make me feel good—but to make him feel it. Wanted. Safe. Seen. Every damn inch of him. I want to be the one who pulls those sounds from his throat, the one who reminds him that letting go doesn’t mean losing himself. Just the thought is enough to make my stomach flip. But I can’t rush that. He’s skittish—wound tight like a trap—and if I push too far, he’ll bolt. I know that. Doesn’t mean I’m not impatient as hell. But I can be slow and ingenious if it means getting there eventually.

I mean, yeah—he gives bottom vibes. The stubborn, bristly kind that’s all bite and no trust, the kind who’d only let you in if you earned it. And hell, I wouldn’t mind letting him flip the script either. Letting him take control, ride it out until I’m the one unraveling. Which... says a lot.

The more I think about it, the more my brain keeps feeding my dick like it’s on a damn buffet. I shift on my feet, cursing under my breath. Great. Just great. If I don’t get a grip and start the warm-up now, I’m gonna end up benching with a full-on boner like some idiot who’s never touched a weight in his life.

I run through a few warm-ups—nothing fancy. Abs, planks, the usual grind just to get the blood moving and my muscles fired up. The roof overhead keeps the worst of the sun off, but heat still clings to everything like a second skin. The stale air hangs heavy beneath the wooden beams, thick enough to choke on, but I welcome it. I need it. The burn, the sweat, the ache—it keeps me grounded. Keeps me from thinking too much.

Samira circles me like a damn hawk, arms crossed and that smug half-grin glued to her face. “Is that your warm-up or are you just praying to the ground gods, Sunshine?”

“Keep talking,” I grunt through a set of push-ups, “and I’ll make you kiss the dirt.”

She snorts. “Please. I’ve seen toddlers hold a plank better than that.”

I flip her the bird mid-push-up. She laughs and toes the side of my sneaker. I kick at her lightly and she dodges like she’s done this her whole life. Hell, maybe she has. It’s easy with her—this rhythm, this ribbing. No pressure, no weird undercurrents. Just real.

If anyone thinks friendship between a guy and a girl can’t exist without something more, they’ve clearly never met Sam. She’s fire, fists, and loyalty wrapped into one relentless package—and one of the few people who’s never asked me to be anything but myself.

“Try not to cry this time,” she tosses over her shoulder, already grabbing her weights.

“Only if you promise not to break another bench,” I shoot back.

The grin I get in return is all teeth and sweat-slicked confidence—genuine, fierce, and just so her . Sam might as well be a female Hulk, all muscle and zero patience for bullshit. And damn if it isn’t comforting, having someone like her around who can laugh with you and still bench twice your weight without blinking.

By the time I’m on the bench, knuckles wrapped and focus sharpened, Sam’s looming over me like a battle-hardened coach ready to chew me out if I so much as breathe wrong. I start the lifts, chest rising with the rhythm, the bar dipping and rising under my palms. It's that good kind of pain—clean, sharp, cutting right through the noise in my head before it even begins and grounding me in my body.

I move to the beat of a NEFFEX remix of Till I Collapse , every hit of the bass syncing with my body like it’s wired into me. My muscles protest at first, but it doesn’t take long before my body finds the rhythm. The weight settles into something familiar—demanding, sure, but manageable.

Unfortunately, it’s too manageable, because my thoughts start drifting again. I think about showing Aphelios this place, once he’s better. When that brace is off and he’s got his balance back. I’m not sure if he’d even know this training ground, or if he’d roll his eyes at the rust, the sweat, and the rough edges, calling it barbaric. But something tells me he could like it.

Then again, I don’t even know what he likes. I know how he takes his coffee—definitely more milk and sugar than it should be allowed. I know he buys that one special lotion with lavender and mint. I know he likes to peel away the layers of Soraka's pastries, eating them one by one. I know that after we fuck with each other, he always pulls his shirt on first, before anything else, giving me a full view of his flaccid dick and peachy ass. I know how to touch him so he comes apart like paper in water. But the rest? The personal stuff? It’s a blank page. He carries his burdens like Atlas and guards himself like a damn fortress.

I want to know more. The little things. The real ones.

A voice snaps me out of it. “You’re thinking too much,” Sam says, tapping the side of the bar and halting my movement. “Focus. This is about the body—don’t let your brain run the show.”

I blink up at her, blinking sweat off my lashes. “That’s nonsense,” I mutter, gritting my teeth as I guide the bar back into place with her help.

“Is it?” she cackles, stepping back. “’Cause I stopped counting after twenty a long time ago and your ass was still going.”

I sit up slowly, arms burning, chest heaving, but the fire in my veins feels right . “Guess I needed it.”

Sam pulls a water bottle from her bag and tosses it over. “Hydrate, dumbass. Before your overachieving ass actually implodes.”

I catch it with one hand, cracking it open and tipping it back, letting the cool water roll down my throat. My muscles ache in the best way, but my head? Still stuck halfway between iron plates and a prick with a busted elbow.

Wiping the sweat off my brow, my eyes flicker over to Sam, who is grinning at me like she always does after a solid workout.

"This camping trip," she says between breaths, "is gonna be the same as always—jumping off the cliff naked and seeing who can make the biggest water bomb. If you’re not down for that, then I don’t know what to tell you."

I snort, shaking my head. "Hell yeah, I’m down. You know I’m always up for a little bit of chaos." I pause, letting the thought settle. 

Jumping naked from the cliff—god, what damn good memories. Not just the thrill of the jump itself, but the feeling of it—no fabric, just like the day we were born. It became a tradition for us after we first did it. Every year, once the tents were set up, that was the opening ceremony. Hell, I don’t even remember how it started—probably drunk, to be honest. But since the place isn’t exactly a hotspot and the three of us don’t mind being naked around each other, it always worked out.

My chest tightens with a mix of bitterness and sweet memories. The first time I went there, it was with Mom. When things got heated with Dad at home, and when he disappeared for days to drown himself in booze and whatever else, we’d take the bus out to the lake, then hike to that spot. It was quiet there—peaceful, away from the shit life we were living, away from all the noise. We’d eat the picnic Mom had packed, and then throw stones into the water, seeing who could make the most rebounds. Mom was a natural at it.

When I finally got my license and bought the Camaro—still a wreck at the time, but I poured every cent I saved into fixing it up—I took Mom there again. We laughed and joked that the car would break down before we even got there, but somehow we made it. And that was it. Never since, my baby abandoned me.

So right now, just a few more hours, and once my shift ends, I’ll fuck every responsibility off. We’re all gonna have a great time, no question about it. 

"How are the logistics this time? We're gonna set up like usual, plus the others?" Sam asks, plopping herself on the ground beneath my feet after tossing her empty water bottle into her duffel.

"Same deal as always," I say with a grin. "I’ll text the girls later, and I guess they’ll ride with me. Soraka said she’d let me know if she swings by or not."

I’d already talked with Sam and K about my plan to drag Aphelios into it. Not that our camping trip is some exclusive event, but it wouldn’t have been fair to invite people to tag along without telling them. I also shared my little struggle to convince him. So, of course, they helped—hell, they were the ones who suggested inviting Alune and Aurora too. Then K offered to bring his boyfriend. The guy he’s been hooking up with for weeks now. Yone Souma. And damn, he seems serious about him.

And when K’s serious? Well, you can bet on which direction that’ll go. I just hope for his sake that this Yone isn’t like the last asshole K was two steps from dropping to his knees for.

I’ve seen Yone a few times. Quiet, delicate type, at least on the surface. But seeing the way he and K are together? They kinda fit—the kind of fit that makes you envious. Not that I am envious. K’s my best friend, and I really do want nothing but the best for him. But every time I see them together… yeah. That’s when it hits. Makes you wish you had something like that too.

That night at the bar when I had a spat with K, Yone was sitting at the counter being a tease and didn't give the impression of being the type to get his hands dirty with engines. I was shocked when I found out he owns a fucking Triumph 675 Daytona. Hell of a bike. And apparently, he knows his shit about motors too. Good for K, I guess. Still have no clue what Yone does for a living to afford that beast.

And yeah, even with Aurora and Alune coming too, that’s just a plus. We’ve been crossing paths more lately, and what better way to bond than during our annual trip?

The excitement buzzes through me. There’s something about the simplicity of it all that I never get tired of—even with more people this time around. People I used to not even like, and here I am, planning my annual getaway into the wilderness with a pair of Maddens.

“Since you’re not pissed,” Sam drawls, “that means you convinced Madden to tag along?”

Well, if you can count poking his prostate until he came as convincing, then yeah—I did. Not that I’m telling her that, even if she’s probably guessing I used some kind of method to get his ass out of the trailer. I really need to shake those damn images out of my head—they’re way too good for my dick’s peace of mind.

I nod, and Sam raises an eyebrow, her expression tightening. “There’s a but ?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Honestly? I’m not sure he’ll be into it.”

Sam gives me a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You think he won’t like it? Maybe he’s just not the camping type.”

Yeah, pretty sure it’s not just the camping. I’ve got this feeling in my gut—it’s not about tents or bugs or being off the grid. It’s like… he doesn’t want to belong anywhere. Like he refuses to take part in anything that smells like togetherness . Group activities , his words.

And if I really think about it, that feeling I get when Aphelios shuts down after the stuff we do together—it’s not just with me. It’s with everyone. Every time Alune visits, she acts like she’s walking on eggshells around him. And they’re twins. Twins , for fuck’s sake. Aren’t they supposed to finish each other’s sentences or have some weird psychic bond that makes the rest of us feel like extras in their private sitcom?

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Aphelios doesn’t want anyone in his life. Not even her.

It’s fucked up. And maybe I’m wrong—hell, I hope I’m wrong. But that feeling in my gut won’t shut up.

I bite my lip, trying to push it away. “I don’t know. The way he used to bitch every time I asked—always going on about how he didn’t need to join anything.”

She shrugged, her tone light and casual. "You’re overthinking it. He’ll come around. Remember last Fourth of July? He’ll see it’s not so bad. He might actually enjoy it more than you think."

Yeah—until I screwed everything. Hell, I’m not even sure my apology landed , not with the way he deflected. And Alune’s words still play in my head like a broken record. I really have no damn clue who Aphelios is. Rival. Asshole. Recluse. The constant nail in my tire. A fucking fixture in my life I never wanted to see erased in some stupid car crash.

The guilt’s still gnawing at my gut, and I haven’t found the right moment to bring it up again. Every time I try, I catch that unreadable look on his face—and every alarm in my head goes off, telling me to shut up.

If I actually convinced him to come with us, I’ll believe it when he’s sitting in my truck tomorrow afternoon. And when he is? I’ll bury the hatchet and give it my goddamn best—to get under his skin, and maybe drag him out of whatever misery he’s been drowning in.

I let out a sigh and leaned back, trying to push the nagging thoughts about Aphelios out of my head. "Yeah, I guess you’re right." Then, before I can stop myself, I add, "You guys, though... You better not chicken out on the cliff jump. Last time, you barely made a splash, Snacc."

She rolls her green eyes, grinning. "You’re on. And this time, I’m winning the biggest splash, Clarence ."

I groan at the use of my second name, silently cursing Mom for choosing something so damn stupid. But then—I can’t help it—I laugh, and some of the tension finally starts to ease out of my body. Maybe Sam’s right. Maybe I am reading too much into everything. Even if there’s still that gnawing feeling in the back of my mind, like something just isn’t clicking with Aphelios.

“You’re worrying too much,” Sam says, her voice softer now. “Just let him enjoy it, and you should enjoy it too.”

She squeezes my calf in a friendly jab before pushing herself to her feet, but a sudden chill rushes down my spine like a bucket of ice water. I don’t like the expression on her face—tight-lipped, eyes flickering too fast, like she’s chewing over something she doesn’t want to say.

And just like that, I’m yanked back to that damn day she left.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice casual, like she hasn’t just looked at me like I’m a goddamn glass about to crack. Like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

“You tell me, Sam.” I didn’t mean for my voice to sound cold, didn’t mean for it to rasp like I’ve swallowed gravel, but it’s the only way I can push the words around the baseball lodged in my throat.

Because what I really want to ask is:  Are you leaving again?  Are you gonna disappear on me?

I hate this. I hate how fast the panic creeps back in whenever I get that feeling someone might leave. No matter how much I fight it, it still hits me like a sucker punch to the ribs. I tell myself to grow past it—that I don’t need anyone to stay. But the second I saw that look on Sam’s face, the one she tried to wipe off too quick, that old fear came crawling back.

The void’s always there, hiding under everything, and when someone I love even thinks about walking, it opens wide again.

And no matter how much I try to get a grip, it makes me feel like a damn kid again—weak and small and desperate not to be left behind. I don’t want that power in her hands. I don’t want to care that much. But I do.

And it’s not even fair— I know it wouldn’t be some cruel thing if she had to go. She’s got her own damn life, her own path, and hell, I should be the one rooting for her every step of the way. She’s my best friend. She’s never owed me anything.

But still. That fear doesn’t listen to reason. It’s old, it’s deep, and it crawls up my throat the second I think I might lose her again. Like my brain knows better, but my chest never got the memo.

That void doesn’t care about logic. It just waits. And the second someone shifts, it starts whispering: Here we go again.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Sam puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard before slowly shaking her head. Her sweat-damp hair clings to her forehead, but the gesture—small as it is—knocks the panic in my chest down a few notches. Like she heard the question I didn’t ask. Like she knows .

I feel stupid for even thinking it. And fuck, I should be relieved because if her gesture tells me anything, then it’s that she isn’t lying. Sam the most honest and direct goofball I know. And she knows my issue, so she wouldn’t fuck with me like this. But I still don’t like the way she’s looking at me. The way she’s chewing the inside of her cheek. Like she’s measuring whether I’m strong enough to handle whatever grenade she’s about to pull the pin on.

“You’re not gonna like it,” she says, quiet now.

“Spit it out,” I growl, frustration simmering beneath my skin.

Again, she hesitates for a moment longer, her eyes flicking between me and the ground, like she’s trying to measure whether I can take what’s coming. Her lips press together into a thin line, almost like she’s bracing herself for the fallout.

And then, like ripping off a bandage, she says it, her words low but heavy, making my world tilt sideways.

“I saw your father,” she says. “He’s back.”

I wish she’d told me she’d leave again.

---

Aphelios Madden

It feels like I’m watching some shitty after-movie of my own life. The kind with grainy filters and a soundtrack that’s trying too hard. I’m just standing there, staring at the wreckage of a midnight blue Mustang, like it’s a still frame—like the punchline to a joke I didn’t get. Everything looks too sharp, too quiet, too staged. And I’m the idiot still waiting for the credits to roll, like any of this would make sense if I just let it play long enough.

It shouldn’t feel this foreign, but it does. I don't know what I'm supposed to think.

Even harder to know what to feel, because part of me should be grateful that I’m still alive. But I’m not. I don’t feel spared. If anything, I feel suspended. I'm just… here. Breathing. Functioning. Caught in the same miserable loop. The crash didn’t take me out, but it didn’t save me either. It just spat me back into a life I have no control over—a life that doesn’t feel like mine. I’m still drowning in the same debt, the same desperation, the same hollow routine of pretending I belong somewhere. I don’t. Never did. And if I’m honest, I don’t think I’m worth the space I take up. I didn’t die, sure. But what kind of survival is that?

Now I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with the aftermath.

And I’m so fucking sick of it.

Sick of feeling powerless. Of carrying guilt that was never mine to bear. Of choking down every injustice like it’s just how things are. Like I should accept it, survive it, move on.

There’s this heat curling low in my gut, bitter and sharp. Resentment, raw and blinding. A refusal to sink again. Because if I believe him—Sett, the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, who still somehow looks at me like I matter—if I believe even half of what he said, then none of this was my fault. Whether someone really messed with that car on purpose—then I’ve been walking around carrying shame I didn’t earn. Blaming myself for something that had nothing to do with my skill or my worth. Just someone else’s fucked-up grudge.

If my life’s a mess without a damn purpose, then fine. But if it has to end—if that’s what’s waiting for me down the line—then it’s going to be on my own terms. My call. No one else gets to flip that switch.

Not Thresh Hawthorne. Not the weight of debt or the chokehold of a twin connection that doesn't even feel real anymore.

Me.

At the very least, if I’m nothing, then I’m mine. And if I spiral, I’ll be the one pulling the thread. And before that happens, I want the fucking truth. And I want whoever did it to know—they didn’t finish the job. I don’t know how yet. But I’ll figure it out.

It’s a fucked-up kind of comfort. But it’s better than feeling like a passenger in my own goddamn tragedy.

My fingers absentmindedly trace the black brace around my elbow, the tightness of it a sharp reminder of how close I came to not being here at all.

I could probably figure out what happened to the car myself. I know enough about engines to spot the issues. But with the Mustang on the ground, checking underneath is next to impossible without a proper lift. K’Sante told me to wait until he’s done with a client, so I wandered—and now I’m here, staring at the wreckage of a car, parked next to Sett’s fiery Camaro, that used to be beautiful. The same Mustang that once roared through the streets is now just a shell of its former self.

Alune mentioned something about using part of her paycheck to help with the repairs. Repairs? There’s nothing to fix. Not really. What’s left of the car doesn’t need a mechanic—it needs a resurrection. And sure, K’Sante is as skilled as they come, but even he can’t breathe life back into twisted metal and shattered frames. If K’Sante still has the money Alune gave him, I’ll ask for it back and I’ll cover the repairs myself, though I’m not sure there’s any miracle that’ll bring this car back to life.

And then there’s Hawthorne. That bastard. A loanshark who’s all smiles and charm until it’s time for his money, and then—nothing. Silence. His last text was the last contact I had, and since then, it’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth. It gnaws at me, digs under my skin, because I know that with someone like him, the debt’s never truly paid. He’ll want his money back, one way or another. And I can feel the weight of retaliation looming, just waiting to fall.

I should just go face him, like last time. What’s the worst that could happen? If he pulls his gun again, then fine, at least I’ll fight for some fucking answers. I should have done this already, but no, I hid in Sett’s trailer like a coward. But if I’m being honest, the real reason I haven’t gone to face him yet? Yeah, I’m scared and not because of a goddamn gun . But it’s also that damn text. I don’t know if it’s some mind game or if he’s just fucking with me.

Dropping to my knees, I lean in, letting my fingers run over the jagged metal where the paint had once been a deep, glossy blue. The texture is rough under my touch. As I study the wreckage, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps, and I glance up to find K’Sante approaching, his usual swagger in full force.

"Tell me, Big Man," I start, even though I’m not sure I should ask, but the words fall out anyway. "Could it be that there are loose bolts at the driveline u-joint or some driveshaft damage that wasn’t caused by the accident?"

Yeah, I know I sound like a damn nerd talking about car mechanics. But honestly, I can’t help it. There’s a tiny part of me that’s genuinely interested. I didn’t just fall into the world of cars because I was forced to drive one, though. Working at that bookstore, I’d spend hours also flipping through mechanics books, learning about engines and parts I’d never even considered before. And now, with a damn phone in my hand, YouTube’s got a treasure trove of tutorials on anything and everything. Not like I’ve got much else to do with my time, so why not dive deeper?

“You’re full of surprises, Madden,” K’Sante says with a slow, crooked smile, one brow lifting in amusement at my sudden interest. “I’ll be frank—I haven’t had time to check the car yet. Why do you ask?”

Taking a slow breath, I try to swallow down the weight sitting heavy in my chest. “I remember the crash,” I say, sighing as I straighten up and drag a hand down my face.

K’Sante gasp—quiet, but sharp enough to catch—fills the garage. When I glance at him, though, his face has already reset into that same calm, confident seriousness he always wears when he's trying to earn trust.

“The car was off,” I continue, voice a little rougher, “but there was this weird rattling after I hit a pothole, just as I joined the grid.”

And what if that wasn’t actually a rookie mistake—despite Sett insisting I’m not an amateur? Those signs should’ve made me pull out of the race, but the desperate need to win was stronger. And here I am. Go figure.

K’Sante looks at me, then shakes his head. “No, I checked the car when Hawthorne brought it in after the tire incident at his garage. Nothing was off. It was in perfect condition.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

He steps closer, crossing his strong arms over his chest. “He asked me to take a look and make sure everything was in order so you could drive safely,” he continues, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like Hawthorne was just another client dropping by the shop.

And maybe he was. That place has a reputation to uphold. No surprise there—on paper, at least.

There’s a tiny, dangerous path my mind is tumbling down. The urge to find out what really happened during that race makes me doubt everything and everyone. And knowing that K’Sante worked on the car just before the crash? Shit… I don’t like where that thought leads.

And, of course, my brain also catches on the one thing that makes the least sense: Hawthorne wanted me to be safe?

Fuck, if that doesn’t make things even more confusing.

Absentmindedly, the hand resting against my abdomen because of the brace curls into a fist as I pinch the bridge of my nose, swallowing a wince when I press against bruised skin. The more I try to piece this shit together, the less the pounding headache helps.

"But you're telling me it started rattling after you hit a pothole? Normal speed, I guess?" K'Sante asks, skeptical but not dismissive.

Catching the way he’s looking at the ’68 Mustang—like he’s trying to read something in the dents and scratches—eases, just a little, the nagging feeling of betrayal that shouldn’t even be here. Because this is K fucking Sante. He’s always been decent to me. Never pushed, never pried. Just helped where he could, like it didn’t cost him anything. We’re not friends—not really—but if I didn’t have so much shit clinging to me like a second skin, maybe I’d let myself consider it. Maybe I’d let myself believe he could be the first real one.

I nod, forcing myself to focus. K’Sante asked me a question and if there’s anyone I can trust right now, it’s probably him. So I push everything else aside and zero in on the memory. “I was rolling to the starting line, so yeah… wasn’t much of a jump.”

K’Sante glances back at me, concern flickering across his face. “I haven’t checked everything yet. It’s a hell of a job, and I wanted to talk to you first. You know, with the whole deal…” he trails off, but I don’t need the rest—I already know.

A strained groan slips out before I can stop it. The goddamn deal that I'm stuck in, tied up with the repair costs and money I don’t have.

“I can check it out later,” he adds with a nod, unfazed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But now, let’s go upstairs. I’ve got something to discuss with you, and trust me—you’re gonna like it.”

Confusion must be written all over my face, because K’Sante gives me a reassuring smile before tilting his head toward the stairs. Sighing, I fall into step behind him automatically, leaving all my worries with the Mustang as we climb the stairs to the shop. Linkin Park’s Up From the Bottom filters in faintly through the busted speakers as we head upstairs—fitting, really. Like the universe has a sense of irony while we leave the wreckage behind as we climb the stairs to the shop, K’Sante leading the way with the kind of purpose I wish I could fake half as well.

But leaving my worries behind? Yeah, right. Impossible. They follow me. Up. From. The. Bottom. My brain won’t shut up, spiraling through every possibility of what K’Sante might want from me—none of which sound like anything I’d like. The only explanation I can come up with is the repair cost I can’t afford unless I start auctioning off internal organs.

Let’s just get this over with.

Pressing my fingers against my brow, trying to rub away the shame before it can set in too deep, I mumble, “Listen, Big Man, if this is a—”

“No, Madden,” he interrupts me, holding up a hand as that broad, easy grin stretches across his face—white teeth striking against his chocolate skin. And fuck if his confidence doesn’t confuse the hell out of me.

“What?” I frown, defensive already without knowing why. “If this is about the repairs—”

“It’s not.” He leans an elbow on the counter, that casual, grounded presence of his like he’s got all the time in the world. “It’s about a job.”

I blink and stare at him like he just grew a second head. “A what?”

“A job. Here. With me.” He gestures around the shop like it’s obvious. “I could use the extra hands.”

I open my mouth, then close it. My brain stalls so hard it might as well have hit a wall. For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at him, like the words haven’t quite reached me yet.

A job? Here? In this garage that smells like grease and rubber, with tools clinking in the background, ceiling fans refreshing the air and music still humming faintly from the busted speaker?

I don’t even know what to feel. Shock, mostly. Maybe confusion. A flicker of panic. I wish someone would pinch me, just to check if I’m actually awake and not dreaming this up out of stress and sleep deprivation.

“You want me to work… here?”

“You’re sharp. You know engines. And you’ve got time on your hands, right?” He shrugs. “It makes sense. So yeah, I’m offering you a job, Aphelios. You’re in?”

I stare at him. Because—what the fuck?

And I must look completely dumbstruck, because K’Sante’s grin only widens, patient and calm like he expected this exact reaction. I mean, sure, looking for a job was technically on my endless, chaotic to-do list. But who the hell hires someone still bandaged up? The odds were nonexistent.

And yet—here he is. Offering. Reaching out. Not because I asked. Not because he had to. Just… because.

Something tightens in my chest. It’s the kind of offer that makes my body react before my brain can keep up—my throat constricting, eyes burning slightly, like my whole system forgot how to process genuine kindness. Especially when it’s addressed to me. By name. Not as a favor. Not out of pity. But like I matter. K’Sante’s kindness feels clean. Steady. Like it expects nothing in return.

It’s unnerving.

It reminds me of Sett, in a way. The way he didn’t hesitate to throw me a life raft when I was drowning. I didn’t ask him either. Didn’t think I deserved it. But he gave it anyway.

The difference is… their eyes. Both golden, but not the same. K’Sante’s are softer—more golden-hazel, grounded. Calm. But Sett’s? His gaze is always brighter, sharper. It does something else entirely. It burns. It pulls. It lingers. Leaves a mark, whether I want it to or not.

And yet, beneath that piercing gaze, there’s always this hidden goodwill I know is there—but I never wanted to acknowledge it.

I need to fucking stop.

I should focus on the matter at hand—K’Sante offered me a job! Still, there are those little doubts creeping in, and I can’t help but close my eyes and breathe, counting down from five. When I hit zero and open them again, K’Sante is still there—grinning, expectant, waiting for something.

My answer. That much is clear.

“Fuck, yes—I’m in.” The words leave me before I can even think, and I damn well fail to hide the surge of excitement behind them. But shit, does it feel good to say it. To mean it. Like, for once, something’s finally aligning.

Then, of course, reality smacks me right in the ribs.

“My elbow, though—” I glance down, the weight of the brace suddenly heavier now that I’ve actually said yes. “You sure you’re fine waiting until I’m fully healed?”

K’Sante doesn’t answer. He just grabs a balled-up rag from the counter and tosses it my way without a warning. I catch it—easily—with my uninjured arm.

He chuckles, teeth bright against his skin. “Thought so. You’re ambidextrous, right?”

I blink, caught between laughing and glaring. Of course I’m ambidextrous. Not a lot of people pick up on it—guess it’s not something I go around bragging about. Sure, I can write with both hands, switch grips when I need to, even throw a punch from either side. But that doesn’t mean having just one good arm makes everything easy.

Try pulling up your briefs with one hand and see how heroic you feel after that.

K’Sante’s grin only widens like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Don’t worry about it, man.” he says, stepping behind the desk again an. “You’ll mostly be at the desk—organizing, handling drop-offs, keeping shady assholes from sneaking past the welcome mat. I’ll teach you whatever else you need to know. Once you're back in full health, then we’ll talk engines.”

He says it so casually, like it’s already settled. Like I belong here.

I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The air tastes too good to be true, thick with the kind of luck I’ve never been handed without a catch. I lean my hip against the counter, the rag tossed carelessly aside, fingers twitching with the need to ground myself in something real. This whole thing—it’s so unexpected I can’t help but glance around, like maybe there’s a camera crew hiding behind the tool cabinets, waiting to shout gotcha .

But no. It’s just me. Just K’Sante. Just this offer I didn’t see coming.

"Thank you, Big Man." There are so many emotions whirling inside me that my voice falters.

He steps right in front of me and slaps a hand on my shoulder. Friendly. Steady. Heavy enough to make my whole frame dip under the pressure. The guy’s a fucking mountain with a grin to match, and for a second, all I can do is blink up at him, stunned into silence by how genuine it all feels.

No strings. No backhanded favors. Just… kindness.

“When do I start?” I ask, my voice a little rough around the edges, like it hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that—for once—I might’ve been given a real chance.

“When we’re back from the lake,” K’Sante says, still grinning—and damn it, it’s starting to get contagious. But then he keeps talking. “You’ll need to relax with us before I start bossing your ass around my shop.”

I freeze, brow furrowing. “You know I’m coming with you?”

"Yep," he says, popping the p like it’s the punchline to a joke only he gets. "He texted earlier to say you’re in."

“Great,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face to hide the flush that’s definitely creeping up my cheeks. It doesn’t help that the second I remember how Sett got me to agree to the damn trip—half force, half manipulation, all smugness—my brain throws me straight into a flashback of him coming home at noon, pinning me between his lips, and both of us sixty-nining like we had nothing better to do.

And of course, my traitorous dick twitches at the memory. Perfect. Just what I needed—to pop a boner in front of my future boss. Very professional.

Since when did that asshole scheme this?

Apparently, I said that last part out loud, because K’Sante throws his head back and guffaws, loud and booming, totally unbothered. “A few weeks ago,” he says between laughy breaths. “Was surprised he invited you, honestly. You two can barely be in the same room without biting each other’s heads off. But hey—glad you finally buried the war hatchet.”

Right. If by burying the hatchet he means fucking anal-less with a strict no-kissing, no-cuddling clause like some discount Pretty Woman knockoff because my heart is already torn to shreds , then sure. We’re practically at peace.

I give K’Sante a wry smile, because I don’t know what to say.

We linger near the counter for a while, words trailing off into smaller ones—nothing urgent, just the kind of talk that feels borrowed time. A customer steps in, dragging K’Sante’s attention with them. He straightens, nodding toward me with that easy grin still etched into his face. “See you tomorrow, Madden.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

Stepping out into the August heat feels like a slap to the face.

The light’s too harsh, like it’s trying to peel my skin off, and the air is thick enough to chew through. My worn sneakers crunch over the gravel as I head back toward the trailer, sweat painting a sticky trail down my spine, soaking beneath the brace I keep wishing I could rip off. Somewhere between the cracked pavement and the cicadas buzzing like faulty wiring, K’Sante’s words keep looping in my head.

Sett told him weeks ago I’d be coming on this trip.

Weeks. Plural.

And sure, after the ridiculous bet he baited me into earlier, I knew my chances of wriggling out of this were slim—but knowing K’Sante, my future boss, is also expecting me now? Yeah, no way in hell I can bail.

Which sucks, because I was absolutely planning to ghost. Call it self-preservation. I wanted to ditch Sett, avoid the whole mess, and finally get a moment of peace without his stupid smirk in my orbit.

But now? Now I’m stuck on the image of Sett telling K’Sante I’d come—like it was already a given. And that sends my thoughts spiraling somewhere worse. Like maybe… if I try to run, he might actually come after me. Dragging my sorry ass into the truck for this trip—not to gloat, not to win a bet, but because he wants me there.

As if all his asking was genuine, and not just an excuse to keep his casual hook-up— me —within reach.

Sett fucking Callahan, chasing me down?

Goddamnit.

If that thought alone doesn’t make my cock twitch in my shorts under the blazing summer heat, I don’t know what does. Just the image—him storming after me, all muscle and frustration, grabbing me by the waist like I’m something he refuses to let slip away—lights my whole body up like a fuse. My skin prickles, my breath shortens, and suddenly my boxers feel too tight, clinging in all the wrong places.

For fuck’s sake, I need to get him out of my head. And yeah, out of my pants too—not that I ever really had him where I wanted him to be. But most of all, I need him out of my goddamn heart. Because that’s where he’s made a home, quiet and dangerous. He’s lodged himself in deep—beneath the bruises and the bitterness, past the sweat and the sex.

Pulling out my phone, I remind myself that something good finally happened. I got a fucking job. Officially starts Monday, but it still feels like something solid for once, something real that won’t make me feel like a deadbeat. I shoot off a quick text to Alune, because she’s my twin and, honestly, I haven’t been much of a brother lately.

I need to do better by her. Not just letting her run herself ragged worrying about me, but actually being there too. Like when we were kids—when we couldn’t breathe without each other knowing. That’s how it’s supposed to be with twins, right? Not this half-assed silence and distance I’ve let fester between us.

Reaching out is hard. It feels like I’ve forgotten how. But I want to try. I want her to feel like she has a brother again—not just some ghost she visits out of obligation.

Me: Just got a job offer. K’Sante’s shop. I’m in.

Her reply’s instant—half a dozen emojis, hearts and flexed arms and a screaming cat for some reason. But now? The weight on my shoulders, it actually feels a little lighter. Like I’m not completely failing at life.

My phone buzzes again. Another text. I glance down and grin at the name lighting up the screen— Nagune . Yeah, that’s what I saved her as. It fits. She nags, she worries, she pries—but it’s all her love underneath. And before you judge me, the day I saw she had me saved as Gloomy Gobblin instead of Sweet Tooth ? Yeah. Revenge was necessary. This is sibling law.

Nagune : Wish we could celebrate tonight, but I’m starting my shift at Garren’s soon. Maybe tomorrow?

Groaning, I thumb out a quick reply. Figures. Somehow, I got plans in spite of myself.

Me : Callahan’s dragging my sorry ass for a stupid camping trip. Next week maybe?

Her response comes back lightning-fast. Just two suggestive emojis—the smug one with a tilted smile, followed by a sweat droplet. The kind that makes me want to hurl my phone across the trailer park and roll my eyes straight into the sun. Because I know exactly what she’s hinting at. 

Alune will never lose that annoying tendency to want to ship me with Sett, ever since she discovered my not-so-secret crush. She insists it’s hot . I’m not sure if it’s her way of getting back at me for pushing her toward Aurora all those times, but honestly, since she agreed to stay with her, I have the feeling she’s doing pretty damn well.

The thought of getting lost in the woods with Sett, out in the open, away from everything—yeah, that kind of temptation is hard to ignore. That raw, reckless idea of me fucking his throat senseless under the sky? I can’t deny the pull. The thought even crosses my mind—what it would feel like, how that thick cock would stretch me, make me feel something I haven’t in... God, never . And fuck, if that isn’t just a sign of how starved I am for any kind of touch. His touch.

As long as that damn organ that keeps me breathing and thinking straight is staying locked behind Fort-fucking-Knox for now.

Great. Now my dick isn’t twitching anymore, but I’m definitely sporting a boner as I push through the trailer’s door, not realizing it’s unlocked.

But the moment I do, I frown and step inside, only for my foot to knock against an empty beer can, the metallic clatter making me flinch.

Glancing around, the coffee table’s a graveyard of half a dozen beer cans. And I know it wasn’t like this when I left earlier—maybe two hours ago, maybe three at most. Sett had said he had plans with Samira, so how the hell—

The sound of the shower running in the back cuts through my thoughts, and that’s all the confirmation I need. He’s back.

And he left this mess?

Sett’s usually the one side-eyeing me about being lazy. The only times he’s ever let the place slip like this were when his mom was in the hospital, or the day she told him she was moving out for good.

A sharp pit curls in my stomach. I hate this—this not knowing, this feeling like something bad happened while I wasn’t looking. I’ve seen Sett break down before, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. I hate it. But since he’s had his closure, he’s been fine, so I’m pretty sure this mess isn’t due to him spiraling again. Because yeah, I figure he has some sort of abandonment issue. My complete opposite since I only need to hold everyone—especially him—at arms length.

Or maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe he just invited Samira over, because they’re best friends. They’ve always been close—comfortable, with K’Sante added into the equation. Hell, she’s the only one who can yank his head out of his ass without him barking back.

But no. I can’t shake the feeling that maybe things went further than that. Maybe they cracked open a couple beers, laughed like they always do, and one thing led to another. Maybe he bent her over the damn couch and fucked the stress out of his system while I was out getting a fucking job. Let’s be real—Sett’s bisexual. So after spending enough time playing with my cock, nothing should be stopping him from diving back into a vagina. Honestly, knowing Samira just a little, she’d probably be the one on top, bending Sett over instead. And now, everything points to him showering just to wash off the smell of sex—so he can act all innocent around me.

Fuck, the thought makes my stomach twist and my jaw clench.

Like when I watched K’Sante putting sunscreen on Sett’s back on that damn day, that little flicker of irritation in my chest. That uncomfortable knot in my stomach, the way my mind couldn’t shut the hell up about it. I hated that feeling. And now, it’s back.

Am I really acting like a jealous fucking boyf—

No. Not going there.

This—Callahan and I—it’s just casual. That’s what we agreed. Just two people getting each other off. Nothing more.

God, I need to stop. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid—getting caught up in him like this. But the moment my thoughts start to spiral, they all land in the same damn place.

Mine.

I want him to be mine. Not just in bed, not just for a night, but mine. My hands on him. My mouth making him beg. Me taking control, working him on until he’s shaking, breathless, pleading for more. I want to make him come so hard he forgets his own name—and remembers only mine. Like a possessive motherfucker.

It’s insane. Possessive. Desperate. Everything I swore I wouldn’t let myself feel. But the fantasy's got me so hard it fucking aches. And then—

The bathroom door swings open, and Sett steps out, shutting my brain off like a light switch. He’s scowling, but I don’t see any of it.

Just a towel slung low around his hips, rivulets of water running down olive skin, gliding along every ridge of muscle like they’re sculpted just to torture me. His chest rises with a slow inhale, broad and firm, water tracing the curve between his pecs, over the happy trail of hair leading down his abs—cut and sharp enough to make me bite my tongue. His arms flex slightly as he runs a hand through his damp crimson colored hair, like he doesn’t realize what that motion does to me. Like he isn’t weaponized. This should be illegal.

The lines of his hips disappear under that towel, clinging low, water soaking into the fabric in all the worst, most perfect places. One drop slides from his collarbone down to his navel and vanishes. I hate how my eyes follow it. I hate how my mouth goes dry. I hate that my cock throbs just looking at him.

And I hate that I want to sink to my knees and ruin him.

“Of course you’re here,” Sett’s grumpy snark snaps me out of my ogling. “Like a damn rash—just when I think I’ve got peace, you show up making everything itch.”

Hello to you too, dickhead . I’d roll my eyes, but they’re a little busy right now. 

Because—yes, ogling I am. And honestly, who could blame me?

He’s standing there like some insufferable Greek god, fresh out of Olympus and straight into my trailer, all golden skin and dripping muscle screaming to be licked, towel slung dangerously low. My brain barely registers anything else, just a slow, helpless burn settling under my skin. I’d love to say I have some dignity left, but no. Not with that view.

And I realize he’s doing the same—watching me. Or he was , until his gaze zeroes in on the very obvious, very un-hideable tent in my shorts. My hands twitch down too late, uselessly trying to cover what’s already been caught red-handed.

His expression sharpens, hardens. That heat I imagined? Gone, like someone poured ice water down my back. His eyes narrow, jaw tightens—like I’ve just crossed some invisible line I never saw coming. The kind of look that tells me to back off. Like I did something wrong.

Except I didn’t imagine it. Just a second ago, I saw it—the way his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, biting down so hard it looked like pain. Like control slipping. Like he was barely holding himself back from something he wanted.

So why the fuck is he looking at me like I’m the problem?

“Someone pissed in your Cheerios, Callahan?” I mutter, trying to mask my flaring irritation. 

“I’m not in the mood,” his nostrils flares, but eventually he averts his gaze, looking everywhere but in my direction.

“Clearly,” I retort dryly. "Didn’t realize sulking in towels was part of your evening plans."

I expect some kind of comeback—maybe even a barked insult telling me to get lost. But instead, my right brow twitches when I get a silent middle finger tossed over his shoulder as he disappears into Mari’s bedroom, leaving me standing in the spot where he was. Irritation flares hot in my chest.

No reason. No explanation. Just a shut-down like I’m some fucking pest.

The audacity .

And of course, I follow. Because I’m petty. And stupid. Not because I care. Not because he left the door open instead of slamming it.

With one hand shoved into my pocket—because I don’t know what else to do with them, and I can’t exactly cross my arms thanks to the damn brace without looking like a pissed-off girlfriend (which I’m not )—my eyes stay glued to his back, muscles rippling as he tugs the curtains shut with slow, dragging movements. Then he flips off the light, the room sinking into dull gloom as he peels off the towel and slumps onto the bed like his strings just got cut—without once looking at me.

I tilt my head, my gaze flicking to the microwave clock. Not even six-thirty. My brow furrows as I bite the inside of my cheek.

He must sense I'm still planted in his doorway.

“Get lost, Mad’,” he mutters into his blanket. “You can masturbate all by yourself like a big boy.”

“Don’t worry, the mere sight of your face was enough to deflate my cock,” I bite out, but my gaze doesn’t quite cooperate. It lingers, drawn to the shape of him beneath the thin summer blanket—broad shoulders curled inward, legs slightly bent like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

Silence swells around us. I should just leave. Should tell myself I don’t care. And yet, I stand there like an idiot, fists clenched and chest hot, because something about him feels off .

Sett doesn’t go to bed this early. Sure, he wakes up before dawn to head to site, but he still drags it out until at least eight. And all those empty beer cans on the table? That’s not his usual rhythm, either. Something happened. I know it. I feel it.

My brain starts digging for logic, but instead, it spins some jealousy-fueled movie reel where maybe he tried to hook up with Samira and got turned down. And instead of worrying that something bad might’ve happened to him , I’m pissed off over a made-up scene in my head. I’m mad because some irrational part of me doesn’t want anyone else to touch him. Because even the idea of him with someone else makes my stomach churn.

And what really pisses me off the most is that my stupid heart still aches for him, even now—curled up, hiding from me like I’m the last person he wants near.

That was all I needed, wasn’t it? A sharp rejection to snap me back to reason. To finally pull myself away. From this place. From him .

I’m already halfway turned around, heart lodged somewhere behind my ribs, when I hear it—two words. Two words. Barely audible. Frayed at the edges like they’d been dragged out of him.

My body moves before I even register the decision. I'm on autopilot, one-handedly wriggling out of my shorts and shirt, not caring how clumsy or desperate I must look. Dressed in nothing but my briefs, I slip under the covers, the sheets still warm with his body heat, and press myself close to him. My forehead settles between his shoulder blades, the familiar scent of his skin invading me in the moment and I close my eyes.

He’s taller, broader. Yet, I curve against him instinctively, knees tucked behind his thighs, chest flush with the line of his back. It’s not perfect; my brace makes the gesture awkward. I can’t hold him the way I want to. I can't tug him closer like I need to. But in a loose drape, I lay my arm over his waist anyway.

He tenses against me—but only for a second. Then a slow exhale escapes him, like he'd been holding his breath all evening and only now lets it go.

Sett hasn’t pushed me away.

And I know it’s because of those two quiet words that cracked me open.

Don’t. Go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, echoing the promise I made that other night, the first time we shared a bed and it meant more than either of us could admit. “I’ve got you, babe.”

It hurts—so deep it twists something inside me—but I bite it down. I ignore the rapid, painful thrum of my heart, the warmth pooling low in my gut, the ache of want that sparks just from being this close to him.

Because Sett needs presence. Just presence. The fact that he admitted he needs any presence—without specifying mine—stings more than I want to admit. But if I can’t be the anchor he’s looking for right now, then I’ll at least be something. I shut everything else down, throw self-preservation out the window, and lean into my curse: denial.

So I'm going flatline. Even though it’s hard. Even though I feel everything—his back moving with every slow, steady breath, stealing mine away. His warmth, searing my skin. His solid presence, pressing against mine, bigger, heavier, and always more than I know how to handle.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, voice soft—like too much volume might scare him off.

I don’t even know why I’m asking. Does he even want to talk? Or am I the one desperate for answers, trying to claw through every chaotic scenario running wild in my head? Do I really want to know?

Sett doesn’t speak. I feel the subtle shake of his head against the mattress, barely more than a shift—but enough to be an answer. No.

I don’t push. Whatever this silence is, he’s choosing it. It’s okay if he doesn’t want to talk. I tell myself that. I’ll swallow whatever frustration claws at my throat.

Just as the silence begins to feel permanent, I hear him. “Thank you for staying,” Sett mumbles into the pillow. “Again.”

My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing to say. So I just nod against his back. A quiet gesture. But I hope he feels it.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped hating him. Maybe I never really did. Maybe the feud I clung to was armor. A shield built out of ego and fear because… liking someone like Sett hurts. Because someone like Sett—bright, bold, impossible—isn’t someone you get. He’s someone you orbit, if you’re lucky.

And I am. Right now, I am. I have this moment. This borrowed time.

Pressing my forehead a little firmer against his spine, I breathe him in like I could tattoo the scent of his skin into my lungs. I’ll burn this into memory. All of it. Because staying here has an expiration date. One I set myself.

I’ll stick around a little longer. Just enough to make it hurt later.

Feeling his heartbeat in the pause between my own. I stay even as the stillness grows thick, dense enough to drown in. It breathes with us, quiet and charged, like the calm after a storm that’s left everything half-splintered but still standing. Minutes blur together. My body starts to feel heavy, like I’m sinking into the mattress, growing numb with each second that passes. I don't know if it’s Sett’s quiet warmth keeping me anchored… or if I’m just exhausted—emotionally wrung out and unraveling.

When a long, breathy sigh escapes Sett’s lips, something in me finally snaps—not in a blow-up kind of way, but in that quiet, unbearable way frustration simmers just below the surface until it boils over.

“What happened that pissed you off today?” I murmur, my voice low against his spine. “And don’t say it’s my face, because I don’t believe you, Callahan.”

He huffs—dry, annoyed, but not cruel. Then he moves.

For a second, I think he’s about to push me away. But instead, he shifts onto his back and—God—he doesn’t let go. One arm snakes around my shoulders, dragging me with him, and before I can blink, he’s helping me adjust my brace over his stomach. Like it’s nothing. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. Of course, we haven’t.

It’s too intimate. Too easy. And maybe I’ve crossed a line I can’t walk back from, because my body sure as hell isn’t listening to the part of my brain that’s screaming for damage control. Especially not when I get that gut-deep feeling that Sett is finally— finally —about to talk.

And he does. But what he says? Yeah, I wasn’t ready for that.

“Sam told me my dad’s back,” he mutters, voice low, like the words are dragging barbed wire behind them. “That sperm-donor might’ve done one right thing in his whole goddamn life when he fucked off. So yeah, I’m not just pissed, Madden. I’m an-fucking-gry. ”

His frustration pulses through his body, vibrating into mine. His jaw clenches; I can feel it even without seeing him.

And suddenly, I feel stupid. Stupid for letting my jealousy spiral, for convincing myself he’d been rejected by his best friend and was sulking over a maybe-hookup gone wrong.

He told me about what his father did before—just enough to know the man’s an irredeemable asshole. And I may not know him personally, but I do know this: anyone who could leave scars on a lovely woman like Mari Callahan doesn’t deserve to be called a man. And sure as hell not a father.

I hate that I understand, in some distant, twisted way. Not the same story, not the same violence—but a familiar ache nonetheless.

The more time I spend around Sett, the harder it is to keep those memories buried where I left them. Somewhere behind my ribs, stuffed into the walls I built to survive. But they’ve been leaking through the cracks lately—like I can feel the wallpaper peeling off my childhood every time Sett says something real. Every time he trusts me with something true.

I try not to think about my own parents.

But now?

Now I find myself resenting them all over again. For what they were. For what they weren’t. My parents were all cold silences and sharp looks. Conditional love, twisted into something you had to earn—and still never could. They weren’t people you could run to when things hurt. They were the reason things hurt.

I used to think Sett and I were nothing alike. Opposites, even. But lately…

Lately, I’m not so sure. I’m starting to think the burn beneath our skin is the same. Same damage. Different wrapping.

“What… what are you gonna do?” I ask, my voice softer than I expect. Tentative. My head rests against his shoulder, and with my elbows draped over his stomach, I start to trace slow circles on his skin—just to do something, anything.

“Good question,” Sett snorts without humor. “Because what can you do when the past that wrecked you decides to show up again, uninvited?”

No one like that should get to walk back in and pretend the wreckage they left behind isn’t theirs. I don’t know what the guy’s intentions are—hell, maybe he doesn’t either. But they can’t be good. Not when it comes to Mari. Not after what Sett told me.

“You actually saw him?” I murmur, still drawing lazy, thoughtless loops across his skin.

“No.” He shakes his head, and I try to glimpse his expression in the dark, but all I catch is the tension in his jaw. “And I think it’s better that way. Because truly, I don’t know what I’ll do if I see his fucking face.”

If I ever saw mine again—though I doubt they’d come crawling back—I don’t know what I’d do either. Between us, I’d be the one to run. But Sett? No. He’d throw the first punch. Maybe the last too. Especially if he thought Mari was in danger. And I get it. I do. But I also know getting himself arrested for attempted murder wouldn’t help her. Sett’s worth more than throwing his life away like that.

I want to help, to offer him something—advice, a joke, anything—but I don’t even know what the bastard looks like.

Shit. I’m so wrong. With everything that’s happened since, I admit—I forgot.

The image comes back, clear and sudden. The man on the front porch of Sett’s trailer. He reeked of stale booze and something older, meaner—resentment that had curdled in his gut for years, spilling out in toxic slurs when I bumped into him a few weeks ago.

I’d brushed it off back then. Just another drunk, not exactly rare in this part of the park. I hadn’t known who he was—just a stranger, belligerent and loud, and easy to ignore once I got past him. But now… That face. That voice . It’s familiar in all the wrong ways.

My whole body tenses before I can stop it. The finger I’d been lazily circling against Sett’s skin goes still.

And he notices. Of course he does. His grip tightens slightly on my shoulder, just enough to pull me back to the moment. 

“What?” Sett’s voice is low and wary.

He shifts, and when I glance up, his face is already tilted toward mine, brows drawn together and eyes searching—amber bright in the dimness, sharp with suspicion. I can tell the second it clicks for him, the second he realizes I know something.

He’s going to press. He’s going to ask. And the worst part? He’s right to and I know damn well I couldn't lie to him.

But—

I don’t want to ruin this for him. Not now. Not right before the camping trip he’s been looking forward to like a kid promised freedom—something he’s been bugging me about for so long because it matters to him. Wanting me to be a part of it.

So I go for the half-truth.

“Nothing,” I murmur, shaking my head just enough to make the moment slide. “I just thought you were getting shitfaced because someone dumped you. Not because your dad decided to crawl back out of whatever hole he rotted in.”

That earns me a laugh. A real one—low and deep and warm, and God , it does something to me. Something awful and good and aching. But it works the way I hoped for.

“Jealous, Madden?”  Sett wiggles his brows, and I want to pretend it’s annoying, but the grin forming on my lips says otherwise.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, “Sam and I just drank a few beers. She was keeping me company ‘til you got back. I don’t look at her that way. Especially when I’ve got a pretty boy with a hungry dick crashing at my place.”

There’s a lot he says that should grab my attention, but one thing sticks—the way he says that nickname. It makes my face warm and sets off those damn butterflies in my stomach. He probably has no idea what it does to me.

And I shouldn’t let it get to me. All the alarms are going off in my head—

Maybe it’s reckless. Or even, maybe it’s selfish.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about him and giving him something to hold onto. Something to push back the weight sitting on his chest. Something solid that helps to forget.

I don’t think. I just move, pulling away from his arms, ignoring the way his hand lingers like it doesn’t want to let go. He watches me, curious, tracking every move I make.

My briefs hit the floor, the sheet goes flying off his naked form, and I swing my leg over him, straddling his lap in one practiced motion. I feel it—the moment his cock hardens beneath me, thickening against my groin. It sends a pulse of heat through my entire body, and with it, whatever rational thought I had left gets swallowed whole.

I look straight into his eyes, the tension, the grief, the spark of desire all colliding between us. I press a finger to his chest and drag it down, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridges of muscle all the way to his stomach.

“Get the lube, Callahan,” I whisper, low and deliberate. “Time to fuck.”

Chapter 12

Notes:

Hey everybody! I'm back!
Sorry for the unannounced hiatus... I wouldn't say I was really struggling, but I definitely lost myself a bit along the way. I'm slowly getting back on track now, and I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter!

Just a heads-up: the upcoming chapters are still planned, but updates will take a little more time. I need to slow down a bit—but I promise to drive Sett and Aphelios to their HEA (with plenty of angst, ups, and downs, of course).

Thank you again for all your support, and enjoy reading!
Love you all—guys, girls, and everyone in between! 💕

Sett Callahan

It's funny—how a moment I’ve imagined a thousand times in the privacy of my own head, under the shower spray or between restless sheets, can hit me harder in reality. I’ve been half-expecting it, sure, but never like this. Not with him naked and stunning, moving like this just for me. Bossy above all else.

That my father is back? Yeah, no, that’s not gone. It’s packed up in a rusted drawer in the farthest corner of my mind, duct-taped shut because all I can do right now is stare. Stare at Aphelios like I’ve never seen anything quite like him. Because I haven’t.

And honestly? I don’t know how I got here. Not exactly. I remember the way he moved, slow and deliberate, like every motion was calculated to ruin me. The way he said Get the lube, Callahan , like it wasn’t the filthiest prayer I’d ever been blessed with. I think I stood up. Think I grabbed the lube and condom off my dresser. But I can’t remember the actual motion of it—only that now I’m propped against the wall, bottle in hand, watching the man who once drove me half-mad with hatred and now drives me mad with want.

He’s a fucking vision .

On his trembling knees, in the middle of my bed—technically my mother’s bed, but it’s been mine since I shoved all my stuff in here to give him my room. The sheets are a mess, half-pulled off from when he dragged them away. Aphelios is balancing carefully, unable to lean on the arm with the brace, while his other hand slides down the curve of his back, right where I was only allowed to pour the lube before he snapped that I was only allowed to look . He shivers once—a ripple of muscle rolling from his shoulders to his ass.

And fuck , his ass—round, tight, flushed. One finger breaches the rim of his hole and it makes his cock twitch. Mine answers instantly, standing at full attention, hard enough to cut steel. The muscles in his thighs jump each time his slicked-up fingers tease his entrance, and I can’t stop staring—at how his body flinches, trembles, slowly gives in and takes it.

A long, needy whine slips from his lips as he adds another finger, showing me how he’s working himself open—and fuck, it takes everything in me not to lunge forward, get on my knees, and join him with my tongue, devour his ass, taste every inch of his flesh. But Aphelios is in control, and I’m left helplessly watching. He’s edging me, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge of madness.

My breath catches when I notice his rhythm picking up. He’s moaning now, soft and shaky, hips rocking back with each push of his fingers. And the whole time, with his head tilted and sweat clinging to his skin, he’s trying—trying—to keep his eyes on me.

They flicker. Roll back. Then lock on mine again, glazed and desperate, and it makes my cock twitch, already leaking. I can’t help it—gathering my precum, I give myself a slow, tight stroke.

His lips are parted, shiny and wet—like he’s been whispering my name under his breath this whole time. And yet, he’s grinning, those goddamn dimples deepening because he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. His hair’s a mess, sweat-damp and curling slightly at the ends, like he’s been working for it—and he has.

The low sunlight slipping through the curtains kisses his skin, making it glow. Every muscle on him tenses, stretches, and contracts with perfect control. It’s too much. I don’t know where to look, because every inch of him is begging to be touched, kissed, bitten.

And I haven’t even gotten to his stomach yet, half-covered by the damn brace he’s still wearing. I don’t know why that turns me on so much. Maybe it’s because it’s proof of how fucked-up everything got. Or maybe it’s knowing that he’s hurt, yet still here, still offering himself to me like this—like he trusts me not to break him more than he already is. I want to wreck him, I do. But deep down, I know I’ll be undone long before he is.

“Fuck, Madden,” I groan, dragging my palm over myself again. I pinch the head of my cock, trying—failing—to dial down the heat rushing through me. It doesn’t help. Not when all I can think about is burying myself inside him, feeling the way he’d clench around me. “You trying to kill me?”

He hums, not stopping, not even slowing, and that goddamn grin of his just widens. “Not yet,” he pants. “Still need that dick of yours inside me later, babe.”

“Fucking tease.” I don’t bother hiding how wrecked my voice sounds, thick with want. “Look at you—taking your fingers so well, like a filthy little—”

“Uh-huh,” he gasps, cutting me off. “Keep talking. 'Cause I’m not rushing the prep just so you can dive in, Callahan.”

Oh. Oh , he likes the talk. Good. Because I’ve got weeks’ worth of filthy thoughts built up with nowhere to put them—until now. And maybe spilling a few will keep me from snapping and pinning him down right this second. Maybe.

“You want me to watch?” I murmur, stepping closer just to see him shiver. “Want me to see how needy you are? How fucking pretty you look, opening yourself up for me?”

The groan he lets out is everything. Everything. I drop down to the edge of the mattress beside him, leaning in to get a closer look as his fingers glide in and out of his slick hole. He adds a third finger with a soft moan, and the sigh that follows? Almost undoes me completely.

“Three fingers, uh?” I ask, husky.

He nods, barely. “Feels good. So fucking good.”

“Bet it does, Mad’.”

“But you know what’s gonna feel even better, babe?” Aphelios huffs, glancing over his shoulder with that wrecked, breathless edge to his voice. “You. Deep inside me. Stretching me open for real. Making you forget everything except how good you’ll fuck me.”

Do I miss foreplay? Fuck yes. I’m buzzing out of my skin just sitting here, watching— only watching—while every part of me is straining not to move. Not to reach. Not to ruin it with my barely-contained eagerness. And can you blame me? With the way he talks —like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—feeding my want with every breathy taunt, every filthy promise. Giving me this goddamn show and telling me I’m not allowed to join in? It’s torture. Because I know damn well if I lay a single hand on him before he says I can, he’ll grab his stuff and be out the door, leave me alone to date my right (or left) hand for the rest of the night. And that’s not happening. Not when he’s right there, moaning like that. Not when his voice is wrecking me more than anything else ever could.

His whole body stutters—or maybe it’s mine, I can’t tell. I lean back for a second, because I need to see what he’s doing to me. And yeah, no surprise—my dick’s leaking like a faucet, damp against the inside of my thighs. I squeeze the damn lube bottle in my fist, trying to anchor myself, to stop from just grabbing him.

I need to touch him. Just— need to.

However, the temptation to play with fire remains. Reaching down, I brush my fingers toward his hand, meaning to guide him or maybe just hold him, but Aphelios freezes mid-motion. His fingers pull out slick and slow, and he turns around to look back at me—eyes blazing, lips trembling around a breathless command. “Don’t you dare touch me yet, Callahan.”

Do I regret it? Yes. 

No, I don’t. Because my eyes are locked on him as he stands to reach for the condom wrapper I’ve put on the nightstand. God , is he gorgeous. His cock—hard, flushed, and swollen—bounces with each step, precum glistening at the perfectly shaped, pink head. I swallow hard, like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

“There, Callahan.” He points at the spot where the bed hits the wall, his voice is steady, commanding, and when our eyes meet, there’s no room for argument. 

His need for control makes me grunt, low and guttural, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. My dick twitches like it heard its name. And who am I to contradict him? He’s just as hungry as I am—and even though I know , I’m convinced , that he’s a virgin, Aphelios wouldn’t let me prep him any longer. He’s setting the pace, and I’m more than willing very fucking hard—pun intended—to follow.

I do what he says. Sit on the bed, back against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of me. And when he climbs over my thighs, the condom wrapper dangling from his teeth, the sight alone nearly sends me to heaven. I feel like a background extra in a YouPorn video—except this is real , and it’s mine.

He gives me a long, teasing stroke with his free hand before tearing the wrapper open with his teeth. Then he rolls the condom down my cock with practiced fingers and, when I reach to help, he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t flinch. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. And that somehow makes it even hotter.

His hand lingers at the base of my cock—not just to adjust the condom, but to tease . A firm grip, confident, possessive. The kind that sends a warning up my spine. He’s not just in control—he wants me to know it.

Obviously, I do.

Aphelios doesn’t rush. He shifts forward, one knee on either side of my hips, steadying himself with a palm braced on my shoulder. His skin’s warm and sleek, still a little slick from sweat, and I have to drag in a deep breath through my nose just to keep it together. If I don’t, I’ll come from the sight of him alone.

“Hold that dangerous weapon for me,” he commands, voice low and teasing, and I obey—wrapping one hand around the base of my shaft to steady it. My other hand hovers at his waist, ready to support him if he needs it.

He lifts himself slightly, lining us up. His body’s steady, even as I feel the tremble in his thighs. Then he begins to lower himself, slowly—his breath catching on the first touch as the head of my cock presses against his entrance. Inch by inch, he sinks down, tight and unyielding at first until—fuck—it starts to give, and I can feel every centimeter as he takes me in.

"Fuck," I whisper. It's not just the tight heat wrapping around me—though that alone is enough to shatter me—it’s the way he takes it. Like he’s determined to own it, to own me. The sharp inhale he takes through his teeth, the slight bite to his bottom lip. He’s trying to make it smooth, controlled—but I can see the effort it costs him.

"That's it, pretty boy," I murmur, reaching up to run my hands along the tops of his thighs. "Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good."

His eyes narrow, but the blush blooming across his cheekbones betrays him. He likes the praise, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

It’s a contradiction I’m starting to get used to—how he needs to be in control, calling the shots, setting the pace. But just as much, he needs the praise. The confirmation that he’s doing it right, that he’s wanted . That I’m losing my goddamn mind over him.

That it’s him driving me to the edge, not the act.

So I give it to him. In the way I look at him. In the way I hold still, trembling with restraint, letting him take his time. Because if I know anything now, it’s this—Aphelios doesn’t need someone to take over. He needs someone who’ll worship him while he takes the lead.

“Holy shit,” he moans, eyes locked on mine as he lifts and sinks again, taking another inch. “You’re goddamn huge.”

I’d feel honored if I wasn’t so completely focused on the way his rim clenches around my cock, tight enough to make my toes curl. Even thinking about cute little animals doesn’t help calm the surge of arousal.

I don’t know which one of us moans louder when he finally sinks all the way down, my cock buried to the hilt. Our breathing fills the room, and I have to fight the urge to thrust up into him. I’m fucking dying here.

Slow. Measured. Aphelios starts to move, his fingers digging a little deeper into my shoulder as he lifts his hips—just enough to feel the drag of every inch—before sinking back down, snug and tight around me. Over and over. Each descent punches a moan out of me, especially when his ass lands flush against my thighs, soft flesh meeting skin with a wet sound that makes my head spin.

I can't stop watching where we’re joined, the way he takes me in, inch by inch, his rim stretched wide and glistening. His cock bounces with every grind, flushed dark, leaking steadily between us and smearing precum across my stomach. It’s obscene. It’s beautiful. I can feel every tremble in his body through my hands on his waist—feel how hot and tight he is around me. He’s holding on with one braced arm, that damn thing clinging to his elbow like a battle scar.

It shouldn’t be sexy—he shouldn’t be sexy wearing it—but somehow, on him, it just is.

Palms hot against his waist, my thumbs press into his skin, tracing every shiver in his stomach. His abs flutter with tension, and I wonder if he even notices how hard he’s breathing, how his rhythm is already growing more frantic. But who am I to complain, right?

"You needed this, huh?" I grunt. "Needed to feel full. To feel like you could ruin me on your own terms."

His eyes flicker down, dark and glassy with lust. “Shut up, Callahan.”

But his pace quickens.

I let my head tip back against the wall, my fingers digging into the meat of his hips—not to guide him, just to hold on. He’s driving this. He’s the one fucking himself onto me, riding like he’s got something to prove—like every drop of control he’s lost over his life is something he’s reclaiming right now. And I’m letting him, gladly, because every part of this—of him—wrecks me in the best fucking way.

Behind the lust in his eyes, the determination never wavers. His lips, parted and panting, still manage to curl into a lopsided smirk. He’s enjoying this—reveling in it—and he wants me to know it.

Every time his muscles clench around me, he’s not just milking the pleasure straight out of me—he’s dragging me deeper into this obsession I’ve built around him. And fuck, I already know this is going to be the best orgasm of my life. If my brain weren’t so fogged up with sex right now, I’d be panicking—because the day this so-called casual fucking ends? It’s going to ruin me.

"You look so fucking good, pretty boy," I groan. "Like you were made to ride me."

Aphelios doesn’t answer—but his body does. His hips swivel in a slow, searching grind, and when he hits just the right angle, he cries out—sharp, wrecked, and involuntary. “God, yes—fucking yes—”

His whole body jolts like he’s been shocked, and I feel it—the way his walls clamp around me, sudden and tight, like his body’s begging for more.

His thighs flex around my hips as he moves faster now, chasing that spark, chasing more , the slick sound of skin against skin getting louder, wetter, filthier. He’s close—I can tell by the stuttered moans caught in his throat, the way his head tips back and his fingers clutch for balance on my shoulder like he’s slipping under.

And fuck, if he’s falling, I’m falling right with him.

My hand finds his cock, slick and twitching between us. “Let me—”

He grabs my wrist and slams it against the wall behind me.

“No!” he growls between pants.

My heart fucking lurches. There’s something wild in his expression now, something half-unraveled. And maybe he is close, or maybe he’s just so desperate to feel like the one in charge of something—anything. And yeah, that works for me.

So I don’t fight him. I let him take me—watch him bounce on my cock, feel him clamp down around me every time his thighs flex. Each tight squeeze sends a zap straight to my spine, tingling deep in my groin—a sharp, electric warning that I’m getting close. Closer than I want to be.

“You gonna come just like that?” I ask, half breathless. “Without me even touching you, baby?”

His back arches, then suddenly, his hand reaches behind my neck, snaps up into my hair and tugs at them. He leans in—forehead pressing hard against mine, breaths mingling, lips barely a breath apart. It’s intimate. Raw. And it kills me. Kills me that he still won’t let me kiss him. I want it so bad it aches in my teeth, in my chest. But I don’t. I stay still, even as his body trembles around me, chasing the edge.

“Fuck—” he groans, voice cracking on the edge. “I need you to fucking touch me, babe.”

I don’t hesitate. One hand keeps him steady at the waist, the other wraps around his cock, hot and slick and straining. I stroke him in rhythm with his frantic grind, matching the pace of his riding. He’s close—I can feel it in every shiver, every tremble in his thighs, every desperate gasp that spills from his velvet lips.

And I can’t hold back anymore.

My hips snap up into him, meeting his rhythm with deep, eager thrusts. I feel my balls draw tight, that telltale burn winding low in my spine.

Aphelios lets out a loud, guttural cry—one that echoes off the walls and punches right through me. “I’m gonna come—fuck, I’m gonna—”

God, I love how vocal he is. How unapologetically loud and real he gets when he lets go. His whole body tenses, clamping down hard around me, and then he’s spilling hot and messy between us, painting my hand and our stomachs. His chest heaves. His thighs tremble. His voice goes high and wild with little gasps and broken curses as he rides it out, wrung dry and still grinding through the aftershocks.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And the way he clenches down on me—tight, rhythmic pulses around my cock—tears my release from me like it was waiting just behind my teeth. I groan low and deep, hips jerking up involuntarily as I come hard, buried to the hilt inside him. The condom fills as I hold him tight, pulse-for-pulse, the room thick with breath, sweat, and the raw sound of him.

Aphelios collapses forward, our chests pressed together, and my hands instinctively slide up along his spine to hold him there. His skin is damp against mine, warm and real, and his hair sticks to my forehead, tickling—but I don’t move. I can’t. I don’t want to. I just want to bask in this, in the afterglow, in him.

For a moment, it’s like his barriers don’t exist. No mask, no distance. Just the weight of him on top of me and the quiet sound of our breath mingling in the space between.

I close my eyes, jaw tight as I fight the unbearable urge to kiss him. This goddamn no-kissing rule is eating me alive.

But it’s like he can read my fucking mind. I feel him shift, angling his face away from mine, and then—he bites down on my shoulder. A sharp nip, possessive. My whole body flinches with need and, somehow, I’m already ready to go again.

“You cocky piece of shit—” I groan, breathless, both ruined and on fire all over again.

And then it happens—something that knocks the air right out of my lungs and sends my heart hurtling into orbit, with no plans of coming back down.

Aphelios laughs.

It’s soft, low, muffled against my skin, but it’s real. A little messy, a little breathless. And it’s the best goddamn sound I’ve ever heard.

I hold him like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I let go, and maybe I am. I don’t want just this—just his body, just the heat of him riding me into oblivion. I want the version of him that laughs against my shoulder. The one who trusts me enough to fall apart on top of me and not flinch when I wrap him in my arms like he belongs there.

And maybe he does. Maybe I want him to.

Fuck.

He said he could handle this—us—so long as we didn’t make it mean anything. So long as I didn’t fall for him.

But the joke’s on him. Because I think I already have.

Not in the way he fears. Not with the L-word. Hell no. I’m not in love . That’s not what this is. It’s just... attachment. Affection, maybe. Obsession on my worst days. But not love.

Except if it’s not love, then why the hell do I want to memorize every sound he makes? Why does it feel like something inside me is stitched to him, and every second we’re like this, it pulls tighter?

Nah. It’s not love.

It’s just... more.

And I’m so goddamn screwed.

My alarm blares like a goddamn siren in the quiet of the room, yanking me halfway out of a dream I don’t remember. I blink blearily at my phone, pawing it off the nightstand to shut the thing up. The screen glows 3:32 AM , and I groan into my pillow.

This summer shift is killing me—but it’s still better than dying on a construction site under the summer sun, baking alive with no shade in sight.

My head tilts forward as I breathe him in. I’m spooning Aphelios—both of us completely naked. One arm draped around his waist, my chest pressed to his back, our legs tangled like we’ve been doing this for years. I can’t even remember how we fell asleep like this. Last night’s a blur of skin and moans and laughter that still echoes somewhere in my bones.

This thing we’re doing? Casual. Totally. That’s the deal.

But waking up like this? Warm body tucked against mine, skin on skin, breath soft and steady under my arm— It’s intimate. It’s goddamn beautiful.

None of my hookups ever got this far. Orgasm, cleanup, maybe a half-assed compliment if I was feeling generous—then I was out the door. I never stuck around. Never wanted to, begging whatever is living in heaven to never cross paths with any of them again.

But this once?

I know I’m gonna miss it.

And the cruel part? Aphelios is the one who doesn’t want us to cuddle.

So why does this feel like something I’ll be craving for the rest of my damn life?

For the alarm or my shifting, he hasn’t moved a muscle—sleeping like a rock. Still as stone, and yet impossibly soft where his cheek’s smushed into the pillow. Hair a tousled mess, curls sticking out in every direction. Lips parted, breath slow and steady, snoring just faintly like a secret he's letting slip.

He looks peaceful. Like nothing could touch him here. Like the world’s weight never found him.

It’s creepy, I know—I feel like a stalker just watching him breathe. But fuck, if I don’t want to burn this into memory. Memorize every little detail. The curve of his nose, the flutter of his lashes, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled beneath his chin.

Like maybe if I can hold onto all of it, it’ll keep me company when I’m alone again.

I lean in close, close enough that my breath stirs the hair at the nape of his neck. I brush my nose there, a soft touch he doesn’t feel.

And I whisper something I shouldn't—

Words that don’t belong in the mouth of a man who agreed to keep things casual.

“You’re killing me, y’know that? There’s no future. But there is something , isn't there?”

He doesn’t stir. And maybe that’s for the best, because even I’m shocked at myself.

I need to back off—fast. Not just because his naked body’s stirring my dick awake again, but because… what the hell was I just thinking?

Lifting the sheet and I peel myself away, not without effort. My hand snags the knotted condom on the nightstand—a very specific trophy from last night—and I toss it in the bathroom trash. The shower’s quick. Cold enough to snap me back to reality.

Somehow make it through the shift without breaking a toe under a load of bricks or sawing off my damn hand. Which, let’s be honest, is an achievement. Work passed in a blur of bricks, concrete, and trying not to think too hard. My mind kept ping-ponging between he came back and he let me fuck him . One’s about my father. The other’s about Aphelios. Can’t decide which one’s screwing with my head more.

I didn’t ask for this storm in my chest. I didn’t ask to care this much. What if last night was a one-off? A test? What if he’s decided that now we’ve crossed that line, it’s time to cut the cord? 

I try not to spiral. Funny thing is, whenever I start thinking about one, I forget the other. And between the two, I’m actually a little glad it’s Aphelios who’s hijacking most of my thoughts this morning. Even if it stings sometimes—just thinking about him—it still feels better than the other shit. Just remembering the way I woke up next to him is enough to hold onto.

Right now, I’m driving my loaded truck, sun high in the sky, paint warm under my arm where it rests out the window. Sweet Child O’ Mine fuzzes through the speakers I finally got working—a damn miracle considering I’d been kicking the thing for weeks. The sky is blue, the trees blur past, and my AC is doing the bare minimum to keep us from boiling.

K’s baby-blue truck is leading the way, packed with gear, snacks, and more sarcasm than should legally be allowed in one vehicle. Four more people joined the annual lake trip, so we had to split across two trucks. And I somehow ended up with Aphelios riding shotgun, Alune and Aurora in the back, and the kind of dumb grin on my face that only comes from sleep deprivation and dangerously high hope.

Because he stayed.

We’re doing this.

Of course, I’m not a total idiot. Aphelios had hesitated every damn time I brought it up, brushing me off, mumbling maybe. I was dead sure he’d ditch me and my dumb idea. But no—he’s here. In my truck. Sitting in a way that should be illegal. One knee drawn up, his dark-blue shorts riding high, thighs on display like he’s doing it on purpose. I have to keep reminding myself not to crash us into a tree.

“You’re staring, Callahan.” he says flatly, without looking at me.

“Yeah, well, you’re sitting like a fucking centerfold.”

That earns me a side-eye. “You’re driving. Eyes on the road, driver.”

I snort, tearing my gaze forward. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you always this annoying on long drives?” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

“Annoyed by long things, Madden?”

Aurora leans forward between the seats. “Oh my god, you guys finally slept together?”

“That will never happen!” Aphelios and I say at the same time. Which, yeah. Doesn’t sound convincing.

Aphelios flicks her forehead without even turning. “I’ll throw you out the window.”

“I’ll bring a floatie!” she beams, totally unfazed.

I wouldn’t mind if someone knew, honestly. But I’m pretty sure Aphelios doesn’t want whatever’s happening between us in the trailer to be known outside of it. Not that he has a problem with his sexuality—he just doesn’t wear it on his sleeve. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t guess. And I’m not complaining—hell, last night was hot , and I can only hope for a rematch.

Still, I wonder how those bastards figured it out. The ones who used to insult him. Harass him. He only told a few people, and they weren’t the type to talk. So yeah, I wonder. And I hate it.

From the back, Alune lets out a fake gag before I catch her grinning at her twin in the rearview mirror.

Yeah, pretty sure Alune is anything but annoyed by our jabbing. She’s thriving . Wouldn’t be surprised if she asked for some popcorn next. There’s a glint in her eyes as she looks at me, then at her brother, before nudging Aurora to hand her a red licorice. Yup. Whatever movie is playing in her head, it definitely stars her brother and me—with fewer clothes—and that’s... kinda unsettling.

And yet, it’s weird. Because if there ever was a day Aphelios and I ended up dating, I’m almost certain she’d approve. Despite all my past fuckups. Not that it’s gonna happen anytime soon—but with every damn second that passes, Aphelios keeps worming his way further into my head, messing with my personal space, my peace, everything.

Like right now. He’s sitting so close but still too far. And it’s stupid, I know, but I miss him already—like I want to reach over, cup his cheek or lay a hand on his thigh. Not to start anything. Just to show him. Hey. I’m here. You’re not alone.

But I won’t. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road. I’m gonna focus on what’s ahead and make this trip unforgettable. And hell, I think it’s already off to a good start.

So yeah, I decide to steer the vibe somewhere safer, away from Aurora’s direct-to-Netflix sex drama commentary. Clearing my throat, I flick on the blinker before the turn, following K’s truck down the path leading toward the lake and the perfect camping spot. “Heard Senna and Lucian had their baby boy?”

That does the trick. Alune jumps in with a dramatic gasp, like I’ve just accused them of treason. “They’re thriving,” she says, stretching the word like it’s gospel. “Senna sends me baby pictures every week now. Their kid’s, like, the cutest human ever created. Among the bunch they already have.”

“Baby’s cute,” Aurora adds. “Big head. Permanent scowl. Looks like Lucian if he forgot how to read.”

The Winstons are a complete mystery to me—in a good way. They’re the perfect picture of a big family, lots of kids and happiness. Pretty sure Lucian’s thrilled to finally have a boy in the mix, growing up surrounded by his wife and daughters.

That gets them all going. They keep chatting, the three of them, flipping between topics like it’s a group text thread with no moderation. Daycare drama. Senna’s Instagram stories full of chaotic kid content. Lucian’s splintered hands and refusal to wear gloves. How one of their kids apparently tried to eat a bug because “it looked crunchy.”

I toss in a comment here and there, mostly just to hear Aphelios talk back. He’s relaxed into the seat now, elbow hooked on the door, still looking like something illegal in that old gray eat sleep drive repeat T-shirt—that happens to be mine.

Oh yeah, don’t get it twisted. He doesn’t know it’s mine. I fed him some excuse about Sam leaving it behind and never asking for it back, didn’t mention that it’s mine and it doesn’t even fit me anymore. And he didn’t question it either—probably because if there’s one person nobody would bat an eye borrowing clothes from, it’s Sam. She’s got that kind of loud, solid energy that reads more brawler than fashionista.

Though I do remember he hesitated a little when I first offered the shirt a few days ago when I mentioned he still doesn’t have much of a wardrobe. At first, I figured he was just uncomfortable accepting more help from me, but then he gave me that look—kinda wary, like he thought maybe I was hooking up with her and she left her things in my trailer. And yeah, he gave me the same vibe last night. Which was kind of cute in a way, if you ignore the fact that he was low-key jealous over the wrong person. Sam’s ride or die, period. Not my type. Not anyone’s type unless they like getting suplexed over breakfast.

Still not sure why he’d be jealous, though. I mean, what we’ve got—it’s not like we put a label on it. Just a casual thing, right? No strings, no promises. Even if I’m kinda hoping it doesn’t end too soon.

I just don’t get it. Anyway, I think I cleared it up last night—not because I needed to, or because I was hoping it’d get me another round with him—though, yeah, my dick clearly wouldn’t mind—but because it felt right. Like he should know. And now he’s just sitting there, wearing something that used to be mine, like it’s no big deal. But to me? It feels like a big deal.

Feels damn good. 

Honestly.

Almost as honest as how surprised I am to see how easily he’s fitting into the conversation.  Hello? We’re talking about kids and babies. Those are monsters . But he’s there, nodding along, even throwing in a few dry comments of his own.

The tension from earlier is fading, and I want to keep it that way.

Kids were never on my bucket list. Not because I’ve got anything against them—well, okay, maybe a little, they’re loud and sticky—but mostly because I never needed that kind of dream. Growing up the way I did, with my mom doing everything she could just to keep us afloat, it never made sense to imagine a future with tiny feet running around. You don’t plan for a family when your first instinct is survival.

And it’s not like I ever thought about settling down , either. Hell, I’ve never even thought seriously about the right partner—never had the time, the space, or the kind of life where that felt like a real option. Relationships felt like something other people did. People who weren’t scraping by or living out of rusted metal on wheels.

So yeah, I guess I figured I’d always be the guy who takes it day by day. Pay the bills, fix the trailer, race with my Camaro. Nothing more, nothing less.

But then there’s Aphelios. And as much as I try not to overthink it—because that’s how you jinx shit—I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like if we had more time. If things weren’t temporary or complicated or shadowed by all the crap he’s been through. If this thing between us wasn’t so careful, so hush-hush, so maybe-it’s-nothing-maybe-it’s-more.

Which is why I probably shouldn’t have brought up kids. I mean—what the hell was I thinking? Of course it’s a normal topic, we’re driving, it was meant as a deflection, but now my brain’s sprinting off with stupid ideas. Things that have no place in my life. So kids? That's a helluva no. But someone to spend time with?

Thankfully, the radio crackles and cuts through the moment like it knows I need the help. Some pop-punk tune Alune knows by heart starts up and before I can even process the lyrics, she’s belting it out in the backseat like it’s karaoke night and not a bumpy drive through the woods. I’m starting to think she’s trying to summon something. If we get attacked by birds, I’m blaming her.

“Fucking fuck, Alune!” I groan, eyes rolling before darting them back to the road. “You’ve got the lungs of a goddess and the pitch of a drunk raccoon.”

“ Excuse you? ” Alune gasps, scandalized, kicking the back of my seat in protest. Aurora snorts right next to her.

I catch a glimpse of Alune’s red face in the mirror—but truthfully, I barely register it.

Because, in the passenger seat, Aphelios laughs. And my head spins in his direction like I may be mishearing things.

Not a scoff. Not a muted huff or a sarcastic idiot . A real one. Again. Like last night’s. Full and startled, caught off guard—slicing through the car like sunlight through fog. It hits me dead center. Wrecks me in the most unfair way possible. My hands tighten around the wheel as something flutters loose in my chest, wild and reckless, spreading like a storm surge.

“You hit the nail on the head, Callahan,” he says, still grinning, still amused.

Aurora’s dying in the backseat, and from the sounds I’m hearing, I’m guessing she’s trying to dodge her not-girlfriend’s slaps. “ Ow , honey, I’m so not sorry!”

But I’m not really listening anymore. Not to them. Not even to Summer Paradise on the radio—the lyrics finally clear for once, but irrelevant now.

Because Aphelios is still grinning at whatever the girls are bickering about. Still turned just slightly toward the window, but it’s that kind of slow, unguarded smile. The kind he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing. It tugs at the corners of his mouth and softens his whole face—pulling out those damn dimples that have no right to exist.

And goddamn if it doesn’t make my stomach flip, turn, and light up like I just hit the jackpot.

Butterflies?

Try fucking hurricanes .

K’s truck slows and veers off the gravel path, and I follow behind, tires crunching over packed dirt as we hit the lakeside clearing. The place is even better than I remembered. Wide open stretch of land framed by pine and oak, with enough shade to make the heat tolerable and enough sun to light the whole scene like a damn postcard. Just beyond the treeline, the lake sparkles, stretching out calm and flat, reflecting the blinding blue sky like glass. A little further out, the cliff stands tall—maybe fifteen, twenty feet up—fringed with wild grass and rock. Perfect for idiots with poor decision-making skills and something to prove.

I kill the engine, and everyone tumbles out—stretching, yawning, taking in the view.

"Fuck yeah," Sam says, cracking her back with a sound that makes Aurora wince. "I’m swimming first. Don’t try to stop me."

“You packed your swimsuit?” Alune asks.

“Nope.”

That gets a round of groans and laughs. Sam just grins, unbothered.

But she doesn’t yet, because her first move is to check out her trees.

Sam’s got this thing. Not a thing for trees, but a rule. If there’s solid trunks, not too far apart and not covered in bugs, that’s where she’s sleeping. Sam’s weird about tents. Says she doesn’t hate them, just prefers “not sleeping inside a zipper.” It’s her last resort, reserved for storms and disasters. So her hammock goes up first—she drags it out with reverence, like it’s holy. Snaps the carabiners on like a pro. The thing’s been patched five times, I swear, and she still treats it better than most people. Sometimes.

The rest of us fall into motion. Unpacking gear. Tossing tent bags into piles. Folding out chairs. The coolers hit the dirt with a thunk . I haul a couple bags over toward the clearing where the tents’ll go, then glance back and catch sight of him.

Aphelios, still hovering by the car. Elbow braced close to his body. Shoulders tight. He’s trying —I can tell. He helped grab one bag, maybe two, but now he’s standing still, shifting on his feet like he doesn’t know where to slot himself in. The baseball cap he put on as he got out of the truck is pulled down over his face, as though no one would notice that he's just... stuck. Not like he’s slacking—just like he’s trying to read the room and can’t find his part in the play.

And damn it, I should’ve seen that coming.

Heading his way, I keep my tone easy, casual. “You good, Madden?”

He doesn’t give me an answer. Just a curt nod—barely that, really—and turns like he's already halfway checked out of the conversation. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. And the much dumber, much stronger urge to reach out and lift his damn cap, just so I can see his eyes. Drown myself in that bottomless darkness that never gives me what I want, and somehow still drags me under every time.

Hell, I want to grab his wrist and just pull him into the woods behind the clearing. Let the others deal with the tents and the food and the cooler full of probably already-warm drinks. I can see it too clearly—pressing him up against the trees, muffling his breath with my mouth, getting down on my knees to taste him again like it hasn’t been forever since I’ve had him. Since that ghost of a kiss at the nape of his neck last night. Since I buried myself in him and felt his fingers dig into my shoulder like I was something he could hold onto.

But it’s not just that.

It’s not just the heat that crawls under my skin when he’s near. It’s not just the ache in my gut when I look at him and remember how he sounds when he breaks apart in my arms.

It’s that I want to help. I want him to feel like he belongs here. Like this isn’t some borrowed space where he has to keep his guard up. I want to take some of the weight off his shoulders—not because he needs me to, but because I want to. Because it pisses me off that he still looks like he’s waiting for someone to tell him he doesn’t fit in.

But I think… my brain didn’t exactly lead me down the right path this time.

“You don’t gotta just stand there lookin’ pretty—wanna give Yone a hand with the lunch stuff?”

I mean it as a suggestion. Something chill, useful, easy on the elbow. But the moment it leaves my mouth, I see it land wrong.

Aphelios’ jaw tics. His eyes cut to mine, narrowed under the brim. “Right,” he says, flat. “Because God forbid I look useless, Callahan.”

“No—shit. That’s not what I—”

He doesn’t wait. Just turns on his heel, sharp and curt, stomping off across the grass like an elephant. Pissy as hell. Still, he heads straight toward Yone, who gives him one of those easy smiles, says something I can’t catch. Aphelios nods—barely—but stays there, helping Yone sort out the cooler and some food without another word on one of the fold-up tables.

I stand there like an idiot.

Because yeah, I was trying to help. And yeah, it came out sounding like I wanted to send him to the kiddie table.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, grounding and familiar. I turn to see K watching me with that look—part sympathy, part you’re an idiot , but mostly just him being steady.

“You’re head over heels, dude,” he says, smirking like he knows every page of the damn book.

“I’m not,” I mumble too fast. I’m just obsessed. And not just in the way my body reacts to him—though that’s a hell of a thing on its own. It’s like when I’m behind the wheel, just me and the Camaro, tunnel vision locked on the track. But with Aphelios, he’s the focus. Everything else fades. I orbit around him without even trying, like gravity’s got a name and it’s stitched into the back of his baseball cap. It feels good, electric, magnetic—but also like there’s a whole damn ocean between us impossible to cross.

My best friend raises a brow. “You’ve been staring at him like he’s the only campfire you’d warm your hands on.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “I tried to help. I wasn’t trying to—hell, I don’t know what I said wrong.”

Lie. I do know. I’m Sett Callahan. King of Fuckups.

K squeezes my shoulder before letting go of it. “Don’t try to leap the whole canyon in one go. Just take baby steps. You invited him, right? Let that count for something.”

He’s right, once again. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I just need to give him space. Let him breathe. Let him feel like he’s got room to exist here without me pressing in from every side. I can’t screw it up by hovering like a damn mosquito around a porch light. Just… let him come to me, if he wants to.

But fuck, keeping that space?

That’s the hard part. It’s like every time I look away, something in me tugs to look back. Like he’s got this invisible leash wrapped around my ribs, pulling tight if I drift too far.

I want to do right by him—I do. But I don’t know if I’ve got the kind of patience this needs.

Not when he’s right there, close enough to touch but miles out of reach.

“Right,” I mutter. Not convinced. But trying.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the last tent still rolled up in the grass. “Give me a hand before Sam beats us to the cliff and claims it for her throne.”

“Not gonna happen,” I finally manage to plaster a grin onto my lips. 

I’m here to chill too, right? No concrete to haul, no foreman barking orders, no exhaust fumes from the track choking up my lungs. No creaky trailer walls. No reminders of the sperm-donor who decided to show up after a decade of nothing. Just me, my friends, and a long-ass weekend stretched ahead like a gift.

The lake’s already glittering through the trees, calling me. The cliff's waiting, and yeah—I plan to yeet myself off it buck-naked the first chance I get. Sam's not keeping that waterbomb record, not this year. I’ll dive harder, louder, and make the biggest splash known to man, if it means reclaiming that dumb title we’ve passed back and forth since we were teens. And hell, even K will do his yearly cliff dive like a brick trying to learn ballet—arms flailing, screaming the whole way down—yet somehow still walks out of the water like he meant to do it that way. Every. Damn. Year.

And after that? Beer so cold it bites my throat. Stupid games with even dumber dares. Firelight crackling in the dark, crickets chirping somewhere out in the trees. The soft hum of music low in the background—or maybe just the quiet of the woods, broken only by the kind of pillow talk that happens when the day winds down and you’re surrounded by the people who matter most. Laughter, teasing, dumb confessions slipping out under the stars like secrets they’ll never bring up again in daylight.

I want that kind of night again. One that makes you forget there’s anything outside this clearing. One that sticks.

And… I want that with him here too. Even if he doesn’t know it.

I follow, boots crunching soft through the clearing. We fall into rhythm—quick, practiced, like the muscle memory of old summer trips. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Sam’s maybe, or K’s. Hard to tell with the way they trade gear. I should probably get one for myself someday, one that doesn’t cut out when you sneeze too loud.

As I tug a pole into place, a breeze rolls through the trees and something about it hits—familiar and warm. I remember Ma’s laughter echoing across the lake, K cannonballing so hard he soaked our lunch, and Sam teaching me how to do a flip off the edge even though I nearly cracked my ribs doing it.

Good days.

My gaze keeps drifting. Back to him .

Aphelios is crouched beside Yone now, careful with the brace, one hand steadying himself on his thigh. His cap’s still low, his focus locked on whatever they’re doing, and he hasn’t looked my way once.

But I see him.

Every goddamn second.

When the last tent is up and we’re dragging the final folding chair into the middle of the tree-ringed clearing, around the half-assembled campfire, I finally let myself drop into one—sweaty, winded, and ready to take a dip. I yank my tank top off, peeling the clingy, sweat-soaked fabric from my back and shoulders, letting the sun bake into my skin. Gotta remember sunscreen soon or I’ll fry like bacon.

As if someone read my damn mind, a bottle drops into my lap. I look up to see K grinning like the smug bastard he is.

“You need a hand?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

But my gaze slips past him, collides with Aphelios across the clearing—and just like that, I lose the ability to form words. He’s looking. Not long, not obviously, but enough. Enough to tighten something low in my gut.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say too casually, waving K off.

I squeeze a glob of sunscreen into my palms and start rubbing it into my biceps—slow, deliberate, knowing full well he's still glancing this way. It’s stupid. It’s petty. But it feels good. Feels like maybe I haven’t vanished entirely from his radar.

I’ll give him the space he needs. I swear I will. But that doesn’t mean I’ll go invisible when I smear another glob of white screen onto my pecs. Let him have the room to breathe—but let him see me while he’s doing it. Let him remember exactly what he’s pushing away.

Even if I’ll probably need help for my back eventually. Whatever. One step at a time.

“So, tents?” Aurora asks, flopping into a chair and fishing a beer from one of the coolers with practiced ease. Her sunglasses pushed on the top of her ginger hair, and her tank top’s half untucked like she’s already half into vacation mode.

“Well, obviously I’m shacking up with my man. Boyfriend privileges,” K snorts, stretching out his long limbs and cracking his neck like he’s about to lay claim to the whole forest. Standing behind him, Yone slants him a soft, fond smile.  

“The only thing I need is peace and leaves over my head,” Sam points cheerfully, cracking open a can of beer. “Y’all enjoy your claustrophobic tents.”

“Guess we’ll crash together?” Aurora says, gesturing between her and Alune.

“Sure, that works,” the rainbow twin hums, noncommittal—then grins over the rim of her soda. “Sam could always join if she takes a raincheck from her hammock.”

How did they define their whole thing again? Just two spiritually liberated individuals who happen to share a strong mutual trust. Said with such a straight face, too, like they weren’t just banging each other whenever the stars aligned—while still claiming it’s an open relationship. Some cosmic understanding I clearly don’t get.

But hey, if it works for them, who am I to judge?

Still. That kind of arrangement? Not mine. Never been.

I’ve had my share of one-night stands—more than I care to count—but if I ever commit? It’s all in. Full throttle. And I’m not the sharing type. If someone’s mine, they’re mine . Not in a possessive, controlling way, but… I don’t do the whole casual bed-hopping while we pretend it means nothing. Not when I feel everything.

And with Aphelios, I feel way too fucking much.

The problem is—I’ve already fallen into the exact trap I swore I never would. Casual. That slippery word.

So what if we’ve only had full-on sex once? That doesn’t erase the rest. The hand jobs. The late-night tension. The way I’ve bent over backward to make him feel safe while he’s still jerking me off in the dark like it’s no big deal. That counts. The touches count. The way I still ache when he pulls away definitely fucking counts.

And worse? I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to quit anytime soon.

I’m stuck in this in-between where I want to be near him so bad it burns, but I don’t know how to do that without wanting more. Without being more. And I don’t think that fits in whatever rules we’re pretending we have made up for ourselves yet. Because the way Yone gently scratches K’s shaved side-scalp, and K’s looking back at his boyfriend like he just hung up the damn moon? Yeah. I want that too.

“So the last one’s for both of you?” Yone asks, catching my gaze and snapping me out of it. He gestures between Aphelios and me.

I wouldn’t say I forgot about that little detail. Maybe just… shoved it into a dusty corner of my brain, hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with it right away.

My sunscreen-slick hand drifts to the base of my neck—where his mouth had been. The faint imprint of a bite still lingers there, ghosting beneath sun-warmed skin.

And god, I want another one. Want to feel his teeth again, dragging just hard enough to make the rest of the world fall away. But I’ve got a plan. A goal. An ambition to not fuck this up by charging in like before, all heat and desperate hands.

Especially when he’s tense, practically radiating don’t-touch-me vibes. He hasn’t even looked at me during the whole bunking conversation, and his jaw’s locked like he’s waiting for an excuse to snap. Still, part of me thought he’d have claimed the tent for himself already. 

“I’ll crash in the backload of my truck,” I say, casual—too casual—and chuck the bottle of lotion back into the crate before cracking open a fresh beer, like that seals the deal.

Heads turn, but it’s Aphelios who pins me. Dark eyes sharp, steady, brows slightly furrowed like he’s trying to figure out if I just spoke in a foreign language.

I meet his gaze, but I don’t flinch. Can’t. Because the truth is, I don’t trust myself. Not in the dark, not in a shared tent, not when he’s that close and we’re supposed to be casual—whatever that means. I don’t know how casual our sex can be any longer when my chest gets tight every time he’s within ten feet.

Better safe than reckless. Baby steps, remember?

I’ve got no damn clue where this is going, or if he even wants me around past this weekend, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t be without him anymore. Not like I was before. Not after everything.

I used to think it was just tension, rivalry, lust. Something sharp and temporary that would burn itself out. But it’s not. It’s him.

And I want more.

Not just skin and sweat and that unbearable distance between our lips. Not just the rush of it, or the tension we pretend to hate. I want all of it. The real shit. The kind that sticks.

Dozing off after pillowtalk that makes the night feel too short. I want mornings, when his hair’s a mess and his voice is all scratchy, and he tries to act like he doesn’t care that I’m watching him like he’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. I want the moods too—the quiet ones, the snappy ones, the ones where he shuts down and barely speaks. I’ll take those days if it means I get to be near him. I’ll wait out the silences if I’m the one he breaks them for.

I want to call him baby when no one’s around. Or pretty boy , just to see that eye-roll he does when he secretly likes it. I want to kiss him awake, feel the weight of him against me first thing in the morning, and murmur soft Good morning, Phel into his hair like I have the right to. Falling asleep after long pillowtalks.

I want to teach him Mom’s old recipes—watch him screw up the pasta timing and get defensive about it, then end up proud as hell when it turns out edible. I want his stuff scattered next to mine. His hoodie on my couch, his lotion on my shelf, his damn silence taking up every room like a heartbeat.

And I still want us to be rivals. On the track, I want to fight him tooth and nail—burn rubber, trade smirks at the starting line, push each other to the edge and past it. That part of us? I don’t want it to change.

But I’ll cheer for him too. Loud, unapologetic. I want him to know he’s a goddamn natural. That the Mustang doesn’t just suit him—it belongs to him. He’s the only driver made for that car. The way he handles it, the way it answers to him like it’s got a heartbeat synced to his—hell, it’s like watching instinct come alive in metal and speed.

And if I have to prove it to him, race after race, then so be it. I’ll fight him. And I’ll fight for him, too.

I want us. Whatever that looks like.

If we don’t ruin it. If I don’t ruin it.

And the worst part? I know he wants it too. It’s mutual, even if he won’t say it. Even if he still pretends it’s nothing.

But I see it.

It’s in the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking—like he’s starving for something he won’t let himself have. In how he pulls back, tight-lipped and tense, like he's scared of what might come out if he lets go. Or throws one of those sharp-ass remarks right back at me to hide behind his walls. In the way he takes care of me when I’m not at my best—quiet, steady, like he doesn’t even have to think about it. In the way he comes undone under my hands, trembling and soft, like touch might be the only language he still trusts.

And in those moments he doesn’t even realize he's asking me—begging me—not to look at him like he’s a failure. Whatever he’s holding back—whatever shadows he’s still carrying—I’ll do my damn best to win against them. 

So yeah—baby steps. Keep it slow. Keep it steady.

Even if my chest aches with every step I don’t take toward him.

“Truck’s got space,” I shrug, eyes not leaving his. “Good distance from K’s snoring.”

K flips me off without heat. “Rude, dude. Accurate. But rude.”

Yone snorts, and Aurora clinks her bottle against mine. “To the great sorting,” she declares, raising her beer.

“To new memories,” Sam adds with a grin.

And to restraint, I guess. If I can manage it.

But when my gaze accidentally lands on Aphelios—bending to grab a bottle of water from one of the coolers—I can’t unsee it. The bulge in his dark blue shorts is unmistakable. Guess my little sunscreen moment screwed more than just him.

I screwed myself too.

Uh, guess my hand’s gonna be great company while I stare at my phone screen tonight.

---

Aphelios Madden

The grass is real beneath my feet. The lake is real, too—glinting like polished glass under the late afternoon sun. The laughter echoing through the trees, the scent of sunscreen and grilled something, the scratchy fabric of a borrowed camp chair under my thighs. All of it.

I’m here. And it feels... good.

Which should be terrifying, because I’m still half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to break, or snap, or unravel in that familiar way it always does when I let myself relax. But for now, there’s nothing but this slow, golden warmth spreading through my chest. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Not like this.

I don’t remember the last time I went on vacation. Scratch that—I don’t remember ever going on one.

Not like this. Not tents and sunburns and music drifting lazily through trees. Not laughter that doesn’t sting. Not softness, earned and shared and freely given.

What I do remember, I’ve spent years trying to forget.

Not just the darker and painful things. Not just the silence, the shadows, the quiet wars behind glass doors and steel smiles. But the way we used to live. How everything sparkled, cold and calculated. How Alune and I were dressed in the finest threads, fluent in several languages before ten, expected to sit up straight and smile when spoken to. Miniature trophies in a penthouse mausoleum. Educated and drilled pawns in some high-stakes game we didn’t understand until it was too late.

I don’t know why I remember that now. Maybe because this—this patch of sunlit grass, this tangled knot of people and chaos and warmth—feels real. And whatever that life was? It never did.

We weren’t raised. We were curated. Our parents didn’t love us. Not truly. They wanted outcomes. Prestige.

Proof.

And we gave them all of it—in silence. But even silence can scream if you sit in it too long. And I couldn’t ignore those screams anymore.

Because of who I was.

A boy who likes boys.

Because I’m gay, and my mother resented me for it.

A mistake.

I used to wish I could’ve rebelled in some grand, cinematic explosion—burn the house down, storm out in the rain, slam the door on everything. But it wasn’t like that. Instead, I received slow, aching refusals and excruciating punishment. And I couldn’t run away. Leaving meant abandoning my other half—and I couldn’t do that. She’s my goddamn twin sister. The one person who’s always been there. And yet, I still feel like I’ve lost her.

If I hadn’t kissed that boy—whose name I don’t even remember—would things have been different?  

Now, here I am. In a place I don’t quite trust yet, with people I shouldn’t let in. But I'm letting them in anyway. Seeing that, it’s the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a pawn: I feel like a person.

“Ugh.” Yone’s grunt snaps me out of my thoughts, and honestly, I’m grateful.

It’s my first time meeting Yone personally, though I’d heard enough to piece together the basics. K’Sante’s not-so-new boyfriend—the real deal kind, the serious kind. The kind that doesn’t flinch when that big mass of a man gets loud or when life gets complicated. The composed one, apparently. And I can see it now.

Shoulder-length black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, same shade as his sharp, steady eyes. His skin’s almost as pale as mine, stretched over lean arms and long legs folded not so comfortably in a plastic chair. He’s wearing khaki shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt with way too many pineapples, looking somehow both put-together and like he stumbled out of a vacation brochure. Classic kind of beauty, I guess. Not really my type. Too calm. Too symmetrical. Not cut or ripped the way I want.

But he’s nice to tag along with. The kind of quiet that isn’t awkward, just… easy. Earlier, while we were prepping food for everyone—mostly me chopping and him double-checking if I was about to slice a finger—I picked up a few things. He works as an accountant for some food production company in the next town over, and he’s big into bikes. Not the shiny city showpieces, but the sleek, powerful kind you actually ride. He owns a Triumph and talks about it the way some people talk about pets or ex-lovers—fond, a little proud, like it knows all his secrets.

He mentioned a younger brother too, living overseas. Their relationship’s been rocky, not much contact for a while, but they’re working on it. He didn’t say much more, but the way he looked down for a beat, hands still busy with the skewers, said enough.

Apparently, he met K’Sante at Garren’s bar. First night was a hook-up. After that, they just… stuck. Like it was easy. Natural.

And now here he is, watching his boyfriend cannonball off a cliff, looking like he’s contemplating his life choices. Honestly? I kind of like him.

That is—until I turn to him and catch the shade of tomato red climbing up his neck.

He’s shifting in his plastic chair like it’s personally betrayed him. Arms crossed tight over his chest, knees pulled in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. And yeah, he’s definitely trying to hide more than just secondhand embarrassment—my eyes catch the subtle but unmistakable tension in his shorts, the way he subtly angles his hips like it might go unnoticed. I blink. Then snort. Because the poor guy really tries to hold himself together.

“Oh my god.” I grin. “Is this because your boyfriend is currently airborne and naked?”

There’s a loud splash as K’Sante breaks the surface of the water, followed by laughter, then another splash as Aurora and Alune jump in together. He groans louder and hides his face in his hands. “It’s not the nudity. It’s the glee . Why is he so enthusiastic about it?”

So much for Yone being the composed one. Guess I was wrong.

“Well,” I say, trying not to laugh, “it’s tradition, apparently. Dicks, tits, and adrenaline.”

Being surprised doesn’t quite cover it. It was one thing to hear a group of adults talk about jumping off a cliff like it’s a casual Tuesday, but watching it? That’s another story. I get it, though—everyone needs a shot of thrill and a stupid, reckless moment of fun.

And if I wasn’t stuck with this damn brace, I think… yeah, I would’ve joined. Because I’ve never done anything like that before. That rush of freedom where you don’t think, you just fall. Where gravity pulls at your stomach, your brain cuts out for a second, and there’s nothing but wind on your skin before the water swallows you whole. That's how I imagine the whole idea.

But when Samira started stripping with zero hesitation, looking smug and unbothered as the day she was born, I finally understood what she meant when she said swimsuits were optional.

What shocked me wasn’t the fact that they jumped—it was when I squinted up at the cliff and saw K’Sante, Samira, and Sett shrieking mid-air like gremlins let loose at a water park… completely naked. Not a single damn thread on them.

Aurora and Alune followed too—though with slightly more dignity, thank god. At least they kept their underwear on. I can’t— won’t —see my twin sister’s bare ass and pubes. Seeing her tits from this distance is already too much.

Yone side-eyes me, cheeks burning bright red. “Do you think that makes it better?” he mutters, mortified.

I try to laugh it off, but I’m still very much Not Over the sight of Sett sprinting across the rocks like a streak of sunlight and audacity. He’s soaked head to toe, hair dripping, golden skin shining, muscles flexing with every step as he whoops something cocky into the summer air before cannonballing off the ledge again like it’s the best damn day of his life.

The worst part?

I look.

Of course I look.

Fuck me sideways.

And every time they climb back up from the lake and run past us for another jump, no one even pretends to be modest. Water clings to skin in all the wrong-right places. And Sett—Sett fucking Callahan passes just close enough for me to catch everything in way too much detail. The powerful shape of his thighs, the defined cut of his abs, the way his wet curls stick to his temple, the low dip of his back as he stretches and laughs like nothing can touch him. His flaccid cock swings with the kind of confidence I should not be analyzing, and I nearly choke on my own tongue, eyes transfixed on the perfect sculpted globes of his ass.

I drag my gaze back up to safer ground—and find him looking right at me.

He’s smirking. A flicker of triumph in his eyes, just enough to say: Caught you staring, pretty boy.

I go stiff. My spine locks. My face catches fire and I feel it spreading towards my ears and neck in a beautifully shade of red. Groaning, I bury my face in my brace-free arm like I can scrub the embarrassment off. But I can still feel his gaze lingering. Cocky bastard.

And worse? I kind of want to look again.

Because I remember last fucking night.

The way his breath hitched when I sank down on him. The tremble in his thighs as he gripped my waist, offering himself up without a hint of hesitation. He let me take. Let me move the way I wanted, slow and sure, desperate and greedy. He gave me the reins—and fuck, it felt good. Not just the pleasure, not just the stretch and grind of it, but the power of it. The trust.

No one’s ever let me like that before. 

Having anal sex willingly.

I thought it’d answer something. Instead, it left me with more questions—like why it felt so right and wrong all at once, or why the memory of his hands still lives under my skin. All together with the fact that the pleasurable ache from sex with Sett wiped out pieces of my past trauma. I’d been scared shitless that I’d remember the pain from my childhood—but the way he looked at me, all hungry eyes and restraint, like he wanted me but would wait as long as it took… That was enough to make even my fear forget itself.

It makes it harder to pretend that night didn’t matter. That I don’t want more. That I’m not sure if I can keep it casual.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Yone mutters.

When I tilt my head to look at him, his gaze is unmistakably fixed on K’Sante—like someone watching their favorite dessert being served up on a silver platter, eyes glinting with hunger he’s trying, and failing, to hide.

I chuckle under my breath. But when I shift in my seat, I realize I'm no better. Half-mast, at the very least. Fuck my life.

We lapse into silence for a beat—just two dry, painfully sober, and clearly aroused spectators watching pure chaos unfold.

Alune would’ve teased me. She always does. Every time we get a second alone, she finds a way to bring Sett into the conversation with that smug little grin like she knows something I don’t. And maybe she does.

But she doesn’t do relationships. Not really. Like me, she keeps people at arm’s length—always has—and somehow, she still thinks she’s qualified to read my heart like tea leaves. I love her, but today I don’t want teasing. I want to breathe.

Yone is different. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Just sits beside me on the lakeside like he belongs there. He makes it easy to be quiet. Easy to breathe. It’s comforting, how he doesn’t try to guess what I’m thinking. So when I speak, it comes out low and blunt, before I can second-guess it.

“Tell me,” I say, eyes locked on Sett—currently holding Samira in a headlock, both of them thrashing in the lake like chaotic toddlers. There’s a sharp, hot curl in my stomach watching him, and I try to ignore it. “How do you know when what you’re doing is… the right thing?”

When I turn, Yone’s already looking at me. There’s something knowing in his smile, gentle at the edges and infused with warmth. He follows my gaze back toward the water, just in time to see his boyfriend throw my twin over his shoulder like a sack of flour. They’re both shouting, loud and ridiculous, and definitely about to start a full-blown splash war.

“You don’t,” Yone says. He glances back at me, steady and sure, and it lands deeper than it should. “You ask yourself a simple question. And if the answer comes fast? Then maybe you already know it. Even if it’s just a good fuck.”

Oh, a good fuck it was. My breath catches, and I nearly snort—but I swallow it down because if I let that bubble up, I might laugh for real. Or worse, say something stupid. Yone’s words just made everything more confusing.

What question am I even supposed to ask?

Was it good? Yes. God, yes. Would I do it again? No hesitation—yes. Do I want him around? Yes. Do I want to touch him again, kiss him again, hear him make those sounds again while I have him all to myself?

Yes, yes, yes.

But then—why did he say he’d sleep in the truck?

Why be such a fucking tease all day, hovering close, watching me with that look—and then just drop it like nothing?

It stung. Still does. And I hate that it does.

Yone’s words settle in my chest like a pebble dropped into water, sending ripples I don’t know how to name. So I ask myself more questions, the kind of answers that aren’t as easy and I wish they would. That’s the part that scares me—the nos buried under the yeses . The part of me that still thinks I’m too much and not enough all at once. And don’t get me even started on the damn maybes or the fucking I-don’t-knows . 

I glance back at the lake, where the chaos continues. Sett’s got Aurora balanced on his shoulders, muscles flexed as he wades deeper, laughing like a devil about to cause trouble. Across from them, K’Sante hoists Alune just as confidently, both sides locked in a shrieking shoulder-fight while Samira plays ref, whistling through her fingers like she’s running a professional match.

The heat in my chest twists tighter—uncomfortable, a mess of jealousy and arousal that sticks to my ribs like sap.

I want to be there.

Not here. Not stuck on the sidelines with my mouth dry and my chest heavier than it should be. I want to be the one Sett carries like that—want his hands braced on my thighs, his head tipped back in laughter, with me . Not her. Not anyone else.

And when I ask myself another question— Would I survive it if I let myself reach out and he didn’t take my hand?

The answer isn’t kind, it comes quiet and sharp, slicing clean.

No.

Not even close.

What in fuck's name am I supposed to do now?

“How about we make those savage food?” Yone says, standing up with a grunt. From the corner of my eye, I catch the subtle way he adjusts himself before clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Can’t watch any longer, or I’m gonna explode.”

“Fuck, yeah.” That pulls a quiet laugh from me—half-stifled, half-shaken loose from the back of my throat. It helps. I stand too, mirroring his movement just long enough to adjust my shorts in a similarly casual way. No matter how lost I get in my own thoughts, or how far I try to drift from it, the simple truth is: my eyes—and my dick—really like seeing Sett bare.

I trail after Yone to the firepit, where skewers and sausage packs are already set out. The heat here is different. Steady. A grounded kind of warmth mix with the summer heat. The fire crackles low between us, the smell of charred sausage and roasted peppers clinging to the air. There’s no shouting or splashing or naked limbs flying around. Just the low hiss of sizzling fat and the occasional pop from the wood. Albeit, my skewer is more a statement of confusion than food, and Yone hasn’t stopped teasing me about how I poked a hotdog clean off into the embers like it offended me.

Yone doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions. He just talks, soft and casual, and it’s… nice. He tells me about this tiny diner near his old neighborhood that makes the worst coffee but the best hash browns, and how the waitress once threatened to ban him and K’Sante because they kept stealing the salt shakers to prank each other. He chuckles about how K’Sante pretends to be unbothered in public, but gets shy when Yone compliments him too sincerely—“like full-on blushing, looking at his shoes, the whole thing.” That part catches me off guard. I hadn’t expected that. I guess we all carry a version of ourselves most people don’t get to see.

I don’t offer much in return, just the occasional nod or small hum. But Yone doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe he gets it. Maybe it’s enough that I’m just here.

And weirdly, I like being here. It’s… peaceful.

The fire is warm. My limbs are sore in a satisfying way when my ass plops in on a chair while the meat is sizzling above the heat. The sky is turning that honey-golden shade just before dusk, and the sounds of splashing and laughter have quieted behind us. The sound of footsteps shuffling closer, and one by one, they return—clothed, thank the stars.

Samira flops down beside Yone with a wet sigh, her hair tied up in a haphazard damp bun, still laughing over something Aurora said to her. She stretches her legs out like she owns the whole campground.

My twin curls up next to me, chin resting on my shoulder, dripping and smug. She smells like lakewater and sunscreen, and it’s a strange nice feeling. She eyes the sausage skewered awkwardly on my stick. “Bet you’ve been bullying that poor sausage for ten minutes, Phel,” she whispers, biting back a grin. “Is this some kind of performance art?”

I grunt and roll my eyes, but I can’t stop my lips from curling into a smile. “Don’t you have someone else to torment?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the p. “You’re my favorite victim.”

I gently shove her with my elbow, but not hard enough to make her move. Her laughter’s easy, and for once, it doesn’t sting. Not even when she adds, “You’re lucky it’s not Callahan watching you butcher dinner. He’d never let you live it down.”

My ears go warm. I don’t answer. Because she’s right, he totally would.

K’Sante leans down to steal a quick kiss from Yone, murmurs something soft against his jaw that makes Yone smile, and then strides to the cooler with purpose. He cracks it open and starts handing out drinks like a benevolent king, tossing a cold beer toward Samira and offering Alune her favorite without her asking.

Sett sits across the fire, towel draped over his head as he scrubs at his damp dark crimson-colored hair. His white tank top clings in all the right places—thin, soaked through in patches from water. It hugs the curve of his chest, sticks to the sharp line of his abs, darkened where water’s still dripping down his sides. 

I don’t look away fast enough, he catches me staring. Of course he does. His smirk curls, slow and deliberate, lingering for a second too long before he turns to grab a plate like he didn’t just catch me undressing him with my eyes.

“Okay, game time!” Alune announces, clapping her hands with bright-eyed mischief. Groans rise around the firepit, but none serious enough to stop her. Unbothered, she leans forward, setting her empty plate aside and slinging an arm around my neck, her sun-kissed rainbow hair tickles my cheek. “Never have I ever broken a bone.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, bitch?” I deadpan, but obediently lift my can of soda to my lips, and I can’t help the way they tug upward into a shit-eating grin. Across the fire, Sett and Samira also drink, Sett tipping his beer back with easy, practiced motions.

Samira leans back on her elbows, grinning wide as she recounts how she once broke her right hand during a brawl in her military days. She looks far too pleased about it, chest puffed with pride like the pain has been worth it just for the story. Across the fire, Sett only chuckles, tossing his beer can from hand to hand before brushing off the topic of scars altogether, calling them "sexy as fuck" like it was nothing.

The words are light, tossed into the night with a crooked smile, but they catch somewhere deep in my chest.

I know how heavy some of Sett’s scars really are—the ones he doesn't show, the ones that make his eyes go distant when he thinks no one is looking. The way he brushes them off now, so carelessly, like they don’t matter, sits wrong with me. Like he has to laugh about it before it can weigh him down again.

I’m not like that. My own scars sit heavier, tucked deep beneath my skin where no one can reach them. I can’t brush them off with a grin or brag about how I survived. I’d rather keep them hidden, where they can’t weigh anyone else down the way they still weigh me.

A strange tightness twists low in my ribs, but Alune bumps her knee against mine, jolting me back before I can sink too deep into it. The fire cracks and the game rolls on, questions flow around like fireflies—random, ridiculous, sometimes brutally intimate.

“Never have I ever kissed my best friend on the mouth.” Only Alune and Aurora sip before Aurora rounds the firepit, sneaks up on Alune’s other side, and cups her face to give her an open-mouthed kiss—just to prove their point. My sister’s face goes cherry red, and I can’t hold back a snort.

Relief trickles through me faster than I can process, and I don’t even know why—but it doesn’t matter. I barely have time to register it before K’Sante is already throwing another curveball. “Never have I ever gone commando.” 

No surprise here—the entire circle lifts their drinks without hesitation, even me.

By the time Aurora throws out, “Never have I ever bought lingerie,” we all nearly choke on air—especially when Yone, and only Yone, takes a guilty sip. The firelight stains his face a deep, telltale pink as Samira whoops and claps him hard on the back.

“I lost a bet, okay?!” he protests, flustered.

“No you didn’t,” his boyfriend grins, nudging Yone’s neck with his nose before leaning in for a kiss.

I tear my gaze away, smiling into my can. Some things are too sweet to stare at for long.

“You good, Phel?” Alune nudges her forehead against my cheek, the way she used to when we were younger, a fucking long time ago. I breathe in deep, tilting my head to meet her soft dark gaze, so similar to mine.

Am I good?

Somewhere around me, VOILÀ’s Dancing On Graves hums low from the bluetooth speaker. I don’t know who synced their phone, but the song—its rhythm pulsing low, eerie and electric, like a heartbeat you’re trying too hard to ignore. It’s not the usual mindless background noise. It’s theatrical, dramatic—melancholy dressed up like a celebration. The laughter crackles louder than the fire, a living thing that pulls us closer, wraps around my ribs until I can barely tell where the ache ends and the warmth begins.

Even when the questions edge into more mortifying territory, none of it really matters—we’re all a mess of flushed faces and aching ribs by then, tangled between stories and teasing, tripping over each other’s words like there’s no shame in it.

I let myself believe in the moment. I’m surrounded by people who don’t expect me to be anything but here and it’s a damn strange feeling. It feels so light to sit here, with my sister’s laughter threading into mine, with the glow of the fire warming my skin and the easy hum of voices all around me—this warmth, this noise—it stirs something inside me.

I almost don't trust it—call me an idiot for being skeptical. Is this what happiness is supposed to feel like? How can I feel this light when so much is still broken? When there are cracks in places no one can see?

For a moment, guilt pinches under my ribs, sharp and stupid. Like I should be working harder to fix everything, to be better.

But the feeling fades when Alune bumps my knee again, when Sett snorts beer out of his nose because Samira said something outrageous, when Yone drags K’Sante closer by the collar or when Aurora offers me another drink.

Maybe it’s okay to feel good, even if nothing's perfect.

The entire time, my twin doesn’t tear her gaze away, and I feel a little closer to her than I have in years. I offer her a genuine smile because, for just a moment, I can admit to her, that “Yes, I'm good.”

Especially when I eventually get Sett’s attention. Or maybe when he gets mine—I don’t even know anymore. My head snaps toward him so fast something twinges in my neck, and I barely suppress a groan when he throws out a bashful question, meant for me. Obviously. That lazy grin, the sharp glint in his golden eye, dares me to lie. “Never have I ever sixty-nined.”

I want to call bullshit, to brush it off. But I’m still in the game, and before I can think better of it, my hand moves on its own, lifting the soda can to my lips. I flick him the bird across the flames. He wants under my skin? Fine. He’s already there. He always has been.

And I can’t deny it anymore. I need his attention. I crave it in a way that burns, even though it aches knowing how far I’ve pushed him away. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I started it—shoving him away when he was just trying to help me ease into this whole gathering.  But that’s what I do, right? I snap. I defend. I ruin anything soft before it can disappear on its own. Because if I let anything good settle close, I’m scared I’ll wake up one morning and it’ll be gone. Just gone.

Like waking up in an empty bed.

Alune leans in beside me, face tilted, wearing a grin that doesn’t match the wide, faux-innocent look in her eyes.

“Is it wrong that knowing that about you turns me on?” she teases.

“You’re a fucking menace,” I hiss, and she pouts dramatically before pressing a kiss to my cheek.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

Speaking of menaces—Sett. Through the firelight, I find him again. He’s still staring at me, his expression unreadable behind that crooked, infuriating grin.

I’m wondering if we’re even still playing that game, because right now, even with laughter echoing and someone nudging someone else in the ribs, it feels like it’s just him and me. The air’s thick with noise, but none of it touches me—not the music, not the teasing, not the jokes ricocheting across the circle. Only Sett. Only that damn look. A staring contest I’m losing in real time, because—fuck—I think Sett could take me apart without ever laying a finger on me.

And gods, I want his hands on me. Not soft. Not gentle. I want the hands made for breaking bones and rules, mapped across my skin like I’m something built to be undone. Like I’m a song unraveling beneath his hands—his rhythm rough, precise. He’d find every hidden seam in me and tug until I’m reduced to breath and ache and the sharp, unbearable joy of finally coming undone in someone else’s hands.

He could wreck me. Rewire everything I know about touch and need and safety.

It’s not just lust—it’s surrender. The dangerous kind. The kind that whispers let him . That dares me to believe he wouldn’t just hollow me out, but fill the spaces with something I didn’t know I was missing.

There’s a recklessness in him that should be a warning, but all it feels like is gravity. Like standing at the edge of something high and leaning in.

Until I fall.  

“Have I ever been in love.” I don’t even know who says it. The words land like a lit match in a dry field, and suddenly I’m frozen—fingers clenched around my can, drink hovering just short of my lips.

Through the haze of smoke, I catch K’Sante’s hand brushing against Yone’s—a fleeting, weightless touch—and both of them drink without hesitation. The girls’ reactions blur past me, irrelevant. Because Sett’s gaze slices straight through the fog and pins me where I sit. He mirrors me exactly—beer suspended, lips parted, like the same question hit both of us right in the sternum.

And I don’t know why— fuck , I don’t know why—but I wait for it. For his reaction. Like it’ll explain something, like it’ll mean something. My pulse thunders. My lungs clamp up. And for a moment, the firelight, the laughter, the world—it all goes thin , like I’m holding my breath at the edge of something I’m hoping for.

“Sunshine?!” Samira jabs Sett in the shoulder with a laugh, snapping the moment clean in half. “You actually know that word?”

“Fuck off, Sam’,” Sett mutters, dragging his beer away from his mouth without drinking.

There’s a sudden, crawling itch beneath my brace that snaps me back into my body.

“Phel?” Alune’s voice cuts through, low and worried. And I don’t know why, but the way she looks at me, pisses me off.

“I’m tired,” I say flatly, clearing my throat. “Need to clean this up before it gets gross.”

I rise, brushing past the heat and the stares, pretending like none of it stuck to me. Grabbing my toiletries from the tent, I make a beeline for the trees to relieve myself, then spot a quiet place by the water and sink onto my ass. The darkness is creeping in, slow and steady, but the sky stays clear enough to see. The idea of placing torches is kind of nice and practical—keeps any idiot from tripping over the tent’s tension lines. They flicker here and there, casting just enough light to give the place a romantic vibe I refuse to let sink into my bones. I need to take the brace off anyway, let my skin breathe. With all the sweat and dust clinging to me, it’s a miracle I haven’t torn the damn thing off already.

Undoing the Velcro straps one by one, I let the brace fall to the ground and flex my fingers, exhaling at the relief—but I refuse to extend my joint yet. It’s far too early. My gaze catches on the ugly scar stretching across my elbow—another visible remnant of the crash, the bruises on my face are already fading, just an ugly greenish patch left above my nose. Soraka had insisted I keep it clean, especially now the stitches are out. Sweat and dust aren’t exactly great for healing.

So no—I didn’t flee the game because I was suddenly uncomfortable.

I didn’t.

It shouldn’t have rattled me. It was just a fucking question. These games always start out stupid-funny—everyone laughing, half-drunk, pretending nothing matters—but somehow they always spiral into something that does . It’s all fun until someone asks the wrong question and the air goes thick. And yet we keep playing like it won’t happen again .

And here I am, sitting out here with a shitty excuse.

I’m tired. And lost. And so, so fucking defeated.

Feelings aren’t something you can control. You’re supposed to lock them up, pack them down so deep they can’t touch you anymore. And yet—

God help me—I was curious.

I was hopeful .

I wanted to know if Sett would drink, before the bubble cracked and reality came crashing down like a Mack truck.

Why do I even need to know? What good would it do me, knowing if Sett’s ever been in love? If he has… then what? Do I sulk about some faceless person who got there before me? And if he hasn’t—am I supposed to be glad? Like that somehow makes room for me? Where the hell does that put me in the equation anyway? Just circling the edge of a passing distraction? Something new he’s playing with until the next thing lights up his radar?

I don’t even know what love actually is.

Some fairytale shit, isn’t it? Something people make up to sell songs and ruin lives.

A word you toss out when everything feels too good and you're terrified it won’t last. Something I probably wouldn’t recognize if it hit me in the face and called me by name. And that’s the scariest fucking part.

But before I can grab my washcloth to dunk it into the water, someone else does—and my head snaps up, fast, ready to curse. Then I see them. Shadowed gold.

“The fuck are you doing here, Callahan?”

“Same question, Madden.” His voice is low and rough, but there’s no bite to it. He dunks the cloth into the cold water, wrings it out once, then crouches beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Needed space, huh?”

“Yeah,” I snap. “So you can fuck off and leave me alone.”

It’s not a question.

Spoiler alert: he doesn’t fuck off.

When he reaches for my elbow, I jerk instinctively to pull away—but Sett catches it. Not rough. Not tight. Just steady enough that I can’t slip free without making a scene. And then he starts to wipe the skin around my scar with slow, deliberate strokes.

I hate how good it feels.

The cloth drags through dried sweat and dust, soft but grounding, and his hand follows the curve of my elbow like it’s familiar terrain. Not rushed. Not playful. Just... focused. His fingers are warm, calloused, devastatingly careful. Each pass pulls something taut inside me, like a string being wound too tight.

Aside from our sexual activities, it’s not the first time Sett’s touched me like this. And I hate that I remember.

Hate how gentle he is—how his fingers tremble just enough to make it real. How I keep waiting for the sarcasm, the smirk, the punchline that never comes. I hate that I want more of it. That I want him close like this, too close. And that somewhere deep in my gut, I don’t want to pull away.

That softness— this softness—has no business belonging to the same guy who taunts me on the track, all swagger and arrogance and filthy grins. It’s disarming. Unsettling. Because when Sett looks at me like this, when he touches me like I’m something worth keeping in one piece, I feel...

Dangerously safe.

And right now, that’s the only thing I can feel. Not the distant laughter of the others. Not the warm wind rustling through the trees or the soft lapping of water against the shore. Just him and me, caught in some invisible space where nothing else exists.

Where I’m not just surviving. I’m wanted .

“Does it still hurt?” Sett’s voice is low, almost tentative, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hands—how they move over my arm, how they linger longer than they need to. He definitely doesn’t need a damn hour to wipe dust from my skin, but it feels like this could stretch forever, and I don’t want it to stop.

I haven’t needed painkillers for days now, ever since I started following Soraka’s advice. There’s no real pain in the joint anymore—just this weird sense of blockage. Especially when I take off the brace that held my elbow at ninety degrees, it’s like something should be there holding it up. Like it could break with the wrong move. But no, there’s no pain. So I shake my head.

“I'm relieved,” he says, dropping the damp cloth on the ground—and I already regret the loss of contact. “Too bad you couldn't join us for the cliff jump.”

I huff, but it's half-hearted, because Sett’s hands are on me again, carefully reattaching the brace. I don’t help him. I just watch… and maybe enjoy the way he secures the black brace back into place.  “What? Fancy seeing me throw myself off a cliff naked, Callahan?”

“Very much,” he says, fastening the last strip of Velcro with care. He inspects his handiwork like it matters, then looks up at me, eyes sharp, lips curled in a grin that’s all smug heat.  “Although I’d rather not share this body with anyone else.”

“As if you care,” I snap, tongue sharp with irritation I can’t place, not really. Maybe because I’ve spent the last hours catching fragments of his attention—those half-smirks, those glances that felt too knowing, too brief. Like he was checking if I was still breathing without making it obvious. Like I was something to orbit around but never touch. And fuck, I wanted him to touch. To look at me like I was more than just a rival, more than some burned-up mess he's obligated to check on. I wanted his hands again—steady, focused, ruining me in the quietest ways. But I won’t say any of that. I’ll choke on it first. Just like I’ll pretend it doesn’t bother me that he might strip off his damn clothes for everybody else's eyes. That my jealousy’s not growing teeth. Because I don’t get to want like that. I’m not the kind of person someone like Sett sticks around for.

“Fuck you, Mad’.” Sett’s face shifts like a stormcloud—fury tightening his jaw, his golden eyes flashing. Then, before I can blink, his hand snaps up around my throat. Not choking. Just holding. Just claiming.

And god, my body burns . Heat punches through me like a blow to the gut, ricocheting straight between my legs with humiliating accuracy. One rough touch—just one—and my dick’s already aching, my hips betraying me with a slow, desperate twitch. It’s pathetic. I don’t even fucking flinch.

I want this. Worse, I want him to want this. Want me.

Whatever retort Sett had brewing dies on his tongue when I part my lips and shoot the words out like a dare I need him to take. “Yeah. Fuck me, Sett.”

His nostrils flare. And then everything breaks.

We’re not by the water anymore. I’m slammed back against a tree, bark scraping the back of my shirt, and his mouth crashes into mine—violent, ravenous, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing left to eat. Or maybe I’m the one who leans in. I don’t know. I don’t care. Every thought in my head is shattering too fast to catch.

Rules? What fucking rules. I had a list once. Boundaries. Limits. All burned to ash the second his lips met mine. All except one, and even that’s starting to blur.

The kiss is chaos—wet, hot, messy in a way that turns my knees to water. His tongue slips past my lips and tangles with mine in a clash of teeth and spit and heat that leaves me dizzy. I groan into him, my free hand fisting in his damp shirt, part desperate to haul him closer, part desperate to rip the damn thing off and feel skin.

Breathing becomes optional. Or maybe impossible.

And fuck, this— this is what alive feels like.

A sharp sound escapes me when his hand leaves my throat, cold air rushing in its place. But he’s already moving, fingers yanking at the waistband of my shorts, fumbling with the tie like he can’t decide whether to undo me slow or tear me apart.

He pulls back too soon, and I’m panting when our mouths part. My head’s spinning, and I stare at him through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the taste of him, on the heat he leaves behind like a brand.

Sett stares back at me, the same hunger darkening his beautiful—fuck, what am I thinking? —golden eyes. His lips part, and all I want is to crash mine back against his, like a man starved.

And then—suddenly—my head is flooding with thoughts, all tangled, all filthy, and I don’t even know what I want anymore. Do I want to yank his soft hair and drag him to his knees, watch the way his lips stretch around my cock? Or maybe I’m the one who should drop, suck him off like it’s the best goddamn ice-cream cone in existence. Or maybe—fuck—maybe I just want to be wrecked. Stuffed full until I can’t think. Until there’s nothing left in my head but him.

“Turn around, pretty boy.”

His voice is a growl that shoots straight down my spine. My brain short-circuits entirely. Whatever. I don't need to think. Sett makes the decision for me, and I obey without hesitation—too eager, honestly, I'm surprised I don’t give myself whiplash as I spin and brace against the rough bark with my good arm, breath catching, body already aching to be touched again. And I hate— hate —the way Sett withdraws, stepping back just enough to shuffle behind me, leaving my skin cold and my body thrumming with impatience. I’m so hard I could probably hammer out the dents in the wrecked Mustang with my dick alone.  

When I hear the soft rustle of fabric—a whisper of cotton and elastic—it takes me a second to realize it’s mine he’s tugging down. My shorts and briefs slide to my knees, and my cock springs free, flushed and aching, jutting into the open air like it’s starving for attention.

“Spread your legs,” he says, low, commanding.

I do. Without hesitation. My cheek brushes the bark—rough, grounding me just enough. As much as I ache to kiss him again, there’s a sharp thrill in the not-knowing. In the anticipation. On one hand, Sett’s a real asshole—personally, emotionally—but somehow, deep down, I know he won’t leave me hanging here, bare and waiting. It’s terrifying how certain I am that he’ll give me exactly what I need without me saying a word.

Sudden laughter cracks from the campfire, slicing clean through the haze clouding my mind. It jolts me like a slap, dragging me halfway back to earth. The camp isn’t that big. Not really. The trees around us might cast thick shadows now that the sun’s dipped low, but anyone could wander just a little too far from the circle of firelight and see us. A few steps. That’s all it would take.

My stomach lurches and panic grabs me by the throat.. What if someone hears? What if Alune hears? Sees ?

The thought makes my skin go cold, shame and fear curling tight around my chest. I don’t want her—or anyone—seeing me like this: bent forward, begging in silence, aching in ways I can’t explain. The wet, filthy sounds. My open-mouthed gasps. The way I’d fall apart if he so much as pressed against me right now.

Public sex isn’t my thing—not even close. Honestly, my kink list is embarrassingly short. I like Sett’s large and calloused hands around my throat. I like watching him choke on my cock. But beyond that? My experience is limited, to say the least. And getting caught? Definitely not on the list.

And right now? This isn't a kink. This is a fucking nightmare waiting to happen.

And yet... I don’t move.

“Nobody’s coming,” he murmurs hot against my ear, his voice like smoke and certainty, curling into my brain and lighting everything back on fire.

His words don't make sense, not really. They’re not proof. But I believe him. That’s the part that truly unnerves me.

And just like that, the panic fizzles out. Not gone, just... swallowed. Replaced by a hunger so sharp it borders on painful. My body reclaims control—cock thickening and crying for attention, need fogging every logical protest. I nod. My throat's too tight to speak, and swallowing feels like trying to breathe underwater. I don’t know why I trust him. But I do.

Sett’s weight returns behind me, heat licking up my spine as the thick press of his cock—still caged in his clothes—nests into the crease of my ass. That alone makes me arch, greedy for more, and fuck, his low chuckle is one of those sounds that makes my heartbeat spike like a needle to the chest.

His hands come up—one curling firm around my hip, the other slipping under my shirt. Rough fingertips skim across my skin, setting fire to every inch they touch. I hiss when they map the dip of my spine, ghost over my ribs, then press to the center of my chest. They don’t stop there.

And if he thinks pinching my left nipple is some kind of joke—well, I nearly collapse. My knees buckle, saved only by the hand gripping my hip, while a desperate sound breaks from my throat. The bud tightens painfully, heat shooting straight down my gut.

“Shit, baby. Those sounds you make are filthy,” he murmurs against my neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses between his words. “But if you keep moaning like that, someone’s gonna check if I’m not murdering you.”

Whatever he’s doing to me, it’s working. I melt under him. I try to hold in the next noise, biting down on my bottom lip so hard I taste blood. My only defense. But it’s not much.

His mouth keeps moving—kissing along the slope from my shoulder to my jaw—while my head tilts of its own accord, offering him everything. And all the while, his fingers are still teasing that too-sensitive nipple, rolling it until it burns and I’m shaking with the effort not to fall apart completely.

I shouldn’t like it this much. No one’s ever touched me like this before—hell, no one, period. Twenty-three, and the only hands that have ever really made me feel good are my own—desperate, clumsy, chasing release without even knowing what I wanted. Back when I was younger, horny and naive, I craved someone else’s touch so badly it hurt. But the moment I tried to act on it, my past caught up to me, and I chickened out. Every time.

But this—Sett’s rough fingers, the teasing pinch, the way he seems to know exactly how to unravel me—is something else entirely. It’s new. It’s overwhelming. It’s addicting. I never thought nipple play would make it onto whatever excuse of a kink list I might’ve had. Never even crossed my mind when I was younger and alone, playing with my slim body, jerking off alone and imagining someone wanting to eat me alive—not that I ever thought I’d get a real thing. Goodbye, Henry Cavill fantasies. But now? Now, it’s shooting straight to the top, burning there like a brand.

And all I can think is—how the fuck am I ever supposed to go back after this?

I already know the answer. I don’t want to.

The sensation builds to a fever pitch, my cock aching for attention, throbbing with need. But all I can focus on is the way Sett’s lips trace open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, his stubble scraping just right, sending sparks across my skin. I barely register that he’s let go of my nipple until his hand appears in front of my face—two fingers poised, waiting.

“Open up,” he growls against my skin.

I groan but obey, curling my tongue around his fingers, sucking them in deep. My eyes flutter shut as his other hand glides around my waist, finding my cock and wrapping around it like he owns it.

My hips jerk forward, caught between his hand and the heat of his body, and I moan around his fingers. The bastard strokes me slow—maddening—the kind of touch that makes my knees tremble and my breath hitch. I suck harder, jaw already aching, but I don’t stop. Won’t.

Pleasure builds fast, dangerously close to the edge. My whole body tightens, shivering as he pushes his fingers deeper, just enough to tap the back of my throat, making me drool. And I don’t give a single flying fuck what I must look like, desperate and damn filthy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice thick and low against my ear. “Get them nice and wet, pretty boy.”

The only thing I need to make it perfect is for him to bury his thick cock deep inside me—to feel that burning stretch before the full, overwhelming fullness. The thought alone has my body reeling, hips trembling, white spots blooming behind my closed eyelids.

His hot breath washes over me, and I’m so fucking close, sucking desperately on his calloused fingers.

Then suddenly—he squeezes the base of my cock, staging my incoming orgasm like a damn conductor, forcing it to halt.

And when he pulls his fingers from my mouth with a wet pop, I let out a sound I can’t even name. Frustration flares, hot and sharp. The loss of his hand around my cock is worse—like being dropped mid-climb.

Do I sound like a needy bitch? Goddamnit .

“Spread your legs for me, Mad’,” he groans into my ear, hot breath scorching my earlobe—and fuck, he sounds wrecked. It does something to me. Makes me feel a little less insane. Like I’m not the only one being dragged under.

I do as he says, wanting him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I brace myself harder against the tree, muscles tight, breath shallow, as his slick fingers dip between my cheeks. I nearly curse when he circles my rim with slow, deliberate teasing.

A shudder runs through me. I suck in a sharp breath, widening my stance just a little more as his fingers flirt with my hole—still sensitive from last night’s ride, and already aching for more.

Then one finger pushes in.

My mouth drops open but no sound comes out—not at first. Just a quiet exhale, ragged and needy. The stretch is delicious, too much and not enough all at once, my body clenching in response.

Sett’s other hand presses firmly against my hip, grounding me, steadying me—like he knows I’ll fall apart otherwise when he starts to thrust, slow and deliberate, with just one finger. And fuck, I all but climb the tree from the maddening mix of bliss and frustration, needing more, so much more.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters under his breath, like it’s a sin and a prayer rolled into one. “Like you’ve been waiting for me.”

I have. I won’t admit it, but I have.

He scissors me open with practiced care, two fingers working me now, and my hips buck without permission. I grind back on him, chasing something always just out of reach.

“More,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.

More than his fingers, obviously. I’ve had a taste already—several—and I know Sett’s cock is big, thick, and sculpted just right, with those angry veins that make the perfect stretch and a blissful, dizzying burn. No matter how good his fingers feel, they’re a far cry from how good it’s going to be when he finally tunnels into me.

“So needy,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to the back of my shoulder. But then he adds a third finger, stretching me open, flexing and twisting until he finally brushes that damn holy bundle of nerves. It lights me up from the inside out like a Christmas tree, and I cry out. My cock throbs, untouched and aching, precum leaking from the tip when I glance down. I wish I could stroke myself—anything to ease the burn.

And then—just like that—the heat vanishes. His fingers retreat, leaving me empty again .

I almost cry out, but a sharp tearing sound cuts through the haze, followed by the rustle of packaging. I glance back, just in time to see him fumbling with two foil wrappers.

Fucking asshole. My lips curl into a shaky grin. “Should I call you scout boy instead, Callahan?”

Sett snorts, teeth flashing. “Shut up,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m gonna fuck you senseless, but I’m not an asshole.”

My dick twitches, jerking with interest at his words. I swear it answers to him more than it does to me.

“Can’t wait for it.” I can’t tear my eyes away, watching over my shoulder as he shoves his shorts down—his dick bobbing free, thick and dangerous—and my mouth waters. I almost want to drop to my knees for it. Almost.

He rolls the condom down over that taut flesh I’m desperate to feel, slicking it up with travel lube. My gaze snaps back to his, locking tight. The way he’s looking at me—dark with lust and that damn smug expression—sends goosebumps crawling across my skin.

And for whatever reason, I know I’ll enjoy what’s coming next. He teased me with the full view of his cock, of his whole damn body like the day he was born—and now, I’m finally going to get what he’s been flaunting.

“Brace yourself, baby.” His voice is growly, dangerous, and the sound sends my blood straight to my dick. He nuzzles into my jaw, licking my skin with a force that makes me turn my face back toward the tree. Suddenly he’s there—bare thighs pressing against mine, the head of his cock nudging right where I need him most.

“Think I’ll cave under the challenge?” I try to sound confident, but I’m far from it.

“You will soon enough.” And by soon enough , he means now . My legs go weak. He starts to push in, slow but relentless, the way the tree bark digs into my arm is a distant memory now—lost in the stretch, in the heat, in the feeling of him finally filling me.

It’s so much. Too much.

But fuck, I want all of it. I want to feel full. I want him .

“ Ohmyfuckinggod. ” My tongue is loose and my brain is fogged when he bottoms out—thank you very much for the lube, Boy Scout —hips flush against mine so I can feel his happy trail grazing my ass. For one suspended second, neither of us moves. I’m so perfectly stretched, and at the same time, I’m about to explode from the lack of movement.

He leans over me, chest to my back, breath hot at my ear. “Still with me, pretty boy?”

“Yeah,” I nod, dizzy with need. “Fuck me, babe.”

And oh, he does.

His fingers dig into my hips like he’s claiming me, bruising grips that’ll linger tomorrow—and fuck, I want them to. I want proof. I want reminders. But it all fades to white-hot static when Sett pulls out almost entirely and slams his pelvis forward, burying himself to the hilt in one hard, punishing thrust. I jolt forward with a choked sound, the bark scraping my forearm, but the burn between my legs eclipses it all. It’s pain, technically—but the kind that twists into pleasure so fast it makes me dizzy. It’s overwhelming, relentless, perfect .

He repeats the motion over and over again, my blood thrumming with heat as he tunnels into me—smooth, strong, relentless. Sett powers into me with a force that’s both brutal and deeply appreciated. It’s intense, overwhelming, exactly what I need—and damn if my shout doesn’t echo across the entire shore.

“So damn perfect,” Sett growls into my ear, voice wrecked and smoky with lust, but the smirk behind it makes my whole body tighten. “Your ass is made for my cock, don’t you think, pretty boy?”

Yes. Fuck, yes ! But I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. My mouth is open, but no words come out—just loud gasps as I push back into each thrust like I’ve forgotten how to exist without it. I’m reduced to instinct and want, my hips meeting his again and again, desperate for that exact angle, for the thick head of his cock to kiss my prostate and blow me wide open.

He bites at my neck, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to send fire down my spine. I arch into him like a live wire. Sett Callahan is fucking me, and all I can think is this is living . This is what my body was waiting for and never dared to ask.

One of his hands snakes around me, rough palm wrapping around my cock—and finally , finally, that unbearable ache is given attention. He strokes me with the same brutal rhythm he fucks me, and I swear I see those goddamn stars. My hips are caught in a push-pull, grinding forward into his fist, then slamming back onto his cock like I can’t get enough. Because I can’t.

“Fuck, baby. Look at you—” he pants, lips dragging across my skin. “You love it, don’t you? So eager for it. Dripping all over me like you were made to be fucked. So fucking hot.”

God. God .

A needy sob rips from my throat. I should be embarrassed. But I’m not. I am a slut for praise—his praise—and I want to hear more. Want to be told I’m good, I’m hot, I’m perfect like this. I’ll get off on his voice alone if he keeps talking like that. I’m starved for it. Starved for him.

“That’s it,” he growls, thrusting deeper, lips tracing my jaw. “Just give in—let me wreck you.”

He’s relentless—especially when he pulls out and shifts, only to slam right back in at a slightly different angle. The perfect one.

“Fuck!” I gasp, turning my face toward him. Sett lifts his head and I attack, lips crashing together despite the awkward angle. I shove my tongue into his mouth, and the growl he lets out is animalistic—feral.

That’s all it takes. I cry out against his lips as blinding white floods my vision. My body seizes, pleasure detonating through me as I spill over his milking hand, even as he keeps thrusting, unrelenting and perfect.

Sett’s rhythm turns ragged, brutal. He grips my hips like a man possessed, the slap of skin against skin echoing around us. Then he groans—low, guttural, wrecked—and I feel it: the twitch of his cock, the stutter of his hips as he comes deep inside the condom. Inside of me. His whole body shudders against mine, and I swear I feel him everywhere, burning under my skin.

He doesn’t move right away. Just leans into me, forehead against my shoulder, breath hot and heavy against my neck. And I don’t want him to move. I’m still shaking, spent, my thighs sticky with sweat and trembling, the tree bark biting into my arm where I’d braced myself. But none of that matters.

What matters is him. His weight. His heat. The ridiculous comfort of his arms, even now, as I melt back into his chest.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he slips out of me, soft now, spent—and I hate it. The loss makes me flinch, leaves me aching in a way that has nothing to do with soreness. It feels wrong. Too final. Like something warm and essential has been taken from me. My body clenches down on nothing, desperate to keep him there just a little longer. Just stay.

“I swear,” I murmur hoarsely, still catching my breath, “if you crawl back into your truck tonight, I will drag your pretty ass back to the tent myself.”

He chuckles weakly against my skin, and I feel him smile.

“Not planning on going far, pretty boy,” he mutters, voice rough and warm.

Good. Because I’m not letting go .  Just this once... I’m choosing me.