^_^

Wassup my freaky divas, we’re doing this again. Welcome to Guilty Pleasure 🖤🎀

Spotify Playlist: (check this comment)

(stay with me for a bit)

In this story, Victor and Silas do NOT process the world the same way, and that’s intentional. You might notice Victor’s POV is heavier on details, repetition and observations, while Silas feels more grounded in the present moment. That’s completely intentional, not a writing mistake 😭 It’ll make sense soon enough, I promise!

So if you’re here after Ride or Die, just know this one is a little more dark. Psychologically, I mean. No mafia and murder stuff.

The comedy is toned down just a little bit, but the yearning, the obsession, and definitely the intimacy are all turned up :)

⚠️ Also, let me just say this real quick: do NOT take inspiration from what I write. Talking to strangers anonymously is NOT hot or romantic in real life 😭 you literally have no idea who’s on the other side or what their intentions are. Also… don’t smoke.

There might be a few scenes that feel a little disturbing?! in terms of how obsessive things get, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. (Freaks.)

Also, smut warning again. This will probably be a bit kinky, and definitely raw.

(There’s no cheating from the main characters at all, just so you don’t stress about it.)

I will torture you quite a bit, but I promise a happy ending.

Before we get into the character aesthetics, tell me, what brought you to this story? :) 🌸

(Whatever it is, I’m glad you ended up here. Don’t leave.)

Also PLEASE keep leaving comments, I need to see your reactions to Victor’s insanity 😭 let me know if it’s good.

✨ CHARACTER AESTHETICS: ✨

Silas Blackwood:

21

• Fully sarcastic and competitive. He seems hard until you press the right buttons. Loves cinnamon buns more than his life.

Songs that match his vibe:

• Fever — Buckshot, fakemink • Dark Horse — Katy Perry, Juicy J • Life Of The Party — The Weeknd

Victor Acosta:

25

• He’s deeply creepy, but also weirdly baby. He doesn’t know how to be normal about love, so it mostly comes out obsessive, and… possessive.

Songs that match his vibe:

• Bones — Equinox • Stick Under My Skin — Chaoseum • Precious — Depeche Mode

Jett Gambino:

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• He is the kind of best friend who calls you pathetic, steals your food, and would still show up with a weapon if someone insulted you. He has the soul of a problematic club rat and the instincts of an overprotective mother, treating Silas like his own badly supervised child.

Songs that match his vibe:

• Butterfly

— Crazy Town • Von dutch — Charli XCX • Diamonds On My Mind — Eli Brown

Poppy Fraser

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• The girl that literally nobody can help but love. Sensitive, but she’ll slap the shit out of you if she sees you doing something stupid.

Songs that match her vibe: • Last Leaves of Autumn — Zleepyfred • Two of Hearts — Stacey Q • Back To Friends — Sombr

Rosalía Del Toro

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• One look from her and somehow you’re already agreeing to something you swore you would never do five minutes ago. She has full diva/boss energy, and the kind of presence that makes people sit straighter without even realizing it. But underneath all that diva energy, Rosalia is a sweetheart. A very loud, slightly terrifying sweetheart.

Songs that match her vibe: • Work Bitch - Britney Spears • Not My Circus - DashaRay • Tia Tamera - Doja Cat

Thiago Del Toro

23

Rosalia’s twin brother and her absolute best friend. He is basically the human version of “say less.” Too extroverted, always talking to someone. He is charming and dramatic when necessary. Always down for a bad idea.

Songs that match his vibe: • VITAMINA - DFZM • Sientate en Ese Deo - El Alfa

There will be more characters, I’m just adding the aesthetics later because I wanna get familiar with their vibe first!!

Please vote on the chapters and help the story grow, divas.

Also, I read every comment, so give me dirty jokes, NOT hate.

That is all. BYE I LOVE YOU🤚

1) Dropping Jaws

Silas’s POV

“If you lose today, you’re gay,” my best friend Jett says, shoving a whole cinnamon bun into his mouth.

I stare at him.

Damn.

There goes my lifelong dream of being aggressively heterosexual. My boyfriend is gonna be devastated when he hears the news.

Tragic.

“Did you prepare your winner’s speech?” Jett asks, dead serious.

It’s honestly the most focused I’ve ever seen him.

“I can do it for you. I’ll cuss you out if you haven’t done it already, but I’ll still write it.”

I start laughing. “Bro, it’s a tattoo competition, not the Olympics. What do you want me to say? ‘Wow, an award for drawing on people. My kindergarten teacher would be SHOOK.’”

“Don’t play dumb, you piss me off when you do that,” he snaps, licking frosting off his thumb. “You’re literally the best tattoo artist I know. And today you’re gonna prove it. I’m not joking. The good kind of pressure is on.”

I’m still grinning as I drag open my closet and pull out a black shirt.

Can’t go wrong with black and tight.

Today is the biggest tattoo competition of the year. The one where they ‘crown’ the artist with the best piece.

Everyone who competes has to bring the person wearing their piece, and the judges are supposed to look at everything objectively and reward the best work.

Supposed to.

In reality, some of them are assholes with favorites.

If they don’t like you as a person, you can literally feel it in the way they look at your work.

The first competition was back in January.

Some guy won it with a full back piece.

Noah Kaiser.

I didn’t compete then.

I was fresh out of major surgery and my whole life was just chair, bed.

Chair, then bed again.

Bitter times, honestly.

I felt like an eighty-year-old trapped in a twenty-one-year-old body.

Still, Noah deserved that win. The tattoo was sick.

Now it’s October, and not to be cocky , but I actually feel good about this one. Everyone does.

Even people who hate giving compliments admit this piece is insane.

The tattoo I entered is on Jett, who volunteered to let me destroy his leg for the sake of art, and I love him deeply for that.

It’s on his thigh, a huge Japanese-style piece, that in my very humble, VERY unbiased opinion, should be dropping jaws.

We’ve already won a bunch of smaller competitions with it, enough to keep my studio busy with clients all year.

So yeah, I’ve got confidence for today.

If this doesn’t make at least one judge rethink their life choices, I want a refund on all the stress I’ve been collecting.

Jett shoves my ringing phone in my face.

I take it from him, disgusted. Too much sugar on his fingers.

“Wipe your hands, Jesus,” I mutter. “My screen did nothing to you.”

I pick up, already bracing for insane levels of praise, because it’s my dad calling.

“Silas?? Are you here? We’re inside but we can’t see you!”

I laugh. “Dad, the competition starts in an hour. What are you doing there already??”

“We came early because your mother was stressing we’d miss it,” he says. “Your siblings are here too, come on. Grace made a banner. Your mom bought the good wine for the after party.”

I smile. “Okay, dad, we’re on our way. I’m leaving the house with Jett now. See you there.”

My family is so embarrassing in the best possible way.

We grew up in this tiny, random town no one’s heard of, and it was my mom’s idea to send me to tattoo classes because, quote, I was “wasting my hands.”

Now I’m twenty-one, I’ve got my own studio named LINEA INK, and I’m already making enough that my mom technically doesn’t even have to work anymore.

She and my dad still run this cute little pet shop just because they want to, but I’m the one covering all the bills.

I tie my boots and push myself up from the bed.

“Tell me we don’t have to stop by Leo’s place first,” Jett says, sounding deeply offended by the possibility.

I look at him, dead serious. “No, bro, of course not. Why would we go say hi to my boyfriend? That would be insane.”

He groans.

Jett is not Leo’s biggest fan.

He keeps saying Leo Acosta is “older and grumpy.”

Please. He’s twenty-five, not forty-five. That’s a baby.

And he’s not grumpy, he’s just a serious guy. There’s a difference.

We’ve only been together a month, he hasn’t had time to charm Jett yet.

“Let’s go,” Jett says. “And don’t start with the hugging and kissing shit. I’m waiting in the car.”

I throw everything I need into my bag, and head for the door.

Jett gets there first, pulls it open, and does this dramatic little bow with his arm like he’s my personal doorman.

“After you, future champion,” he says.

Half an hour later

Jett is two seconds away from murdering me and this time, has every right.

He’s in the passenger seat with his arms crossed, staring at me with that angry look.

I give him an awkward little smile while I crawl the car forward.

There’s traffic. Like… biblical traffic.

And we’re dangerously close to being late.

“Why don’t you just tell him to meet you there?!” Jett asks, annoyed.

“He has to finish a project for work,” I say. “He’s coming in a bit. I just wanted to drop off the clothes I washed for him yesterday.”

He side-eyes.

“You just told me two things about this guy, and I didn’t like either,” he says. “The only thing I will admit is that he’s hot.”

“I know, right??” I answer instantly.

Jett whistles. “What the actual fuck.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face that perfectly shaped,” I say. “Like, it’s offensive at this point.”

He nods slowly. “The asshole. True. He does give off a bit of robot energy, but for that face I will shut the fuck up, it’s not even funny. What about the dick?” he adds casually. “Big? Small? Is it curved?”

I look between the road and him, with wide eyes.

My brain is lagging.

Sometimes I forget just how little filter Jett actually has.

“Dude. We… um, we haven’t done it yet,” I say. “You know. Because. Yeah. And even if we did, I wouldn’t tell you if it’s curved?!”

“WHAT? Why?” he demands. “I literally told you last time about that guy whose nipples were—”

“Yes. I remember,” I cut in fast. “I do not need to relive the nipple story.”

He bursts out laughing, wheezing.

I sigh, focus on the road, and finally pull up in front of the building.

Perfect. We’ve arrived at the house of the man we were just dissecting sexually like a pair of gutter rats.

Love that for us.

I grab the bag with his clothes and his spare key off the console and hop out of the car.

He only gave me the key for today.

Temporary privilege.

“Don’t be long!” Jett shouts after me. “In two minutes I’m honking like a crazy person!”

I ignore him and head to the door, shove the key in the lock, and let myself in.

I actually move fast this time, because we’ve already had complaints in the past about Jett honking like a maniac until I came out.

I rush up the stairs, unlock the door, and slip inside.

“Leo, I’m here,” I call out as I head straight for the bedroom with the bag of clothes, already hanging them in his closet.

I turn around, and I see him curled up in bed, blanket over him, very much not working on that project he allegedly “had to finish.”

I don’t have time to comment on his lies.

The second he sees me, he pushes himself up to sit, still half-asleep, hair a mess, eyes barely open.

I smile without meaning to.

Yeah, no. Can’t even be mad.

He’s extra pretty like this.

Completely illegal.

I walk over and hug him quickly, wrapping my arms around him but not letting myself sink into it, because if I do, that’s it, the competition is cancelled.

“I’m leaving,” I murmur, pressing a fast kiss to his neck, holding him with both hands. “See you at the competition.”

I grab his face gently, kiss his cheek, and force myself to step back.

We’re already late, Jett is waiting downstairs, and I like my life, so I should probably not test his patience further.

But.

My gaze drops automatically. To his underwear.

…Fuck you, Jett.

He’s officially rotted my brain.

Now I’m standing here trying to figure out if my boyfriend has a big dick just by staring at his boxers like a creep.

I don’t want to be weird. But I have to admit, it looks very promising.

There is definitely something happening between those thighs and it is definitely not small.

My eyes flick back to his thighs.

Weird.

I swear his thighs were not that big yesterday.

Maybe it’s just the way he’s sitting. Maybe the blanket is bunched up.

Maybe I need help.

All I know is that if things were even slightly different right now, I would absolutely show up late to that competition and it would one thousand percent be his fault.

“Okay, I’m going, bye,” I say in one breath.

I give his arm one last soft stroke with my fingers, then turn and head out of the room, out of the apartment, and back toward Jett before he starts a full concert with the car horn.

I slide back into the car and start the engine immediately.

“You’re late,” Jett says.

“Shut up,” I throw back, buckling my seatbelt.

“He finish his project?” he asks.

Do I tell him the truth? I already know I shouldn’t.

This is just ammo. Pure premium-grade bullying material.

I swallow. “He, uh… just woke up,” I admit. “He was sleeping so deep I’m not even sure he registered I was there. He looked so confused to see me, like I broke into his dream or something.”

Jett laughs, then lets out this loud, dramatic sigh.

“A hot liar,” he says. “Good fucking luck with that.”

“Shut up,” I repeat, but I’m smiling this time.

“Anyway, floor it,” he adds. “They’re gonna announce the winner and your dumb ass won’t even be in the building.”

I press harder on the gas. If I miss my own victory because of my half-naked, sleepy, hot liar of a boyfriend, I’m never hearing the end of it.

We pull up to the venue.

The place is chaos.

It’s this big open space, rows of tables and booths set up, each one with its own little tattoo cult around it.

People everywhere. Artists hunched over arms and backs, girlfriends and boyfriends touching healed pieces, everyone staring at lines and shading.

Loud music is blasting from somewhere, I have no idea where the speakers are, but the bass is punching my already ruined spine.

Someone suddenly blasts a horn and I flinch so hard my soul leaves my body for a second.

“Relax,” Jett says, grabbing my shoulders. “They didn’t announce a winner. Some dumbass is just playing with his horn.”

I breathe out slowly.

Okay. Not dead yet. Good.

It’s pure testosterone chaos in here. Beards, black t-shirts, neck tattoos.

Some random guy bumps into me and then does a double-take.

“Silas fucking Blackwood,” he says, like he’s just seen a celebrity. “I don’t even know why the competition is between all of us. I’ve seen your pieces. I can’t believe you’re real.”

I duck my head a little, fighting a smile.

These guys know exactly how to strip every ounce of humbleness out of you for like three minutes straight.

They make it sound so easy, but there’s something about the way they say it, like they’re literally on their knees for your work.

I didn’t grow up starved of attention. At all.

I’ve been drowning in it since forever. But when it’s about my work, fuck me, it’s never enough.

I could mainline this shit.

Sometimes I wonder what it’d feel like if someone actually said something bad about my art.

Something brutal. Something that stings. Maybe I need a little humbling.

Or therapy.

“Which piece did you submit?” he asks.

I smile and glance over at Jett.

He pushes his black sunglasses up on his head and looks at the guy. “Check this out, man.”

He hikes his shorts up and shows the whole massive thigh piece.

The guy drags a hand down his face, staring.

“Fuck, no way,” he breathes. “This is insane. This is pure filth. You’re a fucking legend.”

I open my mouth to answer, but I hear someone yelling my name from across the crowd.

I turn and see my two younger siblings, Grace and Hunter, bouncing up and down, screaming my name and waving this huge banner.

Yeah, I might actually cry.

I don’t care that the place is filled with huge dudes who all look like they bench-press motorcycles and sell drugs on the side.

Let them stare. I’ll be the weirdo sitting on the floor with two kids who are eight and nine.

I say bye to the guy, then open my arms.

Grace and Hunter slam into me. I nearly fall over.

Grace is laughing, so I kiss her cheek. “Look at you,” I tell her. “You’re so pretty with your little curls and your dress. I have the prettiest sister in the world.”

Hunter goes straight for Jett, of course.

He grabs his own sleeve and yanks it up, showing off a fake tattoo on his arm, one of those from inside chip packets, by the look of it.

Jett grabs his own hair and lets his jaw drop like he’s seeing the Mona Lisa.

“Dude,” he says. “You’ve got ink and you’re only eight?? I respect it. You’re the cool one.”

Hunter beams.

And then I hear the speakers crackle.

The mic squeals to life.

No, no, no. Leo’s still not here.

Fuck.

The disappointment must be all over my face, because my mood drops instantly.

“Hey.” Jett grabs me by the shoulders and physically turns me to face him.

“Look at me for a sec,” he says. “Don’t make that face. This is your moment, okay?? I’m not letting Leo, or any fucking Leo take that away from you. He’ll come. And if he doesn’t, fuck him. He’s the one missing out. I need you here. With us. Got it?”

I swallow and nod. “Got it.”

“Good. Come on. Let’s go show them how it’s done.”

We walk toward the competitor area, where everyone with an entry piece is gathering.

One by one, all the canvases start heading up on stage, lining up in a row under the lights.

Jett claps my shoulder, gives me this quick little smirk and then heads up there too, taking his place with the rest.

We’re all on the floor, looking up at them now.

I want him to win so bad it makes me feel sick.

That trophy would open like ten doors for me, no exaggeration.

I don’t actually care that much about the prize money.

Ten grand is cute and all, but I make almost double that every month anyway.

The real prize is the recognition and the name.

I already have a bunch of celebrity clients, but after this, I’ll have even more.

Word travels.

And yeah, I’m not gonna lie, a gold trophy with my name on it doesn’t sound awful.

I wouldn’t exactly throw it in the trash. It sounds delicious.

I exhale and look up at Jett on stage.

The judges are circling him now, eyes locked on his thigh.

They tell him to turn. To bend his knee. To lift his shorts more. They’re looking at every line, every shadow, every little gradient I nearly lost my eyesight over.

My heart is beating fast.

They’re talking about it right now. Right in front of him. They’re comparing it to the others. Deciding shit.

I feel my mom’s hand slide over mine.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers. “We all know it.”

I smile and face forward again, eyes glued to the stage.

They finish checking all the pieces, take one last look over the line-up, and then step off to the side to deliberate.

We’re told we’ll have the results in five minutes.

Five minutes.

I scan the crowd again automatically.

Still no Leo.

The speakers crackle again and the host’s voice booms out, way too cheerful for my nervous system.

“ALL RIGHT, EVERYONE!”

Everyone around me screams and whistles.

My heart yeets itself straight into my throat.

The guy on stage, the big dude with the stretched earlobes and the beard, holds the mic. “You guys still alive out there?”

More screaming. Someone behind me does that two-fingers-in-mouth whistle that could resurrect the dead.

I feel my mom squeeze my hand.

My little sister is bouncing next to me like a pogo stick.

Jett is still on stage, in line with the other canvases, arms behind his back, leg out.

“First of all,” the host goes on, “thank you to EVERY artist who showed up today. The level of work this year is fucking insane.”

He pauses for the laughter.

My anxiety is killing me.

“This category,” he says, pacing a little, “was the hardest one we had to judge. We argued. We almost fought. I almost lost a tooth. That’s how close it was.”

Everyone laughs again.

I don’t.

I’m too busy trying not to throw up on my own shoes.

I feel hands on my shoulders. My dad on one side, my mom still gripping my fingers on the other.

It’s like they’re physically holding me in place in case I sprint off stage and steal the trophy myself.

“The technical skill,” the host continues, “the saturation, the composition, the originality… you guys did NOT make it easy.”

I exhale through my nose. My pulse is in my ears.

He pulls a folded paper out of his back pocket, dramatic as hell.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re gonna start with the color category, then move on to the black and grey category, and finish with the best overall.”

Fuck. Of course they’re dragging it.

“First place in color goes to…” He opens the paper. Draws it out.

“…Christina Vega!”

Applause. A woman in a red crop top screams and jumps up, hugging the guy she tattooed.

I clap automatically, barely seeing her.

“First place in black and grey…” the host says.

I realize my hands are shaking.

My mom pulls me against her side. My dad’s arm is across my back now too.

I’m basically a human panini press between them.

“…goes to…”

He looks at the paper, then up at the stage.

“…Noah Kaiser!”

The crowd goes wild.

Okay. Backpiece guy again. Not surprised.

I clap too, eyes locked on Jett’s leg.

On my work.

Okay. Okay. This is it.

My knees feel weird.

“If you hear your name now,” the host says, “you are the winner of this year’s ‘Best Piece’ category.”

Someone behind me squeezes my shoulder, I don’t even know who it is.

“Annnnd…”

He’s milking it. He’s actually milking it.

I’m going to climb up there and tattoo ‘HURRY THE FUCK UP’ across his forehead.

“…this year’s winner is…”

The host grins. Brings the mic closer.

“VICTOR ACOSTA.”

The noise slams into me all at once.

I clap my hands over my ears because suddenly it’s too much.

People are screaming and whistling and clapping all at once.

Everything feels like it’s right inside my skull.

I don’t even have time to process the fact that I just lost.

Because what I’m seeing is ten times more fucking shocking.

Leo is on stage.

Leo.

On stage.

I blink, hard. Look again.

My heart is beating so fast it’s making me nauseous.

He’s walking toward the host, crowd going insane, the trophy shining in his hands.

My trophy.

But I can’t even get that far emotionally because…

That’s Leo. That’s literally Leo.

“What the fuck,” I mumble.

Someone grabs me suddenly and spins me around, and I swear to God for a second I think I’m in a prank video.

Like there’s a camera somewhere and they’re about to tell me it’s all a joke.

Because Leo is behind me.

Right there. Touching me.

And Leo is on stage.

Same face. Same nose. Same fucking mouth. Same hair. Same everything.

My entire body goes cold.

Someone is playing with me and I’m about to start screaming.

I look at Leo in front of me. Then whip my head back to the stage.

It’s the same person. Copy–paste.

The guy on stage, Victor Acosta, the so-called winner, the thief of my inner peace has his arms up, gold trophy in one hand, surrounded by his crew.

They’re yelling in Spanish, waving a huge Spanish flag behind him, all of them jumping on him like they’re about to tackle him to the ground.

What the actual fuck is happening.

“Who is that??” I shout, grabbing Leo’s arm. “Who the fuck is that?”

Leo stares at the stage, jaw clenched.

“In case I forgot to mention it…” He exhales, eyes still locked on the other him.

“I have a twin brother.”

---

hey, just a heads up, this IS enemies to lovers, so expect some cruel lines here and there.

yeah, they’re rude to each other, get over it, that’s literally the point 😍 Please don’t be shocked. I promise I’ll make it worth it.

WAS THIS A GOOD OPENING THO?????

2) Victory

Silas’s POV

I am fucking livid.

And I don’t even know what I’m more pissed about.

The fact that I lost?

The fact that I lost to someone everyone apparently knows except me?

Or the tiny little detail that my boyfriend has a twin brother and I had no idea?

I grab Leo by the hand and drag him, shoving through the crowd, trying to get us out of this suffocating mess.

Cameras are everywhere. Phones in my face. People turning, whispering.

Someone’s flash goes off right into my eyes and blinds me for a second.

A microphone almost clips my jaw.

Questions start flying from every direction.

“How do you feel about losing?” “How do you feel dating an Acosta twin?” “Are you happy for Victor’s win?” “Are you scared he’ll steal your clients?”

And about two hundred more dumb questions that make me want to throw myself off the balcony.

I push us into a quiet bathroom, slam the door, and lock it in their faces.

Let them interview the fucking door.

Now it’s just me and Leo.

I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him, furious.

He looks away. Obviously.

“Silas, I swear I didn’t—”

“Why?” I cut him off. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you just tell me?”

He exhales.

“Why didn’t you say anything this morning while I was literally kissing you goodbye?” I go on. “You could’ve said one thing. ‘Hey, by the way, someone might show up at the competition who looks a little like me, don’t freak out.’ ANYTHING.”

He finally looks at me, confused, like I’m the crazy one.

“You went to my place?” he asks.

I stare at him like he just asked if water is wet.

Then I let out a laugh and drag my fingers through my hair, literally on the edge of hysterical.

“Yes, I went,” I say. “And like an absolute idiot, I was kissing his neck while he slept because I thought it was YOU.”

“What??” Leo chokes, eyes going wide.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” I snap. “Don’t pretend to be shocked now, because I will lose my mind. I went to my boyfriend’s apartment and I saw my boyfriend in his bed! I didn’t stop and think, ‘Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t touch him, just in case there’s a secret twin no one told me about.’”

“Silas,” he says, rubbing his face. “I have a reason I didn’t tell you I have a twin brother.”

I laugh again.

“Yeah, well, it better be a great reason,” I say. “Because I just almost made out with a stranger who was sleeping upright in your bed.”

Leo exhales again.

“Victor’s not okay,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean, ‘not okay’?” I ask.

“I don’t know the details. We don’t talk much. He’s been in Spain for years,” Leo says. “He just came here for a six-month guest spot, to work in another country for a bit. Help out a new studio.”

I scoff.

“‘Help out a new studio’?” I repeat. “Which one? Who even is he? I haven’t seen him anywhere. No posts, no tags, nothing.”

“He didn’t have socials,” Leo says. “That’s kinda the point. His manager’s the one who finally pressured him into making some because he said it’s insane for someone his level not to have an online presence.”

I pull my phone out, and type his name into Instagram.

There’s his profile. Blue tick.

I tap it.

1.2 million followers.

My hand drops to my side, my phone hanging uselessly between my fingers.

I start laughing.

I genuinely don’t know if I want to self-combust or just torch the venue and sprint into the ocean.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Silas Blackwood, you’re up next for interviews! Any early reactions?”

I press my fingers into my eyes and drag my hand down my face.

“This is fucking insane,” I mutter.

Leo steps closer and grabs my arm gently.

“I’ll explain everything later,” he says. “Just try not to talk to him too much. He’s crazy.”

A chill runs straight down my spine.

If I said I wasn’t scared, that would be a lie.

I unlock the door and dive straight back into the zoo of thirsty journalists.

Flash, mic, flash, mic.

My head hurts instantly.

Jett grabs me the second he spots me and yanks me out of the worst of it, dragging me toward the side like he’s my personal bodyguard.

I really hope my parents escaped and went home. I’ve disappointed them enough for one day.

“What the fuck just happened?” he yells over the noise. “Who the hell is this Acosta guy?”

“Leo has a twin,” I shout back.

“No shit???” he yells, eyes going huge.

I nod.

“Tell me everything after the interview, okay?” he says.

“Let me learn it myself first and then I’ll tell you,” I mutter, slipping away toward the results board.

I scan the list. There it is.

Victor Acosta – 1st.

Silas Blackwood – 2nd.

Lost by one point. One fucking vote.

This interview is going to break me in half.

But I want to know more about the guy who literally spawned out of nowhere and just beat me.

I follow the signs toward the elevators for the 32nd floor.

Press the button. Get in.

The doors start to close, and then open again.

Victor hits the button and steps in.

Christ.

I still haven’t fully processed that this isn’t Leo. My brain keeps glitching.

This isn’t my boyfriend.

It’s creepy as fuck.

Same messy dark hair. Same sharp eyes.

Standing this close, I think he might be a tiny bit taller.

I should probably apologize.

He must’ve felt insanely uncomfortable having a stranger kiss his neck while he was half-asleep.

I’m going to kill myself actually.

He stands next to me, perfectly still, staring straight ahead, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black jacket.

I clear my throat.

“Congratulations. For today,” I say.

“Thanks.”

Love that warmth. So cozy. Zero frost at all.

“Uh… how long have you been in Las Ve—”

“I don’t do small talk.”

My jaw just stops working.

Okay, cool. Totally normal social skills.

Maybe you need small talk, Jesus.

I can literally hear the Spanish accent punching through every word.

I nod even though he can’t see me.

This is so awkward. I hate it.

I should’ve taken the stairs all the way to the fucking 32nd floor.

And Leo’s words keep replaying in my head.

When he said “not okay,” did he mean “heartbroken and moody” not okay, or “might split your skull in half if you say the wrong thing” not okay?

Because right now he definitely looks more like option two.

And I have no idea what I did to piss him off except exist.

Did the morning thing really mess him up that bad?

Like, okay, I get it, it was weird.

I walked into his room thinking he was my boyfriend and I kissed his neck and cheek.

Surprise, plot twist, wrong twin.

But fuck, calm down. It was one kiss on the neck, not me shoving my hand down his underwear.

It’s not my fault if he went out drinking last night and woke up today with the brain capacity of a dying goldfish.

If he’d been even slightly awake, this wouldn’t have happened.

He would’ve opened his eyes, said “who the fuck are you,” and I would’ve backed off, apologized, died quietly in a corner, end of story.

Instead, he just sat there like a corpse with a pulse while I thought, wow, my boyfriend’s really tired today, how cute.

And now I’m the villain? Okay.

If anyone here has the right to be mad, it’s me.

I lost. I lost by one fucking point. To a guy who, apparently, didn’t even have social media until like a month ago.

I’ve been grinding for so long. Building my name. Filling up flash days, guest spots, collabs, posting every healed piece, every stencil, every fucking smear of ink.

I opened my studio very recently, but at least people already knew who I was.

They didn’t just log in one morning and go, “Oh, who’s this brand-new Spanish clone with god-tier linework and a million followers?”

I stare at the side of his face.

He’s acting like I did something unforgivable.

All I did was exist in the wrong apartment, at the wrong time, with the wrong twin.

And now I’ve got a bruised ego, second place, and a winner who looks like my boyfriend and acts like he wants to break my hand if I breathe too loud.

The elevator dings. We step out together and walk into the interview room.

Holy shit. They’re taking pictures of us like we’re Hollywood stars.

Flashes, shouting, people yelling our names.

Normally, I’d eat this shit up.

But right now I’m just “the other guy.”

The second place.

“Stand a little closer, all three of you!” someone calls.

Third place guy comes over and lines up next to us, each of us holding our trophies.

Victor’s got the gold, I’ve got the silver, and bronze dude looks happier than both of us put together.

Good for him. Bless his soul.

I look at Victor.

He’s weird.

Not smiling at all. Not even a fake one for the camera.

He looks like he’s getting his mugshot taken after a bar fight.

And I thought Leo was serious.

I’m not even sure if this one is alive.

He looks brain dead.

We finally finish the photos and get dragged to sit down for the interview, side by side, all three of us.

The woman in front of us clears her throat, eyes flicking between us like she doesn’t know where to aim first.

“First of all, we want to congratulate all three of you,” she says. “There were a lot of competitors this year, and what you achieved is huge.”

Cute. That’s the warm-up.

“But we can’t ignore the big upset,” she continues, her eyes landing on me. “Everyone believed that you, Silas Blackwood, were going to take first place. How do you feel being second?”

Wow.

No lube, straight up the ass.

Journalists really have no mercy.

“Hey, you just got humiliated in front of everyone! How does that feel?”

I lean in toward the mic.

“I want to see it as an opportunity to get better,” I say. “And to be honest, a bit of grounding is good once in a while.”

She nods.

“Victor,” she turns to him, “do you think Silas deserved first place?”

Victor leans forward slowly, looks her dead in the eye.

“He got the place he deserved.”

Oh.

Good Lord.

Even she glitches for a second at that one. No spatial awareness, no emotional awareness, no nothing.

Straight-up asshole.

“Did you feel confident you would win?” she asks him.

“The word ‘victory’ already contains my name,” he says. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he said that.

She hesitates, like she’s lowkey regretting her life choices, then looks at me again.

“Second place is a victory too,” she says. “What’s your opinion of Silas?”

He thinks.

I get actually nervous.

“I respect him…” he says.

Okay. That’s… not bad.

I even start smiling a little.

“…It takes courage to come second and still smile for the cameras.”

My jaw drops. People gasp.

Why do I attract strays. What is my karma.

He’s still trying to humiliate me when he’s holding a gold trophy.

What else does he want, my organs?

“Silas, do you have anything to say about Victor’s comment?” she asks.

Oh, I have a lot to say.

But I’m not about to give them free drama to feed the internet for a week.

I lean toward the mic.

“I’d like to thank him for his comments,” I say calmly. “They remind me that even winners sometimes need a little attention in other, more important areas.”

For the first time, Victor turns his head and actually looks at me.

We lock eyes.

I shrug like, yeah, that was for you, baby.

Then face forward again.

“Silas,” the interviewer continues, clearly delighted, “rumor has it you recently started dating Victor’s twin brother. Do you feel attracted to Victor too now?”

The silence that follows is so awkward I could peel my own skin off.

Someone kill me.

Who hires these people? This isn’t journalism, this is pure gossip with better lighting.

I exhale.

“I don’t think that has anything to do with the competition,” I say. “But thank you for the interest. I’m doing fine.”

She doesn’t like that, obviously, so she spins straight to Victor.

“And you? Any thoughts on their relationship?”

“Two silvers don’t make a gold,” he says.

I laugh under my breath.

“Can we wrap this up?” I ask to whoever’s listening. “Every word out of his mouth screams insecurity.”

He turns his head again, and this time his voice drops a little lower.

“Your irritation shows insecurity,” he says.

“Silas, is it true you went to the bathroom earlier to cry because you lost?” one of the reporters asks.

“What?! No! Who said that—”

Victor lifts his gold trophy slightly in one hand. “Do you want to hold it?” he asks. “You keep staring at it.”

More phones go up.

I drag a hand down my face and shake my head. “Oh my God. You people are obsessed with making everything uglier than it already is.”

“Answer the question,” another voice calls.

“No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t go to the bathroom to cry because I lost. But if this interview keeps going, that might change.”

The same journalist leans in again. “So you’re saying you weren’t upset about coming second?”

I force a smile. “Anybody with a functioning frontal lobe would be upset about losing by one point!”

Victor glances at me. “Your irritation is showing again.”

Don’t kill him. There are witnesses.

“Silas, what do you think about Victor’s comment?”

“I think if he loves this trophy so bad, he can marry it.”

Victor looks down at the gold cup in his hand, then back at me. “People can’t marry trophies.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I laugh and I shoot up from my chair.

Yeah, no. This went way too fucking sideways.

I look straight at him, at his stupid perfect face and his gold trophy and his dead-fish expression.

“Don’t hug your precious cup too hard,” I say.
“Those sharp edges will cut deeper than your terrible accent.”

His jaw tightens. “My accent is fine.”

I snort and head for the door.

I glance back over my shoulder.

“I can hear the Spanish fighting for its life in the back of your throat,” I say. “Maybe that’s a sign you should go back to Spain already.”

I yank the door open, walk out, and slam it behind me.

By the time I’m halfway down the stairs, my pulse is in my teeth.

I can’t even put it into words the anger I’ve got in me right now.

Why?

What the fuck did I do to him?

I accidentally kissed his neck thinking he was my boyfriend.

I congratulated him. I respected his work. I took the L. I smiled for the cameras.

If anyone should be pissed, it’s me.

I’m the one who lost. I’m the one who got second place by one fucking point.

Christ. Just take your trophy and shut the fuck up.

---

okay so, in case some of you didn’t notice (no hate), there is a tag on Guilty Pleasure, saying ENEMIES TO LOVERS. What does that mean?

It means there is NOT a good relationship at the beginning.

I feel like some of you forget that sometimes when Silas talks badly to Victor 😭 they’re ENEMIES. Not HR-approved coworkers 😭 of course they’re going to say things that hit below the belt. I literally warned you as well.

Silas’s line about Victor’s accent wasn’t xenophobia and had nothing to do with his nationality. It was Silas snapping back after being pushed over and over. They’re enemies. They obviously say cruel shit. That’s the dynamic. If you read it as him hating where Victor is from, that’s not the intention. He’s just hitting where he knows it’ll sting in the moment.

Yes, that’s a thing.

And in Ride or Die you told me I should’ve gone harder on the enemies-to-lovers part… now that I did, some of you are surprised 😭

3) You Can’t Escape

Listen to something a bit darker if you want it to match his POV :) just a suggestion (angel by massive attack)

Victor’s POV

There are many types of people I hate.

Whole categories of walking irritations.

There are the fixers. The ones who hear one thing about your brain and suddenly they’re experts.

“Have you tried meditating?”

“You should journal!”

“Maybe you need sun!”

“We all struggle sometimes!”

When you don’t heal on their schedule, they get bored.

There are the watchers. The ones who stare a little too long. They clock every delayed reaction. They don’t say anything in the moment. Then later, in someone else’s chat, you become a crazy story. A “you should’ve seen his face” moment.

There are the ones who call you creepy. They don’t like how you stare when you’re trying to process. They see your delayed reactions, and instead of asking, they slap a label on you. “Weird.”

There are the jokers. The ones who use your brain as content. “He just zones out.” “He glitches.” “He’s like a robot.”

There are the people who baby you. The ones who talk slower and softer. They pat your arm and say “it’s okay, sweetie” with that voice they use on kids and pets. They just pour syrup all over everything and call it care.

I’ve met all of them. I live around them.

None of them surprise me anymore. I don’t like them, but I understand their pattern. I can see them coming.

There’s one category of people though.

The ones that rewire something violent in the back of my skull.

The traitors.

The ones that get inside my bones. The ones who make my hands itch for sharp objects and precise targets.

Two years.

Two years of messages, of late nights, of me actually trying to explain what the hell is wrong with my brain in another language because he made it feel not stupid.

Two years of typing and deleting and retyping because I didn’t want to sound broken, and he never made it weird.

He just stayed and answered.

Didn’t baby me.

And now I find out why he stopped answering.

Why he started disappearing.

Why those three–hour conversations suddenly turned into ten–minute check–ins.

He got a boyfriend.

Obviously. People get boyfriends all the time.

I could swallow that part. I could maybe even be happy.

But no. I’m not.

Because his boyfriend had to be him.

My brother. My twin.

Out of everyone on this burning planet, he picks the one person who has my face.

How is that even statistically possible?

He replaced me with my mirror without even realizing it.

You, Silas, replaced me with my mirror.

You don’t know that the guy you used to vent to at 3 AM is the same DNA as the guy you now kiss.

I’m angry because this feels too close to having you and still not having you at all.

I’m angry at you for making me forget you’re a person with actual needs.

A body with needs.

Of course you’d want more than words on a screen.

Of course you’d want sex, kisses, skin.

A person’s mind isn’t enough on its own. I know that, I’m not stupid.

I got selfish without even realizing how bad it was.

Because some greedy part of me really did want you all to myself and to myself only.

Seeing you give all of that to Leo fucked me up.

Because you chose my face and still somehow left me out of it.

And I know it’s you.

I’d been hoping I was wrong about this. But today I heard your voice.

Your voice is unique.

That tiny little doubt I had left died on the spot.

It was you all this time. And you abandoned me.

I stare at the paper and my hand doesn’t even shake when I draw you.

I know your face better than I know my own.

I’ve watched your videos, your interviews, read your posts, read your messages a hundred times.

Seeing you felt like looking at an ex.

Worse than ex, actually.

Because exes at least get the dignity of having existed properly.

We’ve been through too much for two people who are still nothing.

How extreme is that? We have history with no shape.

The fact that you’re clueless pisses my head off so badly, but it makes my body excited.

It makes me feel awake.

I’m standing there holding a loaded gun and you’re smiling at me without realizing there’s even a weapon in the room.

You don’t even recognize me while I can draw you with my eyes half–closed.

It feels like a crime.

I give you more attention than anyone ever got from me in person.

You look almost alive when I finish the sketch.

And I feel angry. Because this is insane.

Because I’m here obsessing over your facial shadows while you’re out there laughing with my brother.

Touching my face on a different body.

You’re probably telling him some of the same things you told me.

But obviously, he’s the real thing, not me.

I’m just a username to you. An online friend with a glitchy brain.

I nail the last line on your mouth.

It looks perfect.

It pisses me off how much care I put in for someone who couldn’t even send a proper goodbye.

I tape the drawing to the wall. Not the wall everyone sees.

The other one.

The one facing my bed.

I step back and look at you. You look back at me.

You have no idea I exist, not like this.

You know the version of me that’s trapped in a screen, with no weird accent, always spell–checked.

There’s a box in the corner.

I open it and take out the darts.

Gold and black.

I stand in front of your drawing.

You helped me sleep, you know.

There were nights I was seconds away from doing something stupid that would leave everyone shocked.

You have no idea. You never will.

I lift my arm.

The dart leaves my fingers and lands aggressively right next to your eye.

Not on it.

I could hit it if I wanted to.

You helped me hold myself together and then you disappeared.

And now I’m the crazy one for being angry and for feeling abandoned.

I want to laugh.

I throw another one. This one lands close to your mouth.

Even now you look good.

I hate you for it.

I throw at you, again and again and again, until the paper has tiny tears, until there’s a cluster around your throat, your heart, the spot between your brows.

Not through the eyes. Never.

I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t want to blind you. Maybe I still want you to see what you did to me.

Through it all, my pulse stays calm.

If someone walked in, they’d say I’m relaxed, when I’m actually furious.

Because you knew what I was and you still said nothing.

You knew I wasn’t built to “move on” like normal people.

You knew I would replay every conversation and look for where I messed up with you.

I stare at the shredded edges of your paper throat.

I’m stuck in this loop where I either want to never see you again or pin you to a wall and demand every answer you never gave me.

Instead I’m destroying the only version of you that’s close enough to touch.

It should feel pathetic.

Now I should probably take the drawing down.

I don’t want to look up in the middle of the night and see you like this.

I walk closer. The paper is a mess up close.

There’s a line sliced through your throat that wasn’t part of the drawing.

I touch it with my thumb. I peel the tape off slowly.

I don’t know why I’m careful. You don’t deserve careful.

Still, I make sure the corners don’t tear more. There’s this automatic tenderness in my hands that makes me want to break my own fingers.

I don’t think you deserve tenderness either.

Now I hold it up in front of me.

Even with the holes, it looks like you.

Your blue eyes are still sharp.

The likeness is almost perfect.

They say obsession is good for accuracy.

You have no idea how many times I rewound our chats in my head.

You say, “I like Depeche Mode,” I put on headphones, and start from the first album.

I read the lyrics while I listen. I sit there thinking, what part of this hits you? The synth? The mood? The depressing shit in the middle?

I try to guess which song is your favorite before you even tell me.

You say your favorite color is a specific shade of blue.

I stand in a store staring at three almost identical pens, trying to figure out which one is closest to “your” blue, even though I’m not buying it for you.

I just want to get it right in my head.

If someone asked me at gunpoint, “What shade of blue does he like?” I want to be able to answer.

You send “I’m fine” and I stare at the dot at the end, wondering if that period is normal or if it’s a sign you’re actually not fine.

You send “haha” and suddenly I am fucking analyzing the difference between “haha,” “lmao,” and laughing emojis.

You say you like people who remember small things.

You had me.

I remember everything about you.

You hate olives. You love cinnamon buns. You sleep with background noise on because silence makes you panic. Your right wrist hurts because you tattoo too much. It makes a weird click sound now when you move it.

You also don’t like people touching you. Especially your back.

You bite your lips when you’re anxious. You do it until the skin gets raw and then complain that your orange juice hurts. You hate when people chew loudly.

You have a broken lighter that barely works, but you don’t want to throw it away because you think it brings you luck for some reason.

I know some more personal things about you too.

You told me those without ever imagining we’d actually meet.

That was the whole point of the arrangement, right?

No faces, no consequences.

You talked freely because you thought I’d stay a username forever.

That part aged pretty badly.

I know you take foreplay very seriously.

Not as some lazy step people skip. You treat it like half the experience lives there.

You never said it exactly like that, but you kept circling the idea.

Constantly dropping comments, complaining about guys who rush.

You also like respect… during the day.

You made that one very clear. You like people who take you seriously.

But at night, you want to be someone’s dog.

You didn’t say it with that word, but the way you described it, the jokes you made, and the way you kept saying things like “I like when someone takes control if they know what they’re doing.”

Yeah…

The pattern was obvious.

You like surrender when it feels chosen. I confirmed that one a long time ago.

I also know you keep nude photos of you, locked in your phone.

I’ve never seen them, but you’ve made enough jokes about your “hidden vault” and “things that would bring me more clients if they leaked.”

You were not smooth.

The existence of them stopped being a mystery pretty fast.

You drop hints about them like you’re testing the room.

You want someone to ask but you’re also hoping they won’t.

I know you use sex toys sometimes.

You named curiosity at first, but then you admitted once that part of the reason is that they’re not alive.

They can’t get weird.

They can’t suddenly turn into a person who might hurt you or make you regret trusting them.

You trust objects more easily than people.

You’ve also listed more things you want to try than you probably realize.

Certain positions. Certain dynamics. Certain kinds of control.

You circle them too.

You’re fascinated and cautious at the same time.

There’s curiosity there. A lot of it.

And hesitation.

That’s the only piece I never fully solved.

You’ve told me a thousand details about what interests you, what excites you, what makes your brain light up when you imagine it.

But never the reason you hesitate.

Every time we got close to it, you’d pivot.

So yes, there are still some things about you I don’t know.

But the rest are all things you actually said, and I refuse to forget.

You told me I wasn’t broken and I believed you like an idiot.

Even though I knew the truth. People made sure I knew.

Therapists, doctors, teachers, my own family.

They love reminding me that my amygdala “fires different,” that my prefrontal cortex “doesn’t inhibit fast enough,” that my brain just processes fear and impulse a little differently.

Someone said my amygdala hits the gas before my prefrontal even finds the keys.

That’s why I react first, understand later.

Move first, realize it was “too much” three hours after everyone else has finished being uncomfortable.

I know which parts of my head are “wrong.”

People also think I’m stupid when I miss jokes and sarcasm.

Apparently saying the opposite of what you mean is funny. My brain just hears the sentence and answers it.

People find this confusing.

Which is interesting, because from my perspective the only confusing part is why people say things they don’t mean and then act surprised when someone processes exactly what they said.

Many of them tried to help me understand.

Eventually, they all give up. They get tired of explaining the same things to me and not getting the right reaction back.

They get tired of waiting for emotions I don’t show on time.

They get tired of asking “how do you feel?” and getting “I don’t know” because I genuinely don’t.

You got tired too.

And of course you didn’t warn me, why would you? You just silently left like everyone else.

But drawing allows me to hold you now. You can’t escape this time.

I smooth the paper out against my chest, tracing with my fingers over the punctures your new life cost you.

Now we stare at each other.

You’re attractive. That’s just true. Just objectively true.

Your body is sexy.

Your face is perfectly balanced.

Your eyes could get anyone on their knees, begging for you.

None of that changes what you are to me. None of it cancels out the fact that I still see you as a big fucking traitor.

If anything, it makes it so much worse.

Because now I have to look at something that pretty and attach it to all of that disappointment and anger.

You stay attractive and disloyal at the same time.

I open the drawer. The only one with a lock.

This one is the one nobody touches. Especially not you.

Because inside, there are more drawings of you.

Different angles, different moods. Some from interviews, some from screenshots.

I place the new you on top of the others.

For a second, all the eyes line up.

Dozens of you looking at me from paper, from safe distance.

You’d freak out if you saw this. You’d call it crazy, and maybe it is.

But I’m not the one who told a stranger with a fucked–up brain, “I’m here. Always.”

You did.

---

4) Bless Vox

Silas’s POV

I’m sitting on Leo’s bed, flipping through Victor’s sketchbook.

Leo’s on the chair across from me, watching the interview replay on his phone. I can hear my own voice from earlier and it already pisses me off.

“What the hell is wrong with your brother?” I ask, still staring at the page.

Leo exhales. “A lot,” he says. “I don’t even know everything. We cut contact. He doesn’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what he’s doing.”

“Why?” I ask. “Isn’t it, like, illegal for twins to not talk?”

He smirks a little. “I like calling him the ‘problematic twin.’”

I side-eye him.

“Why?”

Leo laughs under his breath. “Don’t you see it? He’s like an empty shell. I swear there’s something wrong with his brain. They had him going to psychiatrists all the time when we were kids. He’s sick. There’s no other explanation.”

I flip to the next page and swallow hard.

The way Victor draws is lowkey terrifying.

It’s like he spends an hour on a detail most people wouldn’t even notice in the final result.

The shading, the placement, the way the lines move.

This is obsession level.

“What did I even do today for him to talk like that?” I mumble. “You saw the video. I didn’t even say anything to him.”

“That’s just how Victor is,” Leo says. “He’s done shit you don’t want to hear about.”

“Leo, you’re kind of scaring me,” I say. “Is he, like… a murderer or something? Because if he is, I kinda need to know.”

“No, he’s not,” Leo says immediately. “He’s just… slow where he’s supposed to be fast, and way too fast where he should be slow.”

I frown. “What does that even mean?”

“He thinks that because he makes thousands, no one will notice how fucked his personality is. Or he thinks everyone should bow down to him because they assume he has some condition or whatever.”

There’s a bitterness there that wasn’t just gossip. That sounded personal.

“Bow down how? Who?” I ask carefully.

“My parents,” he says. “They were always on him. Always. ‘Oh, Victor this, oh Leo, take care of Victor, oh Victor, you know we love you so much,’ and me? Nothing.”

He snorts.

“Then our little sister was born, she’s like your siblings, eight now, and they started ignoring both of us. It was always him first, then her. I was just there. But at least I’m sane.”

I flip to another drawing.

My head is full of new information, but I still feel like I know nothing.

A frozen twin and an angry twin. That’s all I see.

To be honest, I feel like I’m missing some very important chapters.

Leo leans back. “If you want my opinion,” he says, “I don’t even think it’s that serious.”

I glance up. “What do you mean?”

“I think he’s just stupid,” Leo says flatly.

Wow. Brotherly love.

“I think he fried his brain from jerking off too much,” he adds. “My parents are dramatic as fuck and want to make him out like he needs special attention and has psychological issues. I think he’s just dumb. I literally make jokes and he doesn’t get them. He just stares at me like an idiot—”

The door handle clicks.

Victor comes in holding flowers, bags, and of course, his cup.

“Speak of the devil…” Leo mutters.

Victor looks straight at me.

It’s so weird.

I’ve got two identical faces in front of me.

One looks like he was raised by an emo band.

The other looks like he hands out business cards at charity galas with his politician dad.

Same base. Two different DLC packs.

Then Victor suddenly smiles huge. “Hi.”

No one answers. The silence is so loud I can hear the air conditioner.

He turns to Leo. “My apartment is ready,” he says. “So I won’t stay here anymore.”

Leo nods once. “Good. The mirrors you ordered came earlier, by the way. I left them in the living room.”

Victor gives another sharp little nod and walks back out without a word.

I turn to Leo. “What mirrors?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “No idea. He’s ordered a bunch of big pieces. Probably can’t get enough of looking at himself. I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” he says, dripping sarcasm.

Victor comes back a moment later, arms full of bubble wrap and cardboard.

“I’ll give back to you every… spended thing,” he tells Leo.

I look up.

“Spent,” I say automatically. “The word is spent .”

Victor glances at me, with a flat expression.

“Maybe spend some of that trophy money on an English dictionary…”

It was a harsh comment.

I know that. I don’t usually go for shit like that.

I never make fun of people over anything, especially language.

I’ve literally helped someone with their English before.

Anonymously, but still, it’s proof that it’s usually not my style.

But this asshole came for me first. For no fucking reason.

I’m not going to sit here like a puppy and just take it. I can play that game too.

He is still staring at me.

I stare back, even though his eyes make me feel weirdly exposed, like he can see five layers in.

Then he suddenly smiles and turns to Leo.

And yeah. Here we go.

The guy switches to Spanish.

Only Spanish.

I don’t understand a single word.

All this because I corrected one word.

One.

I grab my phone while he’s talking and I don’t say anything, because I refuse to be the idiot in the room who doesn’t know what’s being said.

If he thinks I’m going to just sit there smiling while he runs his mouth, he’s dumber than Leo says.

I open the translator app and hit record, let it listen while he keeps going.

I’m not letting him feel smart for this.

When he finally shuts up, I look down at my screen. Read the translated lines.

Then look back up at him.

He was insulting me.

On purpose. In Spanish.

He knew I’d translate it. He wanted me to.

He wanted me to read every word.

I look over at Leo. He doesn’t do anything. No “hey, that’s too far.” No “chill, Victor.”

Nothing.

He doesn’t even look up.

I love protective boyfriends, you know. I truly hit the jackpot with this one.

Victor walks toward me slowly.

Stands right in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head up to keep eye contact.

He reaches down and takes his sketchbook off my lap.

I swallow.

“Don’t touch what isn’t yours,” he says.

And then he walks out of the room.

I’m alone with Leo again. He’s still doing something on his phone.

He doesn’t even pretend to be bothered that his brother was literally insulting me in front of him in another language.

Acts like he didn’t hear.

If I told him, “stand up for me and we’ll have sex later,” he’d suddenly turn into my biggest fan.

He’d talk for hours.

He’d pull compliments from places in his brain that don’t even exist, invent good things about me just so he can bend me over.

That’s the only time I get softness.

If the reward isn’t physical, I don’t deserve anything good.

There is no bigger turn-off than realizing that.

Especially when he knows that part of things is what I don’t want to rush.

He knows it. I told him.

And every time he acts not only like he forgot, but like he’s going to push harder.

Like if he ignores it long enough, I’ll eventually give in.

I’m not explaining bare minimum to him right now.

I’m too tired.

I get up from his bed.

“Where are you going?” he asks, still staring at his screen.

“Home,” I say. “I have cooking to do.”

“We’re still going to that club tonight, right? The after-party for the competition?” he asks.

I laugh under my breath.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Let’s go celebrate my loss and Acosta’s win. I can’t wait. I’ll put on my best clothes.”

“Okay, I’ll call you later so we can meet up,” he says.

I stand there for a second, then walk out of the room.

Victor is sitting outside in the hallway, arms crossed again.

Then he looks at me.

It’s like he’s trying to burn a hole through my face.

I turn fully toward him.

“I get that for some reason you’re pissed at me,” I say. “But just so you know, this is creepy as hell. Stop doing it.”

I don’t wait for a reaction.

I walk out of the apartment, go down to my car, and slide inside.

I unlock my door and finally step into my own place.

First thing: music.

I walk over to the speaker and blast Depeche Mode. Full volume. I’m going to squeeze every drop out of the fact that I have a huge house, zero neighbors, and no one to complain.

Bless Vox.

My anonymous friend who told me to buy these speakers.

Yeah, I said anonymous.

We’ve been talking for, what, two, three years now? Feels like I know him.

I just hope it’s not secretly my mom, because then she knows way too many weird things about me and I’ll have to throw myself in the sea.

When Leo saw I was messaging Vox, he was like, “Stop or I’ll stop it for you.”

He says it’s cheating if it’s a guy behind the screen.

What the fuck kind of logic is that?

I’m a man. I grew up around men, I work with men, I compete with men, I exist in the same world as men, and now suddenly I’m supposed to act like every guy is some kind of threat just because I’m gay.

By that logic I shouldn’t be allowed near anybody.

Lock me in a white room. Slide food under the door.

Sorry babe, can’t have human interaction, I might accidentally want everyone.

Attraction is not this rabid dog that launches itself at anything with the right body type.

I can talk to a guy, laugh with a guy, work with a guy, go out with a guy, and still feel nothing.

That is a very normal thing, actually.

And if somebody can’t understand that, they don’t need to date me.

They need therapy, a glass of water, and maybe a long silent walk where they leave me the fuck alone.

I literally don’t even know what does Vox look like. I only know his name.

Still, this last month I pulled back. I don’t talk to him as much, even though sometimes it actually hurts.

I miss being stupid with him.

There is no work drama, just chaos texts and brain dumps at weird hours.

We don’t say much now. The silence feels heavier than it should for someone I “don’t even know.”

“Shake the Disease” comes on through the speakers and I freeze for a second.

It’s his favorite.

Every time we talk music, he sends it again. And again.

Like he’s trying to hardwire it into my brain.

He’d lose his shit if he heard it properly like this. Loud. On good speakers.

He deserves to know.

I grab my phone and snap a quick picture of the speaker, the screen, the song. Then I open our chat.

I scroll down. Down. Down.

Damn. I thought we talked like… three days ago.

I go to the search bar and type his number. Nothing.

My heart starts beating faster, stupid fast.

I grab my other phone, the work one. Type his number there.

It pops up.

On that phone, he exists.

On mine, he doesn’t.

…

He blocked me.

He actually fucking blocked me.

My heart starts beating faster.

“No,” I say out loud, to my empty kitchen. “No, no, no, no.”

I go back to my personal phone.

Try again. Search bar. Number. Nothing.

I open our last messages. The thread just… ended.

No icon at the top. Name gone.

The old texts are there, but it looks like a ghost conversation.

Like I imagined him.

What the fuck did I do to you too??

Our conversation says, “User not found.”

I scroll up like there’s gonna be a big neon sign saying “THIS IS WHERE YOU FUCKED UP, SILAS.”

There’s nothing. Memes. Voice notes. Stupid shit about music and clients and “I hate people” and “same.”

The last thing I sent him was: “Got a big competition coming up, gonna be buried in work this week lol, if I’m slow answering that’s why. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

He reacted with a little thumbs up and: “I hope you win.”

That’s it. That’s the last thing.

I choke out a laugh. It sounds wrong.

He blocked me after that?

Three days. Three days.

Three fucking days of not talking, and his solution was “block”?

I lean back against the counter, then suddenly I can’t stand still.

I push off and start pacing the kitchen.

“Okay, think,” I mutter. “Think. What did you do?”

I didn’t ghost him for months. I didn’t say “you’re too much, bye.” I didn’t leave him on read after some heavy confession.

I told him I had a competition. I told him I was busy.

I was busy. I’ve been working like crazy, sketching until my wrist hurt, going in early, staying late, fixing lines, reworking shading so I wouldn’t embarrass myself on stage.

I sacrificed sleep. I didn’t sacrifice him.

I would open our chat, stare at the box, type “I’m dying, today was hell” and then erase it because I didn’t want to be that dramatic bitch who whines 24/7.

I thought I was giving him space.

I shut the music off. Can’t even listen to that song right now.

It feels like it’s laughing at me.

My phone starts ringing. Jett. I rub my face. Perfect timing.

Right now I just want to crawl under a blanket with a bottle of whiskey and never speak again.

But if I don’t pick up, he’ll call forty more times and then show up at my door like a debt collector.

So I answer.

“AYY, how’s my star doing?”

“Fantastic,” I say. “First I lost by one point to the most annoying man alive, then that same man humiliated me in a public interview, insulted me in front of my boyfriend while my boyfriend did absolutely nothing, and I just found out I got blocked by Vox.”

Which, yeah, okay, my bad for getting attached to someone anonymous.

Huge mistake. But I was nineteen.

And we met in a game, not on the dark web.

We were building houses together, not trading organs.

We were a good team.

But sure, I’m great. Truly thriving.

“Aww, baby,” he says. “Don’t be sad about your brother’s evil clone. Nobody cares who he is. He popped out of nowhere.”

“Victor has one-point-two million followers,” I say flatly.

“WHAT.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Damn. So what’s he doing here then?!”

“Leo said he came for a six-month guest spot at some studio, to bring them clients,” I say. “Apparently he’s a big deal in Spain.”

Jett laughs. “Bro, that interview though, what the fuck? Do you know him? It felt personal as hell.”

I drop onto my couch and stare at the ceiling.

“I didn’t even know he existed until today,” I say. “I have no idea what his problem is. All I know is today went completely wrong.”

“Not completely,” Jett corrects. “We have the after-party tonight. We’re going. I already told a bunch of clients you’ll be there. Get ready to get glazed, dude. You’re gonna forget everything Victor said in that interview. Also, you need alcohol. You earned it. Come naked so we can pull in new customers for the studio.”

I laugh despite myself.

“You’re trying to pimp out my body for clients?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation.

I snort. “Yeah, I’m not doing that. Leo will lose his shit.”

“Oh, please,” Jett says. “He was at a strip club last week.”

“He was waiting for his friends. He wasn’t inside,” I say automatically.

“Mmkay,” Jett replies, completely unconvinced.

“Anyway. The fact he doesn’t even want you and me talking is wild.” Jett goes on. “If my boyfriend or girlfriend told me ‘don’t talk to Silas, I don’t like him,’ they’d be out of my house so fast they’d leave a shadow.”

Perfect.

One more reason to feel like shit today.

“What’s next?” I mutter. “I’m waiting for something big. No soft shit. I want something that fully destroys me.”

“Okay, shut up,” he says. “I’ll text you tonight so we can go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, and hang up.

I drop the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling again.

---

Okay so this was my least favorite chapter BUT now the good stuff begins 😼

5) Promise

Victor’s POV

I sit in the bathtub, sunk so deep in the water it’s almost over my ears.

Across from me, on the opposite wall, is the small dart board.

Everyone else keeps candles in bathrooms. I mostly keep targets.

I reach over to the drawer next to the tub and slide it open with wet fingers.

The little darts are inside.

People keep asking why I have dart boards everywhere.

My head is usually loud. Very loud.

If I sit still too long with nothing to do, thoughts start stacking on top of each other.

That’s where the darts come in.

Throwing something at a target is the closest thing I have to an off switch.

I have a board in my bedroom, one in the hallway, one in the office, one in the bathroom.

I know myself.

I know how fast I can go from “I’m okay, just tired” to “I want to put my fist through a wall for no logical reason.”

So instead of breaking bones or drywall, I throw something with a rubber tip at a circle and watch it stick.

When I was younger, before I figured it out, I used to punch things.

Walls. Lockers. Even my own legs.

Doctors got nervous about that, obviously. “Self–harm tendencies.”

So we “redirected.”

Every room needs one because my head doesn’t wait for “designated times” to freak out.

I don’t have crises on a schedule. It hits anywhere.

Kitchen. Hallway. Bathroom. Bedroom.

If I had only one board in one room, I’d probably start running to it like some kind of emergency station.

That would look insane even to me.

I know how it looks to some people. Creepy.

But darts keep me on a leash.

And no, I don’t actually want to hurt anyone.

Not again.

I’m just taking a feeling that wants to blow the roof off my skull and I force it through one tiny point over and over until it weakens.

Some people clean aggressively. Other people drink. Some pick fights. Some dance. Some cry. I throw.

Some doctors said I need sex.

They didn’t exactly say “go jerk off” or “let someone ride you.”

They said it all fancy, like “somatic discharge through intimate connection” and “endorphin flood via penetrative or receptive sexual activity.”

All these types of bullshit.

Basically they meant I should go get my dick wet.

I was desperate. I was so fucking desperate I actually listened.

I went out and I tried it a few times.

I picked up men, women.

I told myself “this is what the doctors ordered, this is the release.”

I fucked them until I was drained.

And every single time… nothing.

Emptiness. It was like a chore.

I’d cum, they’d cum, but it felt like pissing after holding it for twelve hours.

Relief for five seconds and then the pressure came back even worse, because the release wasn’t in my dick.

It wasn’t even about my dick. It was in my head.

And my head only needs you.

I’d be counting the seconds until it was over. I’d be thinking about the dartboard waiting at home.

I don’t need to fuck the world.  I just need to fuck the rage into the one person who owns every broken piece of me. 

You.

Always you.

I press the tip into the pad of my thumb, then let it go and watch the dart fly.

Thud.

I reach for another without looking.

My phone buzzes on the sink.

I ignore it for a second. Take the second dart.

Thud. Dead center.

Phone buzzes again.

It’s annoying. I feel like someone is poking my forehead.

I sigh, roll my head back, let it hit the edge of the tub.

I grab the phone. It’s a message from the organizer.

ORGANIZER:

• Hey buddy. We need to finalize which studio you’ll be guesting at for the feature.
• Decision by tonight so we can start promo.

Another one right after.

ORGANIZER:

• Links here.
• Pick the one you want to work out of and we’ll handle the rest.

I stare at the words.

Pick the one you want.

Any of them.

The list is there. Two–three “big” studios. A couple of smaller names.

ME:

-Can I choose whichever I want?

ORGANIZER:

-Yeah. Any is fine. -Wherever you feel most comfortable / best exposure.

I drop the phone back on the sink. It buzzes again like it wants more from me.

It can wait.

Third dart. I spin it slowly between my fingers.

Whichever I want.

Wherever I feel “comfortable.”

My brain immediately gives me one answer and everything else goes quiet.

Your studio.

Of course.

There’s nothing on my dartboard right now, no picture, no drawing.

I picture your face there anyway.

Thud.

The last dart lands right where your mouth would be.

I lean back again.

Guest spot at your studio. Big promo, they’ll say. Great collab.

They won’t know I’m picking it because the idea of being in your breathing space ten hours a day calms me down.

If I go to your studio, you don’t get rid of me.

You show up in the morning and I’m there.

You think you can sneak in the back door with your orange juice and your sleepy face?

I’m at the front.

You’ll have to walk past me. Every day. On the way to the sink. On the way to lunch.

Your path will cross mine whether you like it or not.

You’ll try to avoid looking at me at first. You’ll know I’m there. You’ll check your phone more. You’ll fiddle with your needles, double–check your stencils.

Act unaffected.

You’re terrible at unaffected.

Eventually, you’ll have to talk to me. About scheduling, clients, something stupid like “pass me that.”

Doesn’t matter what.

I’m patient.

I can stand an entire day without saying more than ten words, if that’s what it takes.

I don’t get bored easily once I lock onto something.

Ask anyone who’s watched me train.

If I’m at your studio, I get to see what you’re like when you’re not a username. I get to see your bad days you can’t edit before hitting send. The days you’re late. The days you’re too quiet. The days you talk too much.

I’ll see who pisses you off. Which clients make your eye twitch.

I’ll see who touches you. Where. Why. How often.

Who stands too close. Who makes you laugh.

And if any of them aren’t good for you, that’s information I can use.

I don’t even have to do anything dramatic.

I can be inconvenient. Occupy space.

Take walk–ins you wanted, so you have to talk to me about splitting clients.

Take the chair near the sink, so you pass me every time you wash your hands.

Offer to help when stuff break or when paper runs out.

Be necessary.

Then you don’t get to pretend I’m not there.

You say you hate people who disappear without warning?

Perfect. I’ll do the opposite.

I just won’t disappear at all.

You’ll wake up and I’ll be in your day.

You’ll close the studio and I’ll still be in your head.

You’ll start to recognize my footsteps.

You’re going to get sick of me.

Because I don’t go away easily.

I don’t get “too busy.” I don’t “forget” work. I don’t “flake.” I don’t get mysteriously sick on days I don’t feel like showing up.

I don’t cancel because my mood is off.

My brain might be hell, but my attendance record is pristine.

You’ll think about avoiding me? You’d have to avoid your own studio.

You’d have to redesign your whole routine. And even then, you’ll still hear my tattoo machine.

Feel my eyes on your lines when I pass by and glance at your stencil.

I’m not subtle when I study things.

You turned yourself into my anchor and then cut the rope.

I’ll be there to catch every little thing.

You wanted someone who wouldn’t forget the details.

Congratulations. You got me.

My phone buzzes again.

ORGANIZER:

-So? Any preference? We need an answer today.

ME:

-LINEA INK.

I hit send.

There. Decision made.

I drop the phone on the bathmat, pick up another dart.

You don’t know it yet, but you just invited me into your daily orbit, Silabun.

I wash properly.

I step out of the tub, wrap a towel around my waist.

I walk straight to the wall, and I pull the darts out one by one.

It’s not fun when I’m not aiming at your face.

I can’t believe this is where we ended up.

Block.

I blocked you.

I still remember the first time we talked. The very first time.

We didn’t start with deep talks and trauma dumps.

We started with Minecraft.

Which is almost worse.

I was on some random server because my therapist wouldn’t shut up about “you need to relax more, play something.”

So I logged in, picked a server that didn’t look completely stupid, and started building.

Some ugly box house.

Then there’s this idiot running around blowing up creepers all night.

Not lighting anything properly, not helping with the walls.

Just sprinting into the dark, screaming in chat, dying every five minutes, respawning and doing it again.

Username: silasxX03 .

You added me after the third time you triggered a creeper right next to the spot I was working on.

I remember the notification.

Friend request from silasxX03.

I stared at it for a full minute. Then I hit accept.

Because you’d already been typing shit in chat all night and against my better judgment, I was entertained.

My name was _v17.

You asked almost instantly, “what’s your name irl? I’m not an old man, btw, i promise. I’m nineteen.”

I ignored it.

You asked again later.

I said Vox.

I told you I was twenty-three. That was true.

We started playing every night after that.

Like clockwork. Same server, same time, every night.

At first I told myself I was just killing time.

I’m not a big Minecraft person. I get overwhelmed with all these blocks.

Plus it’s repetitive and too open.

My brain gets tired fast.

But you were there. That was the problem.

Typing way too fast. Spamming emotes.

Calling creepers “Broccoli sticks.”

Making fun of me for building “prison–looking houses” and then quietly bringing me wood and glass and shit so I could keep going.

You’d run ahead, trigger half the mobs on the map, die, respawn laughing, and somehow it made the static in my head quieter.

You built a house, with cats.
Literally just cats.

You walled yourself inside. No doors.

I built a secret tunnel under the floor so I could drop fish through the blocks without you seeing.

Then we made Pickle.
Our dog.

You wanted a dog so bad but you kept dying to skeletons before you could tame one, so I spent three nights straight hunting bones like a psycho.

Finally got him.

You named him Pickle because “he looks like a little green pickle boy when he sits weird.”

We built him a whole backyard with bones buried everywhere, and every night we’d log on just to sit on the roof of your cat house and watch Pickle run around barking at creepers.

I remember one of our last games was when you were mining deep, and you fell into a lava pool.

Your screen went red, you typed “I’M DEAD” in all caps, and then you actually started crying.

I dove straight in after you, died instantly, but I kept respawning and throwing your dropped items back to you one by one while you cried harder.

I built a little memorial next to your cat house. A dirt grave with a sign that said “Here lies Silas.”

You logged back in, saw it, and cried even more, but this time laughing through the tears.

You hugged my avatar.

I started logging in early just to make sure your cat house was safe.

You still make me want to lock us both in a house full of cats and never leave.

You had this stupid, chaotic energy that made me feel less like a problem and more like a person just existing in a dumb game with other dumb people.

I felt like an ordinary person.

We started talking about other stuff.

Music through chat. Annoying clients. Life.

You’d die in–game and just keep typing from the respawn screen like nothing happened.

Sometimes you’d disappear for three minutes and come back with “sorry, bathroom” and keep going mid–sentence.

I got used to that. To you always coming back.

At some point, Minecraft wasn’t the thing anymore.

It was more like an excuse to talk to you.

I’d log in, and if you weren’t there, I’d hop servers for five minutes, then log off.

No point.

Then one night you said, “ok this typing in here is annoying, my thumbs are dying, take my number.”

You dropped it in chat and said:

BUT promise you won’t look me up. Like actually promise me. No stalking. No socials. No face. Just texts, okay?

You said you liked that we didn’t know each other “for real.”

That it made it easier for you to talk.

You made me promise I wouldn’t search your name, your area, nothing.

“You don’t look for me, I don’t look for you. Deal?”

I take that shit seriously.

So I didn’t. Not once.

Not even when I was curious. Not even when you told me what city you were in. Not even when you sent a photo of your hand with paint on it and I could see part of a tattoo and my brain screamed check the tag, zoom, track.

I didn’t. Because you asked.

And because if I broke that, it meant I was just like everyone else who says one thing and does another.

You moved us off Minecraft.

You even suggested we call.

I didn’t call. I hate calls.

But I saved the audio messages you did send and replayed them more times than I should admit.

I got used to you being there. Too used to it.

Recently, Leo shows me a picture on his phone.

It’s him with a guy.

I see something.

A tag.

Your name.

Silas Blackwood.

You’re tagged in a photo with my brother.

So yeah. I tapped it.

Because I just wanted to see who my brother is dating.

It opens your profile.

And suddenly the anonymous little bubble I’ve been talking to at 3AM has a face.

Your fucking face.

I knew you were real, obviously, but seeing you is different.

I check your stories. One by one.

You talking to the camera. You filming your work. You ranting, waving your hands, messing with your hair.

It’s you. The voice matches. The energy matches. The chaos matches.

It’s you, but high definition.

Then I do what you begged me not to do.

I dig.

I find your old public account.

The one you probably hoped the earth swallowed. We all have that one account.

It takes like ten swipes and a stupid amount of scrolling and I see a photo of your screen.

Minecraft.

That dumb old chat open. And right there in the corner, guess what.

_v17.

My username. Your username.

Together on screen.

I sat there staring at that photo so long my phone auto–locked four times.

You. My Silas.

On a public grid. With my brother. With your entire face out for everyone, including me, to see.

I spent hours just watching you through that glass.

Rewatching your stories. Checking old posts. Memorizing stupid shit.

I couldn’t believe I’d been talking that long to someone who looks like that and also… wasn’t an asshole.

Not in chat, at least.

Funny. Stupid in a good way.

Of course you look like that.

Why wouldn’t the universe cram all that into one annoying person and then drop him right in front of my brother?

And even after I saw everything, I still didn’t DM you there.

I didn’t comment, I didn’t like anything.

I stayed in our lane. On the number you gave me.

In the stupid little chat bubble where we were just _V17 and silasxX03.

Because I thought that secrecy still meant something.

I thought I was respecting this line we drew.

Meanwhile, you were already crossing it somewhere else.

And you know what really fucks with me? Remembering how comfortable I got with you.

How far I let it go.

I’d log on even on nights I hated everything. Even when my eyes burned, my head hurt, and I wanted to throw my phone out the window.

I’d still open the app and check for your name.

Half the time I didn’t even feel like playing or talking to anyone.

I still answered to you.

I replied from everywhere. From my bed. From the studio. From the damn bathroom, sitting on the floor with my back against the tub because you texted “my head is loud” and I didn’t want to leave you on read.

It was never even sexual between us, never like that.

I just wanted to be there for someone who made me feel like I wasn’t being too much all the time.

You’d send the dumbest voice note while brushing your teeth, half choking on toothpaste, and I’d be standing in the hallway with my headphones in, listening to it twice.

You’d complain about clients, show me sketches, ask “does this line look weird or am I being paranoid?” and I’d zoom in, stare, give an honest answer.

I built my nights around you without even realizing.

And now I have this whole horror movie playing in my head where my Silabun is on some couch with my brother, laughing about my accent, calling me the problematic twin, looking at me like I’m just another arrogant competitor who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air.

I saw you on that screen.

I saw the real you before you even knew you’d seen me.

And instead of feeling lucky, now I just feel sick.

Because every time I replay how we started, it all feels like a setup for one big punchline I didn’t know I was living in.

You did all that.

You got into my routines.

You made me care.

You made me feel like I wasn’t sick.

And then you drifted.

Now I want to put that page back on the wall and put ten more darts straight through your perfect fucking face.

You earned them.

Your texts became so miserable after him.

“Sorry, got busy.” “Sorry, fell asleep.” “Sorry, forgot to answer.”

Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

And then nothing.

No notification.

Now I know why.

Your night needs were taken care of.

Why talk to the nameless stranger with the broken brain when you can talk to the real thing?

You’re with me. You just don’t know it.

You’re with the version of me you think is normal, fun, safe.

You joke with him, you kiss him, you let him see your bad days.

You think I’m the villain and he’s the boyfriend, when the truth is you split me in half without even realizing.

You gave the good half of my DNA your love and left the bad half in your inbox.

And you’re going to meet me again, and you’re going to hate me.

You’re going to call me names in your head, complain about my attitude, tell people I didn’t deserve the win.

You’re going to hate me for being exactly what you helped build.

You think your absence is nothing. “People drift apart.”

Not for me, Silabun.

You don’t get to be the only person who was there for me and then pretend it shouldn’t matter that you disappeared.

It matters more than you will ever understand.

Because you don’t live in this skull, with this emptiness.

And still, sometimes, I’m trying to come up with excuses for your ignorant behavior.

I’m like, “he didn’t know.” “He didn’t realize what he was for me.”

I protect you from guilt you absolutely fucking deserve.

I hold the blame so your conscience can sleep at night.

I don’t know if I want to forgive you for that.

I don’t know if I want to meet you and give you a chance to be better.

Some days, I want to drag every secret out of you. I want to know why you chose him and not the ghost in your phone. I want to know if you ever thought about me while you were with him.

If you ever picked up your phone, started typing, and then stopped because his hand was suddenly on your waist.

You read enough of my midnight thoughts to know I’m not built for clean exits.

Keeping your drawings in my drawer feels like shutting you in a box you can’t escape.

Maybe that’s the only place you’re safe from what I could do if I stopped holding myself together.

I want you to look at me and feel something crack that you can’t fix with a joke.

You gave me calm when my head was screaming.

You gave me words I replayed until they became rules for me.

You gave me closeness and then cut the line.

So go ahead.

Paint me however you want.

Make me the villain, Silabun.

Make me the worst thing that ever walked into your tattoo career.

Just remember that you don’t get to pretend you had nothing to do with it.

---

Hey guys, sorry for this but i will keep reminding you to give the chapter a star because it helps the story grow🥲

(leaves quietly)

6) Stay Down

Silas’s POV

We’re on the way to the club and I’m dressed like I’m going to my own funeral.

All black.

Because I’m mourning: -Loss. -Public humiliation. -And a fucking block.

All in one day.

Threw on a few silver chains and rings just so I don’t look like a full black hole. Little bit of sparkle on the corpse.

Jett, on the other hand, looks like a fairy with biceps.

His bleached hair is slicked back, bandana tied around his head, black sunglasses on like it’s noon in July.

His outfit is… I don’t even know. Purple, black, blue, all fighting for their lives.

He is the only human I know who can wear that many colors at once and still look hot instead of looking like a suitcase explosion when you’re late for your flight and just grab whatever wasn’t packed.

“We’re here,” he says, turning the wheel. “I’m doing you a favor and not drinking tonight. You deserve to get absolutely wrecked, and I don’t trust Leo to take you home. Sorry.”

“Why not?!” I ask.

“Because I don’t trust him with you when you’re drunk,” he says, blunt as hell.

My eyes go wide. “What???”

He looks at me like I’m slow. “What ‘what’? I don’t trust anyone with you, not just him. Don’t take it personally. It’s just because of the whole… you know.”

He waves a hand around, meaning my health history, the surgery.

“I want to be extra sure,” he adds. “I trust you with me.”

I laugh. “You’re a bit dramatic, but I hear you. Okay. Let’s go.”

We get out of the car.

The bass is already punching through my ribs before we even reach the door.

I hear Be The One by Eli Brown blasting and stop for half a second.

Someone needs to give the DJ a blowjob. Not me, but someone.

It’s one of those songs you think only you listen to. And then you hear it outside, in public, and it’s like—oh.

I’m seen.

Jett exhales, already amped. “Get ready,” he says.

We step inside.

The second we step in, chaos.

Blue, purple, red lights flashing like the inside of a migraine. Everyone around me is already half-drunk, downing shots, bodies glued together, bass rattling my ribs.

Jett was right. Girls start pulling at me immediately. Hands around my wrist, my waist, my shoulders, like I’m some kind of shared toy.

One wraps her arms around my neck and presses herself against me.

For a split second I feel stupidly important. Like, oh, okay, main character energy.

Almost laugh.

Then I remember me and them both want the same thing.

Dick.

So yeah. This is pointless.

Jett puts his hands on my shoulders and shoves me deeper into the crowd.

Someone shoves a shot glass into my chest, wedging it between my pecs.

Love you, but I don’t take drinks from strangers, buddy.

Sorry.

I glance up and spot Leo. At least I think it’s Leo.

Black jacket, same face. If I go by the expression, pretty sure it’s not Victor.

There’s no death stare, no murder in the eyes.

And no swarm of people around him. Good sign.

“Hey, guys! How are you?” he yells, stumbling towards us.

“What happened to you?” I shout back.

He gets close enough that I smell alcohol before he even opens his mouth.

“I’ve spent the last hour telling everyone I’m Victor,” he laughs. “They bought me like ten shots, a bouquet of flowers, and a free massage.”

I just stare at him.

What in the full identity theft.

Jett doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me like, your man, not mine.

“Leo, that’s not okay,” I shout, leaning closer. “You are literally pretending to be someone else.”

He laughs in my face.

“If you can get something good out of having a psycho twin, why not?” he says. “Come on. Take the flowers.”

I’m speechless.

He tries to shove the bouquet into my hands like that fixes it.

I give them back slowly. “I don’t want flowers that were meant for Victor,” I say. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, totally unbothered.

“I’ll go find somewhere to put them and I’ll be right back. Don’t leave,” he says, already turning away, wobbling through the crowd.

I watch him disappear into the lights and bodies, my head buzzing in a completely different rhythm than the music.

Some girl tugs my sleeve again. Jett leans in to shout in my ear.

“This night is already insane,” he yells. “You better get drunk enough to forget all of it.”

I throw back the shot in my hand and feel it burn all the way down.

God, I hope it works.

One hour later

I’m wasted and somehow more guilty than drunk.

Impressive combo.

Everyone around me is making out, disappearing into corners, grinding on each other.

And I’m sitting on a couch with my arms crossed like a disappointed dad at a school disco.

My boyfriend is god knows where.

Because I’m the “injured” boyfriend.

The one who still isn’t ready to actually do anything with him.

And it’s not even his fault. He’s obviously sexy. Like, offensively sexy.

That’s not the issue.

If he was ugly I’d at least have a clean excuse.

Half the time I’m around him my brain is like yes, climb him like a tree, do it, coward.

When he kisses me, it’s not like nothing happens.

It’s the opposite.

So no, my dick is not on strike. My head is.

And that’s on me.

He signed up for a relationship, not a museum tour.

Look, don’t touch.

The problem is my brain has been stuck in the same place for a year and refuses to move.

Stuff that twisted things in my head so now when things get too intense, my brain doesn’t think “this feels good,” it thinks “danger.”

Like there’s a tripwire somewhere between kissing and more.

And every time we get close to that line, it’s like my head slams this invisible brake.

Fear out of nowhere. Panic out of nowhere.

And obviously he complains.

Then he goes quiet. Which just makes me feel worse.

It’s clearly psychological.

Other people are paying for damage they didn’t cause.

And at some point, that has to stop.

That’s it.

I’m done letting my trauma cockblock me.

I’m not letting my fucked-up brain steal a stupidly hot guy from me.

Who knows if I’ll ever get another chance to touch a masterpiece like that.

I push myself up from the couch. The room tilts a little, but whatever.

“Where’s Leo?” I yell at Jett, who currently has a boy on top of him and they’re basically eating each other’s faces.

He doesn’t hear me. Obviously.

I move closer and poke his shoulder, not too hard.

He turns his head toward me, eyes glazed, lips swollen. “Hey, baby,” he slurs.

“Where’s Leo?” I shout over the music.

“I saw him go to the bathroom, I think,” he says, waving his hand somewhere to the left like that’s a GPS.

I nod like that was clear and start walking fast in that direction.

Big mistake.

I stumble straight into a group of people, my shoulder slamming into someone’s arm.

A drink flies. Cold liquid splashes down my chest and across the other guy’s shirt.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry,” I say, like ten times in a row, like some tragic little bitch who forgot how legs work.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he laughs, already turning back to his friends, and I keep moving because if I stop now, I’m going to sit back down and never get up again.

I throw everything I have into just staying upright.

Knees, don’t betray me now.

I’m drunk, yeah. But I’m also done.

Done sitting in the prison I locked myself in.

I’m the one who shut the door. I’m the one who can open it.

I push through the crowd until I reach the bathroom area. The sound changes as soon as I walk in.

I scan the room as best as my vision allows.

Guys at the sinks, some fixing their hair, some already making out like they couldn’t wait the extra ten meters.

Then I see him.

Leo.

He’s further in, near the back, halfway turned away, lighting a cigarette. Black jacket, messy hair, neon hitting his face in flashes.

I move fast. Or what my drunk brain thinks is fast.

I weave through bodies, shoulder past one guy, almost slip on a wet patch on the floor, catch myself on the wall, and keep going.

I reach him and grab his bicep.

I shove him inside and lock the door behind us.

I push him back against the wall, step into his space, and desperately kiss his neck and his jaw before he can say anything.

I slide down to my knees, put my hands on his belt buckle.

He rubs his eyes like he’s trying to wake up, and just as I get the belt undone, he slides down too, coming to my level.

His hand fists in my hair, yanks my face up so I’m looking at him.

“Is this how you greet Leo every time?”

That accent.

I stare at his face. Then at my hands on his pants.

I let go and slap both hands over my own face.

All the alcohol evaporates. Instantly.

I’ve never been this sober in my entire life.

No. No fucking way.

I just tried to do something huge for me, a good thing, a brave thing and of course I did it on the wrong person.

Now he’s going to think I’m a slut.

Like I go from guy to guy in club bathrooms, sucking dick for fun, when reality is I basically had to cry and coach myself into even trying this.

I had to drag myself here. Find the courage.

And my big moment, I got the wrong twin, baby.

If Leo finds out, he’ll kill me. And he’ll definitely take it the worst possible way.

“Silas?”

Leo’s voice. Right outside.

My eyes fly open. I look at Victor, horror blasting through me.

“I’m leaving, you never saw me—”

I start to get up, but he shoves me right back down.

“Stay down.”

I stay.

It’s not like I can get any lower today anyway. Might as well commit.

On my knees, like an obedient dog. Perfect.

“Why do I have to stay down—” I hiss.

“I’m avoiding him too,” he says calmly.

Leo is right outside.

My heart is beating so loud I’m shocked it doesn’t rattle the door. The music outside is the only thing saving us.

“Come on, Silas, your silly friend Jett said you were in here,” I hear Leo call from the other side. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Victor looks at me like, well, this went great.

“I’m drunk and you two are literally identical,” I whisper, pissed.

“Stop talking,” he mutters back.

“Can I drown you in the toilet?” I whisper, rubbing my face.

There’s a pause.

Then Leo’s footsteps. Walking away.

“He left,” Victor says.

“You sure?”

“As sure as I am that you just tried to get on your knees for the wrong person,” he says.

“Fuck you, Victor.”

I push myself up, unlock the door, and step out, trying to fix my hair and my soul at the same time.

Victor walks out behind me, fixing his belt.

A girl standing near the entrance to the bathroom just stares at us.

At him. Then behind her. Then at him again.

“Didn’t you just—”

“No,” Victor says. “I did not just come out of the bathroom.”

“Were you—”

“No,” I cut in. “Whatever you thought, no.”

Her eyes get even wider. “Wait, you’re Silas and you’re—”

“Do you want a free tattoo?” I ask, too fast.

She smiles. “Yes.”

“Great. See you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

I bolt.

I speed-walk out of there.

I spot the real Leo a little further away, near the edge of the dance floor.

I run my fingers through my hair like that’s going to magically erase the guilt off my face. It doesn’t.

My stomach still feels like it’s doing backflips.

I rub my eyes once, hard, then walk over and tap his shoulder.

“Leo!”

He turns, looks me up and down slowly, eyes dragging over my chest, my face, my totally not suspicious expression.

“Where were you?” he shouts in my ear. “I was looking for you.”

“Do you want to go to my place?” I yell back.

His eyes light up instantly. Like, full glow.

His whole face changes. Suddenly, he’s excited.

“Let’s get a taxi,” he says quickly.

I nod and we start heading toward the exit.

“Wait, let me tell Jett I’m leaving,” I say, grabbing his hand so I don’t lose him in the crowd.

We turn right and, of course, Jett is still in the exact same spot with the exact same guy lying on top of him.

Nothing has changed except the amount of sweat on their faces.

I poke Jett’s shoulder again. The guy on him looks annoyed as hell.

I throw my hands up. “Relax, I just want to tell him I’m leaving!”

“With Leo,” I add.

Jett squints at me, then points a finger right in my face.

“If you die or something, I’m beating your ass first,” he says.

“Shut up, I’m not sixteen,” I shoot back. “I got this.”

“Bye,” he grins, already turning back to the guy’s mouth.

I shake my head, grab Leo’s hand tighter, and we walk out of the club together.

7) He’s Not Them

Silas’s POV

We get to my place and my stomach is in my throat.

The second the door clicks shut behind us, it feels like I just signed a contract I didn’t actually read.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t promise anything out loud.

But I know what “come over” means.

He didn’t light up like that because he was excited to look at my furniture. Obviously.

Nobody gets that happy for “let’s go to my place and emotionally process our day.”

He’s here because this is what people mean when they say, “let’s go home.”

Home means less clothes. Home means hands under shirts. Home means maybe tonight is finally it.

Why else would he be this happy? To play cards? Uno? Fucking Monopoly?

No. “Come to my place” is code for “come see me naked.”

I get it. I’m not stupid.

I just wish my head would cooperate with what my mouth implied.

“Nice to be somewhere quiet,” Leo says behind me.

He shrugs off his jacket.

I hang my own jacket up and my fingers feel clumsy. I can feel his eyes on my back.

This should feel simple.

Hot boyfriend. My apartment. Muted lights. End of a crazy day.

Instead it feels like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff I’ve been staring at for a year.

And tonight I opened my mouth and basically said, “Jump?”

I was so sure in the club bathroom. Like, drunk–brave.

I invited him. I said “let’s go to your place.”

Nobody pushed me. Nobody guilt–tripped me.

Half an hour ago I was ready to drop to my knees for the wrong Acosta in a public bathroom.

Now I’m chewing on my tongue because the right Acosta is standing in my living room and my brain is doing that thing again.

The part of me that’s wired normal is like: He’s your boyfriend. You like him. You want him. You asked for this.

The other part, the fucked–up part, keeps replaying old shit.

Old hands. Old pressure.

It’s like my head has this switch.

Public chaos? Drunk? Neon lights? Cool, we ball.

Safe, quiet apartment? Panic.

He thinks this might finally be the night. He thinks I brought him here because I’m ready.

And I was ready. Or at least I thought I was.

In the bathroom I felt like if I didn’t do it now, I’d never do it.

Now that I’m actually here, with him, sober enough to think, the fear crawls back up my spine.

My body’s like, yes, please, climb him.

My brain’s like, absolutely not, we’ve seen this movie, it goes bad.

I hate this version of me.

We kick our shoes off at the door.

I can feel his eyes on me. I see it from the corner of my eye, but I pretend I don’t.

Maybe that’s half the problem. I keep pretending, avoiding, dodging.

Maybe I should stop running and just slam into it.

Face the fear, drown in it, see if I come out alive.

It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not supposed to be a bad thing when it’s done right.

It’s just two people showing they like each other.

I like Leo. That’s the one thing I’m sure of tonight.

So I walk over to him and kiss him.

His hands go straight to my waist.

I try to kiss him harder, more intense, so I don’t have to think about where his hands are going next.

We move toward the bedroom, our mouths still glued together. I push him gently and he falls back onto my bed. I climb over him, straddling his hips.

He reaches for the hem of my shirt.

Panic punches me in the chest.

My hands fly down on instinct. I grab his wrists and pin them above his head.

“Wow,” he laughs, a little breathless. “Okay.”

I don’t answer, I kiss his neck instead. If my mouth is busy, maybe my brain will shut up.

With one quick move of his legs, he flips us.

Suddenly I’m the one on my back and he’s over me, hair falling in his face.

He goes for his own belt, fingers moving fast, and my whole body seizes up.

I yank his shirt up instead, shoving it over his stomach.

He freezes and looks down at me, suspicious.

I force a smile.

He tries again, fingers going for my belt this time.

And again, my traitor hand moves on its own, slapping down over his, holding the belt in place.

He stares at me. Then lets out a sharp breath.

“Fuck this, man,” he snaps, dropping his hands and grabbing his shirt to tug it back down.

Yup. Of course. I fucked it up. Again.

I exhale, already hating myself. “Leo, I swear, it’s not you, I just—”

“‘Just’ what, Silas??” he cuts in, voice raised now. “It’s been a fucking month and you haven’t even let me see you without a shirt on. Do you get that? A month. You never let me take it off. You’re always ‘cold’ or ‘tired’ or suddenly in a rush. There’s always something.”

I look down, because he’s not wrong. That is what happens.

I wanted the right moment to show him why. I didn’t want him to find out right before we had sex like it’s some jump scare.

He gets off me and starts grabbing his things, pissed.

“You have a serious problem,” he says, not even looking at me now. “I don’t know what the fuck they did to you, at this point, I don’t care. If you’re not ready, don’t drag me into this and make me feel like an asshole for wanting my own boyfriend.”

“Leo—”

“I’m twenty-five, not a monk,” he snaps. “I’m not here to be your therapist or your practice dummy. If you want a hug buddy, go adopt a dog.”

He shoves his feet into his shoes.

“You keep saying you like me, you want me, all that shit,” he goes on. “But every time I try to get close, you slam the door in my face. It’s selfish. You know that, right? You get all the attention, all the kissing, all the flirting, and I get what? Blue balls and excuses.”

I swallow. I don’t have anything good to say back.

He laughs once. “You’re not the only one with needs, you know. This isn’t all about you and your trauma and your dramatic backstory. I’ve been patient. Way more than most guys would be. And for what?”

He finally looks at me.

“I hope you know I’m not doing this forever,” he says. “Figure your shit out. Meditate, journal, scream into a pillow, I don’t care. Ask that anonymous friend you never shut up about, maybe he has wisdom. I’ve waited enough.”

He grabs his jacket.

“We’ll talk,” he throws over his shoulder, which always means the opposite.

He opens the door, walks out of my apartment, and closes it behind him.

The silence after feels louder than the club.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. Then my knees give up and I just slide off, end up on the floor, back against the mattress.

He’s right and he’s wrong at the same time. That’s what kills me.

Yeah, I have a problem.

No shit.

Newsflash, I’m not exactly the poster boy for emotional stability.

But hearing it like that, thrown in my face, like I’m a defective product he wants to return, hits too fucking hard.

My eyes sting and I tell myself I’m not going to cry. Obviously, I start crying.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am selfish.

I like the kisses. I like the attention. I like having someone to post about me on their stories and tell their friends “my boyfriend this, my boyfriend that.”

I like having someone to hold my hand when my brain decides to go rogue.

But when it’s his turn, when he wants something back, something physical, something simple that other couples do without thinking, my head slams the brakes.

I pay his dinners. I pay for the clubs, the drinks, the taxis, the weekends away.

He spends my money just fine.

All those bottles, all those nights out, all those “babe, I forgot my card,” all the “you got this one, right?”

That kind of comfort he can handle. That kind of “Silas, you’re amazing” comes easy when it’s about the bill.

But patience for me? For my actual shit?

Apparently that’s too expensive.

I laugh bitterly.

I’ve literally built a whole life from nothing. I pay my parents’ bills. I bought this place with my own work. I sit for hours tattooing people who will never really know what it costs me to stay that focused.

For the world, I’m this confident, cocky, unbothered guy with inked arms.

For him, I’m what?

An inconvenience with a nice wallet.

A guy who’s “fun” until it stops being easy.

And what pisses me off the most, what actually hurts, is that I am trying.

Like, really trying.

I’m not just sitting here going “oh no, poor me, I’m traumatized, nobody touch me.”

I’m fighting my own fucking body every time he puts his hands on me.

He has no idea how loud it gets in my head when he moves closer. How I’m literally giving myself instructions in my own brain.

Don’t flinch. Don’t pull back. Don’t ruin this.

He’s not them. He’s not them. He’s not them.

Half the time when he touches me, every muscle wants to jerk away, and I’m holding myself down from the inside like I’ve got my own wrists pinned.

I try to keep my breathing normal. I try to keep my face calm. I try to focus on him, on now, not on the old shit.

I’m not trying to block him out. I’m trying not to freak out.

And he thinks what? That I don’t like sex?

That I don’t want to have fun? That I enjoy blue–balling both of us every night?

Like I don’t also want to feel good, like I don’t also want to lose my mind on someone’s chest and actually forget everything for once.

Of course I like sex. I’m not a saint, I’m not dead.

All I asked for was a little patience. Not a lifetime.

Just time. Time to unfuck this, even if I have to do most of it alone because he clearly doesn’t know how to help, and won’t even ask how.

He doesn’t try to make me feel safer. He doesn’t ask “do you want the lights on or off?” He doesn’t say “tell me when to stop” and actually mean it.

He just pushes forward until he hits the wall in my head, then gets mad the wall exists.

He can wait for his food at a restaurant. Wait for a package. Wait for a sale.

But wait for my brain to feel safe… no thanks.

That’s too long.

Oh, perfect. Now my dad is calling.

It’s three in the morning. Exactly what I needed on top of this emotional car crash.

I stare at the screen for a second, wipe my face with my sleeve, and answer.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, son. Where’d you disappear to? We lost you right after the results.”

I rub my forehead. My eyes burn.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I… think you understood what happened.”

“Yeah, I saw that clown in the interview trying to drag you,” he says. “What the hell is that guy’s problem? You know him?”

“I don’t,” I say. “Didn’t even know Leo had a twin.”

There’s a pause. I can almost hear him processing.

“I see…” he says slowly. “Well. Whatever. Don’t let it eat you alive, buddy. You’re first in our book and you know that. And your piece was way more impressive than his, if you ask me. Your mom agreed.”

I laugh.

“Thanks. But you don’t have to lie. He won for a reason.”

“Yeah, sure,” my dad snorts. “Politics, probably. Or they’re blind. I’ve seen your work. They can kiss my ass.”

I actually smile. He always knows when to say something dumb enough to make the heaviness crack a little.

“Anyway,” he continues, voice softening, “I’m heading to bed. Gotta open the shop in the morning.”

“Okay,” I say. “I have to go to the studio early too.”

“We’ll swing by after we close the pet shop,” he says. “You want us to bring you food or do you have some?”

“I’ve got food, dad, thanks,” I say. “Just come rest, don’t stress about me. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Alright,” he sighs. “Get some sleep. And don’t beat yourself up, you hear me? We had beers at the bar in your honor tonight.”

That pulls a bigger laugh out of me.

“In my honor, huh? That’s an upgrade from ‘in my general direction.’”

“Yeah, yeah, superstar,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, dad.”

I hang up and just sit there with the phone in my hand for a second.

Everything still hurts. Victor. Leo. The block.

But at least somewhere out there my parents are talking shit about judges and bragging about me to anyone who’ll listen.

Apparently, for them, I’m the guy who made it.

8) The Dartist

Silas’s POV

Sometimes, I just want to take my blanket with me to the studio and tattoo people while wrapped like a sushi roll.

I love my job, I really do, but the cold makes “rest day” sound so damn sexy.

All I want right now is to stay here, wrapped like a burrito, never get up again.

Let roots grow out of my spine into the mattress.

Become one with the bed. Legally fused.

My phone starts ringing.

It’s definitely Jett.

I drag my arm out from under the covers, grab the phone, and pull it under the blanket with me like it’s part of the nest.

I answer. “I’m coming, shut up.”

“Yeah, you better come fast,” he says. “Something happened. You’re not gonna be very happy.”

I sit up immediately, blanket still over my head like a pissed-off ghost.

“What happened?”

“We have a visitor,” Jett says.

I bolt to the bathroom.

Normally I blast music and make a whole performance out of my morning routine, singing into my toothbrush, fake music video in the mirror, all that shit.

Today nothing. No soundtrack, no drama. Just speedrun.

I brush my teeth, spit, rinse, already pulling my shirt off as I turn the water on.

I accidentally scratch my fresh tattoo with my forearm and white–hot pain shoots up my side.

I bite my tongue.

I swallow the pain, get in the shower anyway, scrub fast, get out dripping, throw on whatever black clothes my hands touch first.

Black shirt, black jeans. Black soul, on brand.

Shoes on. Keys. Out.

I haven’t even checked my phone. No idea if Leo texted. No idea if he blocked me, unblocked me, or wrote a whole dramatic essay.

And the traitor. Yeah, I still call him that in my head.

Haven’t checked if he magically came to his senses either.

I turn the corner toward the studio, and stop.

There’s a line.

Like an actual line. Outside my studio.

“What the fuck…”

Who the hell is here?

Did Rihanna decide she needs a touch-up? Is Jesus Christ himself here for a sleeve???

Maybe they’re giving out free emotional support dogs and forgot to tell me.

Maybe there’s a buffet.

I don’t know, but I’m not awake enough for this.

I lock my car and walk faster, heart picking up speed.

As I get closer, I see cameras. Actual cameras.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “No, no, no.”

There are journalists.

I bump shoulders with some random reporter. “What’s going on?!”

Her face lights up and she immediately swings her camera toward me.

Yeah. Bad idea.

I force a stiff little smile, then dodge left and book it toward the entrance.

People are in my way. In my doorway.

I start apologizing as I squeeze past, which is insane because this is my studio and I pay the rent, but whatever.

“Sorry, excuse me—sorry, just—yep, that’s my door, thanks—”

At this point I feel like a guest in my own space.

I step inside and instantly notice something wrong.

There’s… a dartboard hanging in the hallway by the entrance.

I did not put that there.

I stare at it for half a second, then shake it off and head to the front desk.

Poppy is at reception, red ginger hair tucked behind her ears, eyes big, phone ringing off the hook.

If anyone knows what the hell is happening, it’s her.

“For who are all these people here?” I ask.

She pushes her hair back again, nervous tic.

“He’s here,” she says.

“Leo?” I ask, hopeful for exactly half a second.

She shakes her head.

“The other one.”

“Victor??”

She nods.

Jett walks out of one of the rooms, peeling his gloves off with his teeth.

“Silas, before you go downstairs, let me just—”

I ignore him. I’m already heading down.

Downstairs is my space. My floor.

I’m not sharing it with anyone, especially not the guy who roasted me on live interview and stole my trophy.

I hit the last step and I see him.

Victor.

Sitting at my desk. In my chair. Flipping through my portfolio like he’s browsing a menu.

He looks relaxed. One arm draped over the back of the chair, fingers turning each page carefully, eyes tracking every line.

I swear he touches the sheets softer than most people touch skin.

My jaw tightens. I take one step toward him, ready to say “I’m not interested in any guest spots, thanks, get the fuck out,” but Jett’s hand grabs the back of my shirt and yanks me back up a step.

“Are you insane?!” I hiss.

“Are you insane?” he shoots back, keeping his voice low. “Don’t be an idiot.”

He pauses and tilts his head, listening.

I shut up and listen too.

You can hear it even from here. The noise outside, the crowd, the muffled shout of reporters, people saying Victor Acosta and LINEA INK in the same breath.

“Yeah, I hear it,” I say. “Those people are here for him, not me.”

“Exactly,” Jett says. “They’re here for him… but they’re standing in your studio. Do you not see it? You’re collecting clients and clout right now without even lifting a needle.”

I clench my teeth. He’s not wrong, which is annoying.

“Your studio is all over the internet today,” he goes on. “Every clip, every tag, every ‘Victor Acosta seen in Vegas’ has your logo in the back. Whether you like it or not, all this is happening because of the annoying dartist waiting downstairs.”

“Dart… what?” I say.

“Dartist,” Jett says casually. “That’s what I’m calling him now. He hasn’t stopped throwing darts since he got here. Legit. He’s hit like ten 180s in a row. It’s kind of terrifying.”

I blow out a breath, staring at the bottom of the stairs.

Of course I have to be an adult about this.

The universe really woke up and went, “You know what would be funny? Let’s make the guy who just humiliated you on camera and stole your trophy also the best business opportunity you’ve had all year.”

If he does a guest spot here, my books are full for a year. Minimum.

Walk-ins, bookings, collabs, “omg tattoo me where Victor stood.”

People are freaks. They’ll eat this up.

I worked my ass off to get this studio. To get this far this fast.

It pisses me off and I don’t like that I have to play nice with someone who literally looked me in the eye and said I deserved second place.

But I like full appointments. I like not worrying about rent.

And if letting Victor fucking Acosta sit in my space for a few months means my studio blows up even more, then I guess I’m going to have to swallow my pride, smile like a professional, and shake the hand of the guy I’d rather hit with a dart.

“Anyway, I’m going upstairs,” Jett says, already backing away. “Because thanks to all this chaos, my piercing schedule is full and I would like to keep making rent. Go talk to him and please don’t start a fight. Bye.”

He disappears up the stairs before I can tell him to fuck off.

I exhale hard and start heading down.

I rake my fingers through my hair on the way, trying to fix whatever post–shower disaster is still happening up there. It probably still looks like I lost a fight with a blow dryer, but whatever.

Victor looks up.

He has that weird stillness, like he heard me breathe.

I don’t know how he tattoos. I haven’t watched him work.

But I’d bet money that even if he tattooed like shit, half these people would still show up just to say they got touched by him once.

Because here’s the ugly truth nobody admits out loud.

A lot of clients, especially some women, don’t pick studios based on portfolios.

They pick studios based on, “Which tattoo artist would I most like to fuck.”

And I’m not guessing. I’m speaking from experience.

I had a girl once, mid–session, look me dead in the eyes and say, “I want your kids.”

While I was wiping plasma off her arm.

I was like, babe, that’s the wrong kind of fluid conversation.

And the tattoo wasn’t even that good.

I was using the wrong voltage at the time, I told her later like, “hey, just so you know, if you wanna go fix it somewhere else I won’t be offended.”

She just laughed and went, “It’s fine, you can do whatever you want to me. See you next time.”

Like WHAT.

If that were me as a client and a tattoo artist told me, “Hey, I lowkey fucked your tattoo,” I would never set foot in that studio again.

I’d be on Google leaving a two–paragraph review and a dramatic one–star.

But no. She came back. Happier than ever. Brought a friend.

So yeah, looking at the crowd outside, I’m not stupid.

I’m sure he’s good. You don’t get that reputation for nothing.

But all those screaming people, all that “Victor, look here!” and “Victor, over here!” That’s not just about technical skill.

That’s more about the face. The body. The mystery. The whole “cold, scary, probably emotionally unavailable” package people eat up like candy.

And I get it. I just don’t have to like it.

I look at him.

“Hey.”

He lifts his head slowly. “Hello.”

Awkward doesn’t even cover it. Social skills?! Never heard of her.

And the fact that last night I was on my knees in a club bathroom about to blow this man by accident does not help.

At all.

He closes my portfolio and stands up.

Then he walks into the station directly across from mine.

Not the free one. Not the one in the corner.

The one that faces me.

Cool. Love that. No escape.

He pulls his bag up onto the counter, opens it, takes out his gold trophy, and puts it neatly on the shelf above his station.

The silence between us is stupid and heavy.

I have a hundred questions clawing at my tongue and no idea which one to throw first without sounding like an asshole or a fan.

He breaks it instead.

“Are you going to let them in?” he asks.

I look up, then back at him. “I can’t let all of them in. Not even half of them will get done today,” I say.

“I don’t fuck around, and I don’t waste time. I’m fast and precise. Bring them in.”

“Don’t order me,” I respond automatically. “You are the guest, not me.”

He looks at me like I’m slow. “I hear my name outside,” he says quietly. “Not yours.”

I just stare at him for a second. My jaw tightens.

If I stay down here I’m going to snap and put that trophy somewhere creative.

I go back upstairs before I do something that gets me sued.

“Poppy,” I say, walking straight to the desk. “Can you start managing the chaos? Just… slow–feed people downstairs.”

She nods, already grabbing a notepad. “Do you want me to send anyone specific to you?”

I glance out the window. I don’t recognize a single face.

“Just send whoever,” I sigh. “And avoid the journalists, please. Don’t funnel them down. I’m not doing a press tour.”

“Good luck,” she says, wincing a little as I head back down the stairs.

I go back downstairs and step into my room to set my station up.

He’s in there.

He’s standing in the middle of my space, looking at the frames on my wall.

The first tattoo I ever did. Some of my best pieces. Photos of me and Jett being idiots.

He stops at the one I put up last week.

The one with Leo.

We’re close in it. Closer than we actually are most days. His arm around my shoulders, my head tilted in his direction.

“They will think we are dating,” Victor says suddenly.

I turn and look at him.

Yeah. From far away, it does look like I’m wrapped around him, not Leo.

And my body apparently hates that thought because it feels… wrong.

I walk over and just take the photo down.

“I’m not in the mood for conclusions today,” I say. “Go set up your shit. They’re coming down.”

“They are ready,” he answers. “And this drawing has bad shadows.”

I snap my head toward him fast.

He’s already talking shit when he hasn’t even officially started here.

I walk back up to the frame, stare at the piece he’s talking about.

“Can you leave?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the wall.

“Yes,” he says.

He puts his hands on my shoulders lightly, moves me an inch to the side to pass behind me, then lets go like he never touched me at all.

He walks out and into the room directly opposite mine. Front row. Perfect view.

I exhale hard and look again at the drawing he insulted. Bad shadows.

How the fuck did he even spot that that fast? It’s not even that bad.

But I guess that’s what you get with people like him.

Negative people only see the negative.

I drop the frame on the desk for later and go sit in my chair.

I glance over at his side without meaning to.

Then look away.

Then look back, sharper.

He’s staring. Again.

Just sitting there with his arms crossed, eyes on me like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve without the box.

This time I don’t snap. I don’t roll my eyes. I don’t turn my back to show I’m annoyed.

I lean forward instead.

Put my elbows on my knees, lace my fingers together, and lock my stare on him.

No blinking, no moving. Eyes on eyes.

He doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

If he wants a staring contest, he’s getting one.

He blinks once.

My brain decides that’s illegal.

I shift just a bit in my chair, spreading my legs wider without thinking, forearms resting between my thighs.

If I’m going to be stared at like this, I might as well give him something to work with.

His eyes drop for half a second.

There. Got you.

I bite back a smile, because I refuse to be the first one to soften this.

“You’re staring,” I say eventually.

“So are you,” he answers.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “I’m allowed. This is my studio.”

“But I am the reason it is full today.”

Arrogant little shit. Why is he like this.

I scoff, but don’t break eye contact. “Get over yourself.”

“You are angry,” he says quietly. “Why do you keep looking?”

“I’m literally trying to figure out what the hype is about,” I shoot back. “I can’t.”

“You almost found out yesterday,” he says. “In the bathroom.”

My whole body goes hot.

“I was drunk,” I say. “And you have the same face as my boyfriend. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He hums. “That is not what your knees were saying,” he answers.

I grip the sides of my chair to stop myself from throwing something at him.

“You didn’t exactly move, though,” I say. “Could’ve said something a little earlier, don’t you think?”

“I wanted to see how far you would go.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and look up.

Three girls, dressed up like they’re going to a photoshoot, not a tattoo studio.

They look at me first, quick, and then their eyes slide straight to him.

Of course.

Victor smiles at them, and all three immediately pull out their phones, shoving designs in his face, talking over each other.

“Bye,” he says to me on his way past, then closes the door once they’re inside, like I’m not even here.

I hear more footsteps coming down and this time it’s Leo.

Great. Perfect timing.

I really hope he didn’t come here to break up with me, because I genuinely don’t think my mood can go any lower today without the floor opening and swallowing me.

He’s holding something behind his back.

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Surprise,” he says, smiling.

I actually laugh a little, relieved.

For a second my brain goes, okay, maybe it’s a coffee, or one of those cinnamon buns, or I don’t know, something stupid and sweet.

He hands me… a small card.

It’s got a phone number on it.

“What’s this?” I ask, still half–laughing.

“The BEST therapist,” he says, way too excited. “Like, actually the best. I found her through a friend. She helped him so much. She’ll totally fix your thing. You’ll get over whatever this is and then we can finally be together, like, properly. Isn’t that perfect?”

My brain just… stops.

That’s my “gift.”

A phone number for a psychologist.

He’s standing there looking proud of himself, like he just handed me concert tickets and not a prescription for how to be less of a problem.

I don’t even know what to say. I honestly don’t.

I could’ve imagined a million things. A bagel, a flower, a stupid little keychain, literally anything but a “hey, here’s a professional who can fix why you’re not sleeping with me yet.”

I slide the card into my pocket because I don’t know what else to do with it.

“Thanks…” I manage.

He waves it off like it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I just wanted to show you I’m sorry about last night,” he says. “I’ll stay upstairs so I don’t bother you. We’ll talk later.”

He kisses my cheek, light, and walks off.

He doesn’t want to understand what’s wrong. He just wants it gone.

Wants me “fixed” so I can perform right. For him.

The door across opens.

Victor looks at me. Doesn’t say a word.

“What?” I ask, exhausted.

He holds my stare for a second longer.

Then he closes the door again without a sound.

---

Do yall like my tattoo. I did it myself.

It’s my first tattoo ever

9) Digging Gets Messy.

Silas’s POV

It’s finally 9 PM and we’re done with as many appointments as we could physically survive today.

I am so over fake giggles. Like, deeply over them.

The guy isn’t even funny, and yet all day all I heard from his room was laughter.

Constant laughter.

Now he’s been in there for the last twenty minutes just throwing darts at the wall.

Jett and I are out on the balcony watching him through the glass like two creepy little zoo visitors.

He keeps pacing back and forth, back and forth.

Pick up darts, throw darts. Pick up darts, throw darts.

Then he pulls his zip-up off and stays in a black T-shirt.

My eyes widen.

He’s wearing a Depeche Mode shirt. The one with the red flower.

I did not have “Victor Acosta listens to Depeche Mode” on my apocalypse bingo card.

Maybe it’s random. Maybe he just liked the flower and has no idea who they are.

Maybe some stylist threw it at him and he went, yes, black shirt, acceptable.

“Stop staring like that,” Jett says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You’re starting to look like him.”

He lowers his voice dramatically. “I’m here to remind you that you almost sucked his dick.”

“Shut up. You literally cannot tell them apart when you’re sober, imagine drunk.”

He nods while still watching Victor. “I can, actually. This one has slightly sharper features. Face is more… cut up, somehow. I notice shit like that because of piercings. It jumps out at me.”

Then Jett gasps. Full gasp.

“Oh my God. I need to pierce him. So we can tell them apart. A nose ring maybe? He could pull that off.”

I turn to look at him.

“What?” he says. “I’m excited. It’s my first time seeing twins. Maybe I’ll steal him. We can date the same person.”

“You don’t even know if he’s gay,” I say.

Jett gives me the dirtiest side-eye of his life. “I stalked him.”

I rub my eyes. Lift my hands. “Of course you did.”

“According to my calculations,” he says, straight-faced, “he’s bi. There are comments implying he’s good at other things besides tattooing and throwing darts. And the comments are from both men and women.”

“Okay, shut up,” I mutter. “Let’s not become gossip grandmas.”

“I am a gossip grandma,” he says proudly. Then his tone shifts. “What’s happening with Leo?”

I drop my head.

I start messing with my dead lighter, flicking it even though I already know it’s useless.

“We fought,” I say. “Last night. Same shit again.”

Jett exhales through his nose and slides into one of those side hugs that somehow always make me feel six years old and thirty years old at the same time.

I don’t even know if I deserve it. That’s the ugly part.

I feel guilty all the time now. Guilty for what I turned into. Guilty for what it does to people around me. To my own boyfriend.

“He gave me a therapist card,” I say.

Jett pulls back fast. “Deadass??”

I nod.

“Oh, that’s it,” he says instantly, fully resurrected. “I’m dumping him for you. Dude???”

I shove him in the shoulder and tell him to shut up, because Victor is suddenly walking toward us.

Victor walks out onto the balcony with a cigarette already in his mouth.

Today he did a genuinely disturbing amount of work.

I’m starting to think he’s not real.

Like someone built him in a lab, gave him black shirts, weird eye contact, and inhuman wrist stamina, then dropped him in my studio to ruin my peace.

The supply shelf is right above his station, so I kept “accidentally” going over there all day just to check if maybe that was the trick.

Maybe he was cutting corners. Maybe that’s how he moves so fast. Maybe he skips prep, skips cleaning, skips something.

Nope.

Everything is spotless.

Every setup. Every wrap. Every line. Every wipe.

And I like tattooing too, obviously. I love it.

But after three tattoos my brain does a little Windows shutdown sound. Just a tiny zone-out. A buffering moment.

I don’t think I saw him take a break once. Not once.

He went to the bathroom one time and that was it.

Now he’s standing in front of us, smoke curling up past his face, looking surprisingly fine for someone who should statistically be dead from overwork.

Jett looks at him. “Will the dartist do me the honor of lending me his weapons for ten minutes?” he asks.

Victor looks at him, shocked. Then at the room behind us.

Then back at Jett, like he’s running some private little risk assessment in his head.

“Come on,” Jett says. “I wanna throw darts too. It looks fun.”

“You want my darts?” he asks flatly.

Jett nods. “You make it look easy. I wanna see if it’s the darts or the dartist.”

I almost laugh.

Victor just stares at him for one more second, then nods once.

Jett lights up immediately. “Thanks, man.”

He disappears inside.

Great.

I realize we’re alone again.

I don’t say anything. I just quietly shift away and head for the corner of the balcony, putting as much space between us as the sad little layout allows.

I came out here to calm down.

Instead I’ve got the noise of Las Vegas in one ear, and in the other I’ve got a guy looking at me like I killed his parents.

I’m trying to light my cigarette and my lighter suddenly decides this is the exact moment it wants to die.

Please.

Please don’t do this to me.

For months I kept thinking today would be the day you finally gave up and you never did.

Don’t pick now. Don’t choose this exact balcony, this exact man, this exact humiliating moment to become useless.

I keep flicking it.

Nothing. Again. Nothing.

I can feel him watching me struggle.

I glance at Victor once, annoyed, then immediately turn away so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing the full battle.

I keep fighting with the lighter anyway.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

Then I hear him move.

He stops right in front of me.

My eyes land at mouth level.

He only lowers his head a little and flicks his lighter on, leaning in just enough to catch both cigarettes at once.

Mine takes forever to light.

Or maybe that’s just what it feels like because suddenly I’m way too aware of how close he is.

The second it catches, I turn my head to the right and blow the smoke away from his face.

I hate the silence.

“If you’re gonna stay here for six months,” I say, “do something so I can tell you apart. And everyone else too. Get a piercing. A haircut. Something.”

He answers immediately. “I have one thing Leo doesn’t.”

I scan his face.

“Where?”

He sticks his tongue out.

A tongue piercing.

Great. So now I have to inspect tongues to make sure I’ve got the right twin.

He moves away slowly and goes to the little table with the two chairs. He drops into one, pulls his legs up, plants his elbows on his knees, and takes a drag without looking at me.

“You can sit,” he says. “I don’t bite.”

“I don’t want to,” I answer.

I nudge a piece of trash on the floor with my shoe.

Then I rethink it immediately, because actually, this is my studio. My balcony.

If I want to sit, I’ll sit. I’d be sitting here even if he wasn’t in it, making the whole atmosphere weird.

So I walk over and drop into the other chair.

“I’m sitting because this is my balcony,” I say.

He blows smoke out in front of him. “Good for you.”

Fuck.

That was so cold it almost made me shiver.

Okay. Fine. Try again. Use words. Real ones.

“Do you like Las Vegas?”

“I don’t do small talk.”

I yank the cigarette out of my mouth and turn fully toward him.

“This is not small talk,” I say. “I’m literally just opening a conversation. Jesus. Who traumatized you?”

He looks at me.

Then looks ahead again and takes another drag.

“I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s too loud. I miss Spain.”

“And Spain misses you ,” I say, resting my head in my palm. “I can hear it begging to come back out every time you speak.”

He turns his head and looks at me.

“Don’t be rude,” he says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

My jaw drops.

“Says the king of manners?! You seem to be forgetting how you spoke to me yesterday. In the interview.”

“I only said facts,” he says. “It isn’t my fault you reacted badly to them. You losing is simply a fact.”

“Jesus, is there any way for you to go back to Spain faster?”

“I’ll go for Christmas,” he says. “You should come.”

He stretches. “I might even let you ride my horses.”

“You have horses?”

“Are you deaf?” he asks.

I lift my brows. “That was literally rude, and then you still have the nerve to tell me—”

And then he flicks my forehead.

With his fingers.

I freeze.

I’m staring at him like my brain needs to reload the whole scene from the beginning to make sure that actually fucking happened.

He sits back like nothing happened, cigarette between his fingers, face calm.

“What the fuck?” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Did you just—”

He doesn’t even look guilty.

Actually, worse. He looks amused.

Not enough to call it a smile, but enough that I can tell he enjoyed annoying me.

“You were talking too much,” he says.

I stare at him. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs and takes another drag.

I sink back into my chair and rub my forehead where he flicked me.

To be honest, this is probably my fault.

I’m the one who kept trying to get closer when he very obviously wants nothing to do with me.

Maybe he’s still weirded out because of yesterday. Actually, that has to be it. There is literally no other explanation.

He thinks I’m a pervert. That has to be why he’s distant.

Why he keeps looking at me like I’m either stupid or dangerous.

And fair enough. If I were him, I’d probably think I’m a freak too.

Which is extra tragic, considering I can’t even have sex with my actual boyfriend right now.

Meanwhile the image Victor probably has of me is insane. Some starving psycho who apparently tried to assault him twice against his will.

Tragic.

I turn and look at him.

“If all of this is because of yesterday… sorry,” I say. “I know it was awkward. I’m not a pervert, I swear. I just didn’t know there were two of you.”

He smiles. Then he gets up and stretches.

“Nice shirt, by the way,” I say. “Do you listen to Depeche Mode?”

“No,” he says. “They’re outdated.”

I just nod.

Damn.

I miss Vox.

He would roast this creep alive for saying that. They’d argue for hours.

Victor opens the balcony door, half in and half out now. “What was your friend’s name?” he asks.

“Jett?” I say, pointing inside.

“Tell Jett to put the darts in the cabinet in the corner of the room. Second drawer. Behind the gauze. Not the one underneath.”

He glances at me. “I don’t want you opening the one underneath.”

…

That is way too specific.

I nod slowly and watch him gather his things and head upstairs.

I wait until I hear the door at the top close before I go back in.

Then I move slowly.

I head toward Victor’s room.

It smells different in there now.

Like…

Cinnamon?

What the fuck.

Jett is still throwing darts.

He turns to me. “Uh. One went into the wall behind the board by accident. Oops.”

“Good job,” I tell him.

Then I go to the cabinet.

I stand there staring at it.

What could he possibly have in there? Why would he specifically say not to open it?

This is my studio.

How am I supposed to just not look?

For all I know, he put something insane in there. Something dangerous.

He could actually be crazy. Maybe that’s why he told me not to open it.

I gotta be sure.

I pull the drawer open.

And I nearly have a heart attack.

Some string I didn’t even notice jerks tight, and suddenly a glass full of charcoal dust tips over and dumps straight into the empty drawer with a soft fwoof of black powder.

“All good?” Jett yells from behind me.

“Yes!” I shout back instantly.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He’s going to know. He’s going to know I looked.

I did the exact thing he told me not to do.

I pull the drawer open farther. Everything inside is black now. Powder everywhere.

I brush through it with my fingers, coughing once because some of it lifts into the air.

Then I see a note.

I sweep more of the black dust away and pick it up.

“Digging gets messy.”

My heart starts beating stupid fast. Annoyingly fast.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to laugh or run.

This is craziness.

I pull my phone out and take a picture of the drawer. The black powder, the note, the whole crime scene.

Then I open Instagram, go to his profile, and send it to him.

ME:

• explain yourself.

He replies almost instantly.

VICTOR:

• pervert and curious…

I stare at the screen.

ME:

• I AM NOT A PERVERT.
• also you made it sound way too tempting to open it?!

His typing bubble comes back.

VICTOR:

• I told you not to open it and you did
• Clean it up.
• I don’t want to find one grain of charcoal tomorrow

I rub my face with my clean hand.

ME:

• Victor please, I’m tired.

VICTOR:

-curiosity has consequences for everyone.

I genuinely consider exploding on the spot.

Tomorrow I might slap him just to complete my set.

Pervert, curious and violent.

---

Hey guys… I know I can get really descriptive sometimes… and I go into a lot of detail. I do that here and in my smut scenes too, just so you can have a clearer picture 😭 but someone said I write like I’m giving directions and now I can’t get it out of my head.

Do I write like I’m giving directions??!

10) Pickle

Victor’s POV

Today was technically the first time I stepped into your studio.

But it didn’t feel like a first time. It felt like walking into a place I’ve already mapped a hundred times in my head.

I knew the layout before I saw it.

Because you talk. You talk a lot, Silabun.

When I saw a dude chilling outside your room, I didn’t say, who’s that?

I said that’s Jett Gambino.

Your best friend and your piercer.

Your chaos twin.

Bleached hair, just like you said, except it’s even more offensive in person.

Dark roots grown out exactly one centimeter and a half.

That means what, two weeks since the last touch–up?

Maybe three, if he’s lazy.

He’s taller than you, broader shoulders.

He has an older brother. I’ve never met him, but I know, because you told me.

Jett hates being compared. That’s why he went full bleach and needles while big brother went “normal”.

Whatever that means.

He has the cinnamon buns.

He’s the one who makes them exactly like your favorite shop does.

You were always like: “Dude I swear if Jett ever dies I’m jumping into his grave just to get his recipe.”

You talked about them so much I could smell them through text.

When I came online with the nickname Silabun for the first time, you laughed for ten minutes.

I remember staring at my screen, watching those “HAHAHA” messages roll in, and feeling super proud of myself.

Jett also touches you all the time.

Have you noticed? You have, you just don’t think about it.

He knows exactly how far he can push it.

Where the line is between “friendship” and “too much.”

And he dances on it all the time, for fun.

I watch him.

Then there’s Poppy.

Reception queen.

She’s exactly how you described her and still more.

She is truly an angel. Too sweet for this job, actually.

You told me about her girlfriend. Five whole years.

It was one of those relationships you look at and think, okay, that’s stable.

Until one day her girlfriend woke up and decided she was straight again.

Poppy laughed when she told you.

I watch Poppy now. Today she paused a millisecond before saying “single” when a client flirted with her.

She doesn’t know I know any of that.

To her, I’m just the new guest artist with the creepy expression and the accent that you and Jett will definitely roast later behind my back.

I am being nice to them.

These are your people.

But I know them through you first.

I know the most random things because of you.

They think they’re the main characters in your life.

That’s fair, technically, they earned it.

But I know the version of you that only shows up at 3AM and admits the stuff you always swallow in daylight.

You’re mine too. Not in a healthy way, obviously.

They have your body in this place, but I have something more important.

I have your brain.

I’ve got you figured out.

That’s why the charcoal thing worked. I know the part of you that gets stubborn in the dumbest ways.

You are dramatic and usually loud. But underneath that, you are embarrassingly committed once something hooks you right.

That’s why it worked.

And you actually stayed to clean it. A smarter person would’ve gone home. A less tired person would’ve shrugged and said, fuck him, not my problem.

You didn’t.

There’s something ugly about how fucking satisfying that was.

I didn’t want to make your life harder, never like this. But I did want proof.

Proof that I still read you correctly.

God, it turns me on more than sex ever could. Watching your mind bend because I wanted it to.

Seeing you choose my trap over rest, over everything.

It feels like getting my hands around the inside of your head for a second and confirming that I still know exactly how it works.

For some reason, you really like to pretend you’re simple. You’re not.

You’re a junkie for resistance.

I saw it in our messages first. Should’ve been obvious.

Everyone else would gas you up.

“You’re so talented, Silas.” “You’re insane, Silas.” “You’re a genius, Silas.” “No one does it like you do, Silas.”

You’d send me screenshots, pretend it was no big deal, add a “lol they’re so dramatic.”

But the way you typed after someone challenged you was so much different.

When a client said, “Are you sure this will look good?” you sent me twenty voice notes.

You love that shit, deep inside. You love having to prove yourself.

You say you hate being questioned, but your messages doubled when I did question you.

Coincidence? No.

You’d send me a tattoo you were proud of. Everyone in your comments was like: “Slay.” “King.” “Artist.” “Omg.”

Boring noise.

I’d text you, “Why 3RL needle and not 5RL?” Two seconds later you asked, “What do you mean why?”

Then three paragraphs about your reason. Reference photos, many screenshots.

Me getting a full lecture I didn’t ask for.

You don’t do that for people who just clap.

You do that for the ones who poke.

I clocked it, and sat on it.

Then today at the studio, I got proof.

Everyone praised you.

You love it. You eat compliments like candy.

But eventually, you get bored.

Because you don’t want worship. You want someone who doesn’t just clap, but grabs your work by the throat and says, “You can do better than this, Silas.”

And you want to hate them for it while you’re already reaching for your machine to prove them wrong.

You’re at your best when you’re cornered.

When someone says, “I’m not convinced.”

When someone stands in the middle of your little fan club and says, “Actually, no.”

That’s where I come in.

Because if there is one thing I am extremely good at, it’s being the wall you throw yourself against.

You’re going to have people who adore you.

Always.

People who hype you up literally just for breathing.

I’m not here to be another soft cushion under your ego.

You light up when there’s something to push against.

Feel free to push me.

Keep pretending you hate my comments. I see right through you.

You love it.

You said once, in our Minecraft chat, “You drain me.”

Yeah. I drain you. And I’ll drain you as long as I see it turns you on in that sick, creative way.

I’m going to become the worst enemy you’ll ever love.

You want challenging? I can turn your whole life into a challenge, baby.

I’ll question everything.

Your color choices. Your scheduling. Your needles. Your habits. Your lines. The way you sit. The way you talk to me. The way you talk to yourself. The way you hold your machine.

And I’ll watch the way you respond.

You’ll get tired. You’ll say you hate me. You’ll complain to everyone.

You’ll call me an energy vampire, a pain in the ass, a fucking menace.

And then you’ll come back anyway.

Because buried under all that annoyance, you know I see you clearly.

You’re addicted to the people who don’t let you settle.

The ones who piss you off so much you have to prove them wrong just to breathe.

Go ahead. Call me your problem. I’m fine with that.

I’ll be your worst enemy on paper and still the guilty pleasure your brain reaches for every time applause starts to sound boring.

I could win you back like this if I wanted to.

I could humiliate you. I could say the exact words that slice right through that pretty pride of yours.

I know Leo. He wouldn’t get involved.
He would just say “not my business.”

Jett would text you something like “just ignore him, man.”

No one would come to save you. No one would step between us.

You’d want help.
You’d want to talk about it.
You’d want to drag someone into a corner and trash me, call me crazy.

And that’s exactly why I would be here for you, Silabun.

You’d message me anonymously.
You’d type “ someone was such an asshole to me today… “

And I’d be right here.
I’d comfort you all night if I had to.
I’d wrap you in praise, in “ I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Silabun, you’re too good for this shit .“

I’d be perfect.

Until morning comes again.

Then I’d wake up and do it even worse.
I’d find a new crack, a deeper one.

I’d humiliate you harder.

And the cycle would start over.

Only I could build you and destroy you in the same breath.

I could save you from myself, with myself.

I could do it, you know. 

I could make you fall in love with me all over again.  I could keep you chasing that anonymous voice that “understands” you.

I could make you say “I need you” to a stranger who’s actually me.

I could.

But fuck that. 

Fuck that entire plan.  I don’t want it like this. 

I don’t want you splitting me in two and taking the parts you like from each twin.

I want all of me inside all of you.  Mind and body.

Do you understand what that situation feels like from where I’m standing?

You clicked with my mind.

And then somehow you ended up with his body.

My twin’s.

My same face. Same fucking mouth in a different arrangement of luck and timing.

Do you have any idea how sick that makes me?

How impossible it is to explain that to anyone without sounding completely diseased?

You are splitting me in half and love the halves in different places.

This is literally you reaching for my head in one room and my body in another.

I feel chosen and rejected at the same time.

I feel replaced by my own reflection.

I know what you found in me, I know what you found in him.

Those things can belong together. But you have no idea.

And that’s eating me alive.

---

I get home.

It’s a small house, compared to the one I live in Barcelona. Nothing too impressive.

I don’t want a huge house anyway. Too much space just turns into more emptiness to drag around.

While I’m unlocking the door, that one dog shows up again and bumps against my legs.

He’s here every day since I moved in.

He looks like our Pickle, you know.

He’s small, with too much energy stuffed into one tiny body.

Stupidly alive.

And I guess we have something in common. We were both left behind by our person.

He circles my feet, tail going fast, and I look down at him for a second with my keys still in my hand.

I feed him every night because I know what it’s like to be left somewhere hungry.

Nobody came to check on me after you left me either.

So I do for this dog what I wish someone would do for me.

Tonight it’s drizzling enough to make everything more miserable.

And I already feel extra alone.

I look at him.

He looks back at me, all happy.

I smile a little. Then I reach down carefully, trying not to spook him, and pick him up.

He latches onto me immediately.

Acting like he found his Silas.

I step inside with him in my arms and glance around.

My place is still empty, mostly.

I don’t have much furniture yet. Barely anything, actually.

No dog bed, no blanket on the floor.

No space that feels ready for another living thing. If I’m being honest, it barely feels ready for me.

The dog licks my face.

I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, okay.”

I carry him to the bathroom and set him down carefully in the bathtub because it’s the safest place I can think of for five minutes.

He turns in a little circle and then looks up at me, all happy and excited.

“Stay here, little guy. I’m gonna run to the pet shop and get you food, soap, and a bed.”

He wags his tail like crazy even though he obviously has no idea what I’m saying.

He’s trusting me for no good reason.

He doesn’t know anything about me. Doesn’t know I’m a mess. Doesn’t know I have nothing ready.

He just knows I picked him up.

That was enough.

I step back, and pull the bathroom door mostly closed so he doesn’t go tearing through the place.

---

I walk into the pet shop.

Your parents’ shop.

The second I step inside, I feel eyes on me, and a weird vibe.

I guess they figured out I’m not your boyfriend.

I’m the other one.

The evil twin who took your first place and probably ruined everyone’s night.

Your dad looks like he’d genuinely enjoy stepping outside and settling this with his fists.

I know he loves you. I know he rides for you harder than anyone. You told me that yourself. You said he always shows up for you.

Your siblings are here too. Grace and Hunter.

And all of you look too much alike.

Same eyes. Exactly the same. Your dad’s eyes copied and pasted across the whole family.

It’s unsettling.

Obviously they told them you lost because of me.

I can see it on all their faces.

So I ignore them.

I go straight to the dog section because I didn’t come here for a family therapy session.

I came for food for our dog.

I’ve already decided I’m naming him Pickle.

I’m getting him food, a collar, something warm, and whatever else he needs because unlike some people, I don’t leave things hungry and waiting outside in the cold.

I can feel them watching me while I shop.

Eight eyes on me the whole time.

I smile once while I’m looking through the dog food.

Nobody smiles back.

That’s fine.

Your loss hurts them more than it hurts you. I can tell.

Their whole energy is wrapped around defending you. Being offended on your behalf.

But I’m the one hurting most here anyway.

You lost to me, but I lost you .

That’s not the same scale of damage and I think all of us know it.

I look through the dog beds for a while. There’s a lot of variety, actually.

Cute ones, ugly ones, cheap ones, expensive ones. Your parents did a good job with this place.

I pick one that’ll keep our Pickle warm. Then I add the food, a blue and white collar, toys, treats, basically half the aisle because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and overbuying feels safer than forgetting something important.

I carry everything to the counter and set it down.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi,” your mom says back.

“I just got a dog. Did I forget anything?”

She looks at me for a second, then she reaches for a small box near the register and sets it on top of the pile.

“This is for ticks,” she says. “To keep him clean.”

I nod and smile.

“Thanks.”

They’re still all looking at me like there’s something wrong with me.

“Why do you hate Silas?” your sister asks me.

The whole room goes tight.

Your dad immediately turns to her. “Grace, go inside.”

Then he looks back at me. Up and down.

“There a problem, Victor?”

“No sir.”

“Has my son… bothered you in some way?”

If only you knew.

If only any of you knew what your son has done to me without even trying.

If only you knew how deep he got before I ever saw his face.

Your mom is packing the things into bags while your dad keeps looking at me.

I could say a lot there.

Too much, actually.

I could say your son doesn’t bother me. Your son ruins me.

I could say your son split me open and never even noticed.

I could say your son doesn’t know how badly he hurts people just by existing near them.

I could say your son is the reason I know exactly how sick a person can get while still looking calm in public.

But obviously I don’t say any of that.

“He hasn’t bothered me. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

That really does it. Now nobody knows what to do with me.

Because they expected arrogance, probably. Defensiveness. Some smug little winner attitude.

Not that.

And I mean it.

I am sorry.

Not for winning.

For the rest of it.

For the mess and for the scene. For how ugly everything gets once your name is involved.

I take the bags from the counter.

Thank your mom.

Nod once to your dad.

And leave before any of them can ask me anything else.

I go back home, back to our dog.

---

hey :) sorry for that. I’ll post 2 REALLY good chapters on Saturday:)))

11) Not Everything Is Fake

Victor’s POV

I open the bathroom door and the second he sees me, his tail goes insane.

Full speed. Like he’s trying to wag with his entire skeleton.

He’s still so tiny he can barely bark properly. It comes out more like a squeaky little scream than an actual bark.

He’s happy to see me. Genuinely happy.

He doesn’t have bad instincts about me. Which is interesting, considering I’m still me.

I crouch down and run my hand over his tiny head.

“I got you a bed,” I tell him quietly. “You’re not sleeping on the ground again.”

That sentence does something ugly to my brain, so I ignore it and get to work.

I wash him as carefully as I can, which is to say badly, but with effort.

I prop my phone up and watch tutorials on how to clean him properly, how to wash a dog this small without terrifying him, how to trim his nails without making him hate me forever.

He squirms. Shakes water everywhere. Tries to lick my hands while I’m holding him still.

It’s a mess. A manageable one. I like manageable messes.

When I’m done, I towel him off, get his new bowl out, pour the food in, and set it down in front of him.

He attacks it instantly.

He eats like it might disappear if he slows down. He doesn’t seem to trust the universe enough to believe that another meal is coming after this one.

Something scratches at the back of my throat so hard it nearly turns into tears, which is ridiculous, because all that’s happening is a tiny dog is eating food in my half-empty house.

But it’s more than that.

It’s him having a bowl and a bed and a place next to mine instead of concrete and rain and hunger.

I set his little bed beside my own.

Right next to it.

Not across the room. Not in the corner. Next to me.

He keeps eating, making those tiny greedy noises, and I just stand there looking at him while something worse starts crawling under my skin.

The thought of unblocking you.

I want to show you. I want you to see Pickle.

Our Pickle.

Eating real food. Not Minecraft food.

Not pixel fish or stupid little game meat or whatever else we threw at him inside that world. Real food, in a real bowl, in a real house, beside a real bed.

All of it suddenly feels too alive.

The whole Minecraft world breathes weirdly inside my head for a second.

You were the first impossible thing from there that turned real.

Now Pickle is real too.

Suddenly the line between then and now feels thinner than it should.

I grab my phone before I can think too hard about whether this is a mistake.

I already know it is. That doesn’t stop me.

I go into my blocked numbers, find yours, stare at it for half a second, and undo it.

Done.

I don’t know if it’s the right choice. It probably isn’t.

I know it opens doors I locked for reasons that still exist.

I know I am weak exactly where you’re concerned.

But I also know that right now I can make you smile harder than Leo probably does.

That thought is mean, I know it, but I keep it anyway.

I take a picture of Pickle while he’s eating and send it.

ME:

• I got a dog.
• His name is Pickle.

You come into the chat immediately.

Immediately.

My heart starts beating so hard it actually annoys me. I stare at the screen while the typing bubble appears.

Stops.

Appears again.

Stops.

Again.

I smile before I mean to.

You probably have questions. A hundred of them.

You don’t know what to react to first. The dog. The name. The fact that I unblocked you. The fact that I’m suddenly here again after disappearing.

Maybe you’re trying to decide if you want to be angry, relieved, confused, or all three.

Then your message comes through.

SILAS:

• I have so many questions right now.

I laugh out loud.

SILAS:

• You blocked me???

ME:

• Sorry.
• I had to get my phone repaired and didn’t want anyone finding our chat.

SILAS:

• Christ, I could actually hit you right now.
• Are you insane????
• Why didn’t you tell me??
• I thought you hated me, asshole
• So many times I went to text you and couldn’t
• You got a dog and named him Pickle???
• I can’t believe this.
• Our dog is real now :)
• He’s so cute. I wish I could meet him.

I read every single one without answering. On purpose.

Because I know you. Because I know the longer I stay quiet, the more you’ll send.

And I like watching you type. That’s ugly too, probably.

I don’t care.

I can picture you now, sitting there with your phone in your hand, smiling at the screen, all your attention pointed straight at me.

ME:

• Do you want to play Minecraft?

SILAS:

• Are you kidding?? Of course I do.
• Our cats have probably died because of your dumb ass.
• You’re such a bad dad honestly.

Our.

I stare at that word.

Our cats.

Then the other one.

Dad.

Bad dad.

So that means I’m the dad of the cats. And you said ours, which means they belong to you too.

Which means you’re the dad too.

See? You do it yourself.

You keep proving it in these tiny ways you don’t even notice.

Little possessive slips. Little shared-language accidents.

They don’t mean nothing to me. They never do.

Ours.

Us.

Dad.

Shared things.

Shared world.

Shared stupid little responsibilities.

Even if it’s digital, it still counts somewhere in me.

We belong together there, at least.

I run to my laptop like a dog.

I flip it open, grab a glass of water from the kitchen on the way back, and drop into the chair at my desk.

I open Minecraft.

The second I load into our world and see all the familiar chaos around me, it’s like somebody actually hits mute inside my skull.

Everything that was scraping around in there all day just stops.

Suddenly it’s quiet.

Then your avatar joins.

And for some reason you’re dressed as Batman.

I laugh immediately, alone in my room, because I forgot.

I completely forgot you were still running around in that stupid skin.

SILAS:

• follow me, I built something new while you decided to become a ghost.

I follow you through the game. You turn around every three seconds to check if I’m still behind you.

You stop in front of a huge tree.

SILAS:

• get up here

I laugh again and climb up, already knowing this is going to be ridiculous.

Of course it’s a treehouse.

A full one. You didn’t even try to be subtle about it. I open the door and stare.

Two beds. Facing each other.

A little kitchen. Furniture. Random decorative bullshit.

And next to everything else, somehow, trapped inside this treehouse like it makes perfect sense, are two actual horses.

I start laughing.

ME:

• why are there 2 horses inside a treehouse

SILAS:

• they’re your horses?! you love them so I brought them too.
• I brought Pickle too, didn’t you see him?

I look again. He’s there.

ME:

• you can’t put horses inside treehouses

SILAS:

• it’s minecraft.
• minecraft isn’t real.
• you can do whatever you want

My smile drops.

I swallow.

Without even thinking about it, I look down at the real Pickle curled at my feet and scoop him up straight away.

I set him in my lap and run my hand over his head. He turns into a warm little ball instantly and settles there.

Not everything is fake.

I drop back down from the tree.

SILAS:

• also I renovated your prison house while you were gone.
• and I fed all the cats by myself.
• I’m taking you to court and asking for child support btw

I laugh again.

God. I missed your awful jokes.

I wander around the area a little and find a blue orchid.

Your favorite flower.

I bring it back to you and hand it over in-game.

ME:

• thank you for taking care of the animals.
• I’ll do better, don’t take me to court.

SILAS:

• hahahahahahaha thank you <3

I just stare at the heart.

That stupid little symbol.

My own heart starts pounding so fast it makes the rest of me feel electric.

It’s ridiculous. It feels like somebody injected something straight into my bloodstream.

My whole body fills with this sharp, stupid happiness that almost hurts. There is no way I’m sleeping tonight.

Not like this.

Not with this much energy under my skin.

I smile and finish my whole glass of water in one go.

Then a creeper suddenly starts creeping toward our tree.

SILAS:

• no NO NO GET MY SWORD.
• WE CANNOT LET HIM IN
• GET PICKLE
• I’M GONNA DIE VOX.

I’m laughing so hard.

You’re trying to kill this stupid green thing with your sword and completely failing because you’re also trying to type at the same time.

Your messages come out as total garbage.

Just panicked keyboard smashing.

iskajdkzjdokszk type nonsense. Absolute disaster.

And in the middle of you losing your mind over a pixel monster, one stupid happy tear slips out of me.

Just one.

Because it hits me all at once how much I missed you.

How much I missed this exact thing.

Your chaotic energy. Your awful timing. Your messages.

The way you make everything louder and dumber and somehow easier to survive at the same time. I missed all of it so badly I don’t even know where to put the feeling.

You’re still flailing around with the sword, so I step in and kill the creeper immediately because I’m the one with the good sword, not you.

You start jumping up and down.

Literal bouncing.

SILAS:

• gimme your sword

ME:

• nope

SILAS:

• COME ON I need it more than you do.
• I die 5 times and you die none

ME:

• still no.

You turn dramatically and throw yourself off the edge on purpose and die.

I laugh.

I wait for you to respawn.

While I’m waiting, I run fast to the bathroom and put one of those training pads down for Pickle.

Your mom told me to do that first. Let him get used to it. Let him come close to it on his own.

I bring him in, set him down gently, close the bathroom door for just a minute, and hurry back to the screen feeling stupidly excited. Actually excited.

I drop back into my chair. You still haven’t respawned.

That’s weird.

I stare at the screen, then type.

ME:

• are you here?

A second passes. Then you come back.

The relief hits fast, and it makes my chest loosen.

Then I read the message.

SILAS:

• sorry, I have to go, Vox.
• my boyfriend got here and he’s calling me to lie down with him.
• gnighttttt

…

silasxX03 left the game.

12) Jealousy

Victor’s POV

I grab the glass and I hurl it with every ounce of rage in my body straight into the wall.

It explodes and shards fly everywhere. One slice cuts the back of my hand instantly, but the pain is nothing compared to what you just did to me.

I grab a framed photo of us from Minecraft and I slam it against the wall until the glass spiderwebs and your face cracks in two.

I pace. I grip my own hair.

I want to reach through the screen and drag you back by the throat.  I want to find Leo right now and smash his face again and again until it doesn’t look like mine anymore. 

I want to burn this entire apartment down with both of us inside it so you can never leave me again.

The panic is eating me alive. I’m scared I’m going to pass out, but I don’t want to pass out. I want to break something bigger.

I rip your drawer open.

All your drawings are in there. I yank the whole stack out and start tearing.

I’m thinking about driving to Leo’s place right now. 

I’m thinking about how easy it would be to make him disappear. 

I’m thinking about how if I can’t have all of you, maybe no one should.

I’m crying and laughing at the same time while destroying your drawings.

Because fuck you. Fuck you both.

I’m a good person, goddammit. I try so fucking hard to be good but you two keep dragging it out of me.

I hate this version of myself. I hate the possessive, disgusting freak you both keep waking up inside me.

You are canceling everything single fucking effort I make.

You’re forcing me to watch the person I’m obsessed with fall for the wrong version of me and you expect me to stay sane.

I rip another drawing straight down the middle. 

My hands are shaking violently and the tears are pouring down my face, all because of you. 

I shred them all, one by one into tiny pieces, with my nails digging into the paper.

Another one, my favorite one. I tear it into fucking confetti. 

I keep ripping until my fingers bleed from the paper cuts. Every piece of your face I turn into dust. Every single one.

I march to the trash can and dump the handfuls in.

My head is spinning. I grab my skull with both bloody hands and start pacing, faster and faster.

I see the last drawing pinned dead center on the dartboard like a target.

I lose what’s left of my mind.

I run at it and slam my fist straight through the board until the wood cracks.

The metal frame buckles and a jagged piece of the steel rim drives deep into my palm, slicing through skin, so now blood is running down my left arm.

I keep punching the broken board again and again, over and over, until the frame snaps completely and your smiling face is nothing but torn paper with my blood on it.

Tears still fall.

Why?  Why the fuck am I still here taking this??

You are choosing him again, right now. 

Even while you were laughing with me, the second his name appears, you fucking disappear.

I am gasping for air like I am drowning.

I thought I could handle it.  I thought I could keep playing this game for tonight.

Be for once again the voice in the dark and watch you with Leo in the light.

But I fucking can’t. This obsession is eating me alive. The betrayal is burning me alive, Silas. I want to crawl inside your head and tear out whatever part still chooses him.

I am on my knees now and my forehead is pressed against the bloody wall. Tears mixing with the blood on my hands.

Because you left me again for the version of me that doesn’t even know how to treat you right.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this inside. 

Why are you destroying us like this, Silas? 

I am sick of this. 

Weren’t we happy?  Weren’t we??

For one hour tonight it felt like the old days again.

You laughing and screaming, me enjoying it.

I needed that, Silas.

But then Leo called and you left.  You threw it all away in one second. 

Why do you keep punching me in the heart like this? 

I don’t understand.

I’ve sat outside in the freezing cold at 4 AM more times than I can count with my phone in my numb hands, because the only place with signal in that shitty apartment block was the fire balcony.

I sat there shivering in the dark just so I wouldn’t miss a single message from you.

I did that for you.

I’ve lost entire nights of sleep because of the time zones.

I’ve gone to work on two hours of rest, just so I could be awake when you were awake.

I’ve done it for months. Years.

Without complaining once. Because I wanted to be there for you.

I look at the mess around me and I sob, because of the realization.

I’m staring at the trash can.

I pull out every torn piece of your drawings.

They’re soaked in my blood now, shredded into confetti. I scoop them all up.

No.  No, no no no no.

The tears are pouring so fast I can’t see what I’m doing. I desperately try to fit two pieces together, but now they don’t line up.

I press harder, trying to force them back into the shape they used to be, but it’s useless.

You’re ruined.

I ruined you.

I look up at the wall, at the dartboard I smashed. Your drawing is still pinned in the middle, torn now, and soaked.

Your smiling face is staring back at me through red streaks.

I hate myself. I hate myself so much right now.

I destroyed the most beautiful things I owned because I couldn’t handle two seconds of pain.

I’m terrified.  I’m fucking terrified of myself.  Look at what I become the second you walk away for him.

I don’t even recognize the person who just smashed everything.

I immediately grab my phone. My face is wet and my hands are still shaking, but I manage to press her contact.

Mrs. Luna’s contact.

She answers on the fourth ring. “Victor?”

“Mrs. Luna,” I choke out, and suddenly my voice breaks so badly I hate it.

“I did it again… I fucking did it again. I didn’t control it—”

“Okay, Victor, listen to me. Are you alone?”

I drag the back of my wrist across my mouth and taste salt. “Yes.”

“Did you hurt anyone else??”

“No, no no no, I promise I didn’t touch anyone.”

“Did anyone touch you? Did anyone hit you tonight?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “No. No one. I’m alone.”

“Good. Stay with me. Did you hurt yourself?”

I look down.

My knuckles are split and ugly. Swollen already.

There are tiny bright lines across my fingers where I must have caught glass and didn’t feel it at the time.

There’s blood on the side of my palm. On the floor too, and a little on my shirt.

“My hands. I hit the walls. I hit them a lot.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at them.”

I swallow and force myself to really look.

“They’re cut, and my knuckles are open. It’s not…” I breathe too fast and have to stop. “It’s not life-threatening.”

“Are there broken objects around you?”

I laugh once. “Many.”

“What broke?”

“Glass.” I wipe my face again. “Two glasses. A picture frame. A glass of water. There’s glass everywhere. I didn’t clean it. I just called you.”

“Good,” she says immediately. “That was the correct decision. I want you to put shoes on if you are not wearing any.”

I look down. “I’m not.”

“Then do that first, slowly. Do not walk through glass to do it if you can avoid it.”

My house feels like a crime scene I accidentally committed against myself.

My shoes are near the chair. I reach for them carefully.

My fingers don’t want to close right, but I get them on anyway.

“I have shoes on.”

“Good. Now tell me exactly where you are.”

“Living room.”

“Stay where you are. Do not try to clean anything yet. Is there water near you?”

“There’s… a bottle.”

“Drink some.”

I pick it up. My hand hurts so bad I nearly drop it again. I force it anyway and take two swallows.

“Victor, I need the sequence, not the shame. Start from the beginning, please.”

I press my thumb hard into my brow. “I threw the glass on the wall.”

“Before that.”

I stare at the floor. “I saw something I didn’t handle well.”

“What did you feel first? Anger, embarrassment, fear, jealousy, shame?”

“All of them. Mostly jealousy… I guess. Then rage. Then it all… blurred.”

“Did someone say something specific?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me what?”

I don’t. I really, really don’t. But the point of calling her has never been comfort alone.

She is the only one that knows how to sort my brain back into rows.

So I tell her enough but not all of it. Not names exactly, but the shape of it. With fake names.

She listens without interrupting. That’s another thing she’s always been good at. She waits until I’m done.

“And then I hit the wall too.”

“Once?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than three?”

“Definitely more than three.”

“Did you know you were going to do it before you did?”

I look at my hand. At the blood drying around my knuckles.

“No,” I say. “Not before the first one.”

“And after the first one?”

“I knew I should stop.”

“But your body had already accelerated.”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to hurt another person tonight?”

…

I put my hand over my mouth and start crying harder immediately.

“Victor,” she says calmly. “Stay with me.”

I shake my head even though she can’t see it. “I’m so fucking tired, Mrs. Luna, please, I don’t want to be like this,” I say into my hand.

“Victor, you need to answer me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Exhale.

“For one minute,” I confess.

My whole body feels sick.

“For one minute I thought something bad.” I can barely get the words out now. “About Leo.”

I hear my own breathing go ragged.

The words keep breaking apart, because I know how pathetic this is.

“I thought something bad about my own fucking brother and I don’t want to be like this, Mrs. Luna. I don’t want this brain, I don’t want this in me!”

“I need you to hear me clearly,” she says. “Having a thought in a moment of dysregulation does not mean you are secretly waiting to become a monster, okay?”

“But it feels so much like it.”

“I know, I know it does. That is not the same as it being true, though.”

“I thought it,” I say again, in disbelief.

“ And you are horrified by it. Listen to me, Victor. People who want to harm others do not usually call in tears because one intrusive minute made them afraid of themselves. You are scared because the thought violated your own line.“

My throat burns.

“You are not calling me to justify it,” she says. “You do not want to cross it. You don’t really want to hurt anyone. You are a person with a nervous system that overloads fast when shame, threat, and old pain stack together,” she says. “That is serious and dangerous if unmanaged, but you’re not there. You can manage it. You know you can. You have seen it.”

I wipe my face again.

Pickle lets out a small bark.

I smile through the tears.

“I got a puppy today,” I tell her.

There’s a small pause on the line.

“That’s sweet. Dogs are good company for people. Was he…”

“No,” I cut in before she can finish. “No, he wasn’t there for it.”

I swallow. “He wasn’t in front of me when it happened.”

“All right,” she says. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

“He was in the bathroom, though.”

Another tear slips down before I can stop it.

I wipe it away hard with the back of my hand, then regret it immediately when the skin over my knuckles stings.

“You think I scared him?” I ask quietly. “With all that noise?”

“Victor, a dog cannot hate you over something it didn’t even see. He only heard noise. And it takes more than one moment for an animal to learn that something is dangerous.”

I stare at the floor.

“I don’t want him to be afraid of me,” I mutter. “Or to connect me with scary sounds. I don’t want to hurt him too. I want to take care of him properly, not sit here scared of my own brain every time I’m around him.”

“Victor, the fact that you are even thinking like this already says a lot.”

I shut my eyes.

“Listen to me. If you ever feel this thing building again, wherever you are, you leave . I don’t care if it feels embarrassing. I don’t care if it feels dramatic. You get out, okay? You go somewhere boring, somewhere with nothing dangerous around you, and you call me.”

I breathe in slowly and hold it there, nodding.

“Me,” she repeats, “or… somebody else you know for certain can calm you down just by speaking. Someone whose voice brings you back. But you do not stay there and let it keep growing. You do not sit in the middle of it and hope it burns itself out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“No,” she says. “Promise me.”

I look down at my hands again.

“I promise,” I say.

“All right. Now go clean your hands,” she says.

I glance toward the bathroom door at the end of the hall, then back at the floor.

“Only your hands,” she adds immediately, sharper now. “Only your hands, Victor. I do not want you touching a single piece of glass right now. Do you hear me?”

I nod before remembering she can’t see it.

“Yes.”

“First you calm down completely. Completely. Right now, you are leaving that room. You are going to wash your hands with lukewarm water. Not hot. Not freezing. Lukewarm. Then you’re going to check if there’s any glass still in them.”

I push myself up slowly.

“If the bleeding keeps going,” she says, “you go straight to urgent care. No arguing. We are not playing games with hand injuries.”

I nod again.

“Victor.”

“Yeah.”

“Use your words.”

I wipe my face one more time. “Okay. Yes. I’ll go.”

“Good. I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” she says. “Or later tonight if you need me before that. Don’t hesitate.”

I swallow hard. “Okay.”

“Do you understand me, Victor?”

“Yes.”

“And remember this. I know a bad person when I see one. And you are not one of them. This is trauma and you are not going through it alone. Rest. And whatever you need, I am always here.”

I close my eyes.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Mrs. Luna,” I say.

“Goodnight, Victor.”

The line goes dead.

I look down at the broken glasses on the floor.

I can’t just leave them there.

Pickle will step on them.

So I grab the broom and push everything into one corner as carefully as I can. Slow. From one side to the other. Every last piece. I make sure nothing gets left behind.

I don’t crouch down to pick them up by hand. I still don’t trust myself enough for that.

I leave the glass piled off to the side next to the trash.

Then I go to the bathroom door.

Pickle is still inside.

The second I open it, he starts scratching at my legs and demanding attention like I’ve been gone for years instead of minutes.

I smile before I even mean to, just because he doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t fear me. He doesn’t look at me like I’m dangerous even when I probably should look dangerous.

Then I look down at the training pad.

And I actually laugh.

“Well, aren’t you the best boy in Las Vegas?”

He peed on the pad.

First day.

He understood the assignment better than I understand my own life.

“I have no words,” I tell him.

I wash my hands in the sink and the sting is so sharp I want to scream, but I don’t.

I just stand there and take it.

Consequences. Fair enough.

I watch the blood swirl away into the drain, red turning thinner and thinner until it’s gone, and then I look at my hands.

Yeah.

Those definitely don’t look attractive right now.

I’m gonna have to wrap them if I don’t want people staring tomorrow.

I dry off my hands and reach down to pet Pickle carefully.

He immediately climbs all over me.

“Oh—okay.”

I laugh again, quieter this time, and scoop him up. He fits against me too easily. I hold him close and stroke over his back gently.

“Sorry about the noise, Pickle,” I murmur. “I’ll try not to do that again.”

I carry him back to my room and set him down in his little bed.

It looks stupidly good there next to mine. Too domestic.

I turn to leave. He follows me.

I stop in the doorway and look down at him for a second, and this ugly little thought slides through my head before I can stop it.

I wonder if you ever feel like this with me.

Like I’m the dog following you everywhere.

Like no matter where you go, I keep turning up behind you.

Like I keep looking at you with that same stupid loyalty even when it should be embarrassing by now.

Pickle follows me right back to the bathroom too.

---

I step into the tub and sit down, letting the water start filling around me.

I don’t even bother with the darts tonight. No energy for it. No will.

Usually I’d throw until my head got quieter or my arm got tired, whichever came first.

Tonight I just don’t have it in me.

So I sit there and soak.

Pickle stays nearby.

I was supposed to go by Leo’s place today. Pick up the last of my shit.

But if I go right now…I know what will happen.

I’ll see his face, my face, and something inside me will finally snap for good.

I’ll do things I can’t take back. I’ll kill him.

So no.
Not today.

I’ve already bled enough because of both of you.

Tomorrow, maybe. When my hands are bandaged and my head isn’t on fire.

Next day

It’s afternoon. I’m in my car, driving to his place.

Your pretty boyfriend’s place.

I’m hoping you’re not there.

I just want to get my stuff and get out fast.

No scene or surprises. No seeing your shoes by the door.

I want to go in, collect what’s mine, settle whatever I owe, and disappear.

That’s the plan.

I park, get out, unlock the door with his keys, and step inside.

Silence. Good.

I call his phone anyway. He doesn’t answer.

Then I hear it ringing.

Not in another room. Not outside.

Right there.

I turn my head and see his phone sitting on the coffee table in the living room.

What an idiot. He left it here.

I stare at it for a second with my hand still around my own phone, feeling that irritation crawl up my spine.

Of course the one morning I actually want this to be simple, he vanishes and leaves the one thing that would let me find him sitting useless on the table like a joke.

I’ll wait.

I need him to tell me what I owe him for staying here.

I’m not leaving with any kind of debt hanging between us.

I don’t want to owe him rent, kindness, space, air, nothing. I don’t want anything between us that can be called unfinished.

So I walk over to the couch and lie down.

I pull the blanket over myself too, mostly because it’s there and the room still feels colder than it should.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I settle into the cushions and stare at the ceiling for a second, hoping your boyfriend doesn’t take forever.

I have things to do today.

I need to redraw all of your portraits from scratch.

All the ones I tore up last night.

---

Guys do I deserve my star? 😔

13) Stick Your Tongue Out

Silas’s POV

“So today you’re breaking up with him.”

I exhale and look at Jett. “Bro, Jett, I did not say that.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I’m saying it for you, because the shit you’re telling me is literally not normal. I don’t know how you’re not seeing it.”

I open my mouth, then close it again.

“Okay, yeah, he’s hot, I hear you,” Jett goes on, waving one hand around. “But all this is just gonna make you close up even more, not open up. What does it matter if he’s hot if he treats you like that?”

And now what am I supposed to say? That he’s wrong?

He’s not.

Things got weird after the club night. Too weird.

And yeah, unfortunately he’s right.

I do not see myself opening up to Leo any time soon after this.

I blow out a breath.

Jett laughs a little. “Relax. You’ve been dating one month, not two years. It’s not that deep. You’ll get over him fast, trust me. I’ll help distract you. We’ll make a disgusting amount of cinnamon buns and I’ll announce to my clients that you’re back on the boy market—”

I smack his arm lightly.

“I’m joking,” he says, grinning. “Well. Half joking. But seriously, maybe you need to be alone for a while. No pressure. No guy hovering over you waiting for you to magically become someone else.”

Then he opens his arms at me.

“Come here.”

I hesitate for a second, and then I go over and hug him back.

He squeezes me tight.

“I’m not saying it to be mean,” he says. “You know that. When someone is good for you, I tell you. And you know I’m right when I say this one. He’s a dick. You’re not losing anything.”

I shut my eyes for a second and let myself stay there.

“You’re hot,” he says, because that’s how Jett comforts people. “And when your time comes, you’ll find the right person. Someone who’ll wait as long as it takes for you.”

I nod against his shoulder.

“Okay, shut up. I got it,” I mutter. “I’m gonna go break up with him. You’re right.”

I pull back, go to the door, and start putting my shoes on. Then my hoodie. Slow enough that my brain can catch up.

It’s true. It’s been one month. This is not one of those breakups where I’m gonna collapse and cry for days.

Well. I wouldn’t do that anyway.

I don’t have that kind of free time.

What I mean is that this isn’t the end of the world.

I liked him. He liked me. We didn’t fit.

What the hell am I supposed to do about that?

I head for the door.

“I’ll update you,” I say.

“I’ll have cinnamon buns ready for you, asshole,” Jett says. “Happy breakup.”

I snort, shake my head, and walk out of his place.

I get in the car and call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

I call again.

Still nothing.

I text. Nothing.

I check the time.

Usually around now he tells me he’s at the gym. I don’t know if it’s smarter to go to his place now and wait for him, or go later when he’s back.

But actually, no.

If we break up, I want to leave right after. I do not want to stand there gathering my things in front of him like some sad ex in a movie.

I’ll go pack my stuff first. Have it ready.

I start the car and drive to his place for what I’m telling myself is the last time.

I feel bad. And angry.

Both at once.

Because Jett is right. If you really want someone, you help them heal. You don’t go, “fix yourself alone and then maybe I’ll enjoy you properly.”

I get to the apartment and unlock the door slowly.

I look around.

Yeah. He’s not here.

The dishes are still dirty. His clothes are stacked in the bathroom hamper like a sad tower of fabric.

Wow.

You didn’t have to make this so easy for me, Leo.

It’s almost like he did it on purpose. He knows how much mess makes my skin crawl.

I grab the hoodies I left here, the food container my mom was looking for, the one I lied and said was at my place so Leo wouldn’t look like the asshole, and my toothbrush.

I set everything on the table.

Then I head to the living room to grab the console I lent him.

Oh.

A Leo.

On the couch.

Nice. So I’ve been wandering around here alone for nothing.

Actually wait.

No.

I forgot there are two of them now.

It could be Victor.

I walk closer, slow.

Then I spot Leo’s phone on the coffee table.

Okay. That’s definitely his. Same case.

Same little scratch at the corner.

Then again, they had the same jacket at the club too, which is exactly why my life is hell.

I pick up the phone and check the screen. I see my missed calls.

Relief hits first.

Okay. It’s him.

He’s wearing this oversized dark brown hoodie with the hood up, arms crossed like he’s hugging himself from the inside.

There’s a blanket thrown over him too. He looks so soft it makes me angry.

So harmless. Like his words and his face belong to two different people.

Maybe the breakup should wait until he wakes up.

One last hug.

I lift the blanket carefully and slip underneath it, slowly.

I curl up against his chest and get as close as I can, tucking one leg between his.

Then his arm moves.

It wraps around me and pulls me in closer.

My heart starts beating like crazy.

What, now you know I’m here to break up with you and suddenly you’re gonna act like a good boy?

Because this is literally the first time he’s ever done this. Usually he either stays still or turns away.

That’s his thing. Neutral or gone.

Of course he’d choose tonight to be warm.

Of course he’d smell like heaven right before I leave him.

Maybe we need to talk.

I look up at his face while he sleeps, all quiet and stupidly pretty, and the anger in me loosens in the worst possible way.

Maybe I rushed this.

I don’t know.

I’ll wait until he wakes up.

He flinches in his sleep and I laugh quietly.

I hug him tighter and rub his back, really, really gently, just enough to soothe him without waking him up.

Half an hour later

I wake up to the sound of the door.

I rub my eyes but don’t sit up yet. I just stay there, half under the blanket, warm, sleepy and stupidly comfortable.

Then I hear laughter.

Kissing. Low moans.

Jesus Christ.

I don’t know how Leo puts up with that freak coming over here every other day to make out all over the apartment.

It’s tragic.

Guys like Victor are exactly why I’m scared to get into another relationship.

They don’t even notice me and Leo. They just go straight inside.

I don’t know if he knows we’re here, but I’d rather he did.

At least then maybe he wouldn’t accidentally flash us, and maybe we wouldn’t have to hear them moaning through the walls in five minutes.

I push myself up into a sitting position and rub my eyes again, then my whole face.

Leo stretches beside me, eyes still closed.

I reach for my glass and take a sip of water while

I watch him yawn. Then my eyes widen.

And I choke.

Actually choke.

Full near-death experience.

Water goes down the wrong pipe and I start coughing like my lungs are trying to leave my body.

I look at him again.

“Stick your tongue out.”

I need to know if I saw that wrong. I have to.

He smiles a little, still half asleep, and sticks it out playfully.

My eyes go even wider.

Oh my God.

The piercing.

The tongue piercing.

From the bedroom I hear footsteps and then both of them appear in the doorway.

The guy.

And… Leo.

Actual Leo.

Real Leo.

“Silas?!?!” he yells. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

I go completely still.

There are about twenty-eight different reasons this is the most humiliating moment of my life and I can’t even decide which one is winning.

I am under a blanket on the couch, curled up against Victor.

After I came here to break up with his brother.

And the real Leo is standing there with another guy behind him, minutes after making out with him.

I don’t know what to say.

I genuinely don’t.

I look between Leo and the random guy, then back at Victor sitting right in front of me.

I drag both hands down my face. “I need a cigarette,” I say.

Leo storms closer, and does the absolute last thing I expect.

He slaps Victor.

Like, actually slaps him.

And Victor, in less than a second, grabs him and throws him down onto the floor in front of the couch with disgusting ease, like an automatic reflex.

This is my life now. Assholes, lunatics, and cheaters.

I lunge forward, grab Leo by the arm, and yank him back up.

“For what fucking reason are you two fighting each other?!” I shout. “Have you both completely lost your minds?”

Leo is staring at Victor like he wants to kill him. Victor does the same.

“What is your fucking problem, you psycho?” Leo snaps. “Why do you need everything for your fucking self? All those years of stealing every bit of attention from me with your bullshit psychological problems wasn’t enough? Now you want him too?”

I actually laugh.

Because this is crazy. Like, medically.

“What are you even saying?!” I ask Leo. “Two minutes ago you were literally making out with the guy behind you.”

“I think I should go…” the random guy says.

“Yeah, me too,” Victor says.

“No, you’re not going anywhere,” Leo snaps at him, grabbing for his arm.

Victor pulls away instantly.

“I’m not taking the hit so you can feel lighter,” Victor says coldly. “Fix your own mess, brother.”

Then he turns and looks at me one last time.

Just one look. And leaves.

I stare after him for half a second, then turn back to Leo.

“Silas, I swear, I know it looks bad, but I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s just the physical part. I have needs too and my body just—”

“Give me my bank card,” I say, holding my hand out.

“Silas, listen to me, we can—”

“The card, Leo.”

He looks at me, almost annoyed, and reaches into his pocket.

That alone makes me laugh.

He hands it over.

I look at it.

Then at him.

Then at the guy behind him.

“You had it with you? So that’s what you paid for everything with?” I ask. “My card?”

“Wait,” the random guy says, looking at Leo. “That wasn’t your card?”

I start laughing harder.

“Oh my God. You told him it was yours?”

The guy looks me up and down.

Of course. Now that everybody knows the card is mine, suddenly I’m the cute one.

The tasty little plot twist.

I just keep nodding, laughing because if I stop I might actually scream.

I grab my bag.

“Thank you for this incredible night,” I say. “I really hope the orgasm was worth it.”

Then I open the door and walk out.

Perfect. It’s already night.

I’m walking fast toward the nearest bus stop because I do not have the patience to stand still and wait for Jett.

If I stop moving, I’ll think too much, and if I think too much, I might turn around, go back, and key Leo’s door like a mentally stable adult.

I’m trying to light my cigarette with my piece-of-shit lighter that maybe, finally, has earned its trip to the trash.

No luck.

So yeah, I was talking shit.

This lighter brings me zero luck. Just inconvenience and false hope.

I keep walking slower, cupping it from the wind, trying again and again like maybe this time it’ll magically develop a survival instinct.

Nothing.

I get to the bench at the bus stop and sit down. Pull both my feet up on the edge like a feral little goblin and keep fighting with it.

“Curse the day I kept you instead of throwing you out,” I mutter.

I think maybe I have a thing for broken stuff.

Keeping it around way too long, convincing myself it’ll still help me one day.

A lighter lands on the ground in front of me.

I lift my head.

Victor is right there, parked in front of me.

In a fucking Mclaren.

I pick the lighter up and look at him coldly. I light my cigarette, then walk over and hand it back through the open window.

“Why are you waiting for the bus…?” he asks.

I laugh.

“Oh, you know. It’s always been my dream after a breakup to get on public transport and be flattened between sweaty strangers. Finally getting to live it.”

He thinks for a second.

“That doesn’t sound very good.”

I laugh under my breath. “It’s not.”

“Then why did you say it was your dream?”

I just stare at him.

I genuinely can’t tell if he’s messing with me or if he actually, truly does not understand when I’m being sarcastic.

He did it before. At the interview.

He told me that people can’t marry trophies.

I take a drag from my cigarette, flick the ash, and shift on the bench until I’m sitting cross-legged.

“I was being sarcastic,” I say. “It’s not my dream. I do not actually want to do this.”

He nods once.

“I’m going to eat tacos in my empty house,” he says. “You can come. We can play a game after, if you want. It might help you stop thinking.”

I take another drag and just look at him.

“You sounded like a rapist just now,” I say. “No offense, Victor.”

“I’m not offended,” he says. “Sorry.”

Damn.

I did not expect him to just… take that. Let alone apologize for something that stupid.

“We can just smoke if you want,” he adds. “And then you can leave.”

I look at him for a second longer.

“I want tacos,” I mutter.

“So do I,” he says.

I glance left and right. “Do you have pets?”

“One dog.”

“If I come, can I talk shit about your brother?”

“No,” he says immediately. “The point is for you to forget it, not for me to comfort you.”

That catches me off guard.

Jett would’ve said, aww come here baby, we’ll drag him until sunrise if we have to. Which, okay, I would’ve loved. Obviously.

But would it’ve helped? I don’t know.

Maybe a little change won’t kill me.

---

stay with me:

First of all, GO CHECK THE NEW RIDE OR DIE CHAPTER:)) there is a story trailer 🥹🩷

also, Wattpad posted on instagram a post about ride or die!!! Please give it some love guys I have faith in you 🙏

As for my new profile picture… don’t stress, I’ll switch back to the bikes, Wattpad just preferred this one for a campaign that’s running right now :) it’ll change again in a few days.

Also I’m posting two long ass chapters on Wednesday… They are almost my favorites. Every time I write a new one I’m like nope that’s my favorite one.

But they are in my top 5 because omg

14) As Tight As It Should Be

Silas’s POV

I stand up.

He sees me and gets out of the car. Walks around to my side and opens the passenger door for me.

I laugh, suspicious. “Oh, come on. Just say what you want from me already.”

He looks at me like I’m the weird one.

“I don’t want anything,” he says. “My mother raised me to be polite. Relax.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He’s still holding the door open. So I get in.

He closes it and walks around to the driver’s side.

I look around the inside of the car. “What McLaren is this?” I ask.

“720S.”

“I want a blue one,” I say automatically.

Then I remember.

Leo and I used to talk about how I’d get one for my birthday in February and we’d race.

I exhale and fold my arms across my chest.

Victor glances at me quietly.

“I’ll let you choose the music,” he says, “since you just got cheated on.”

I turn to him with my eyes wide.

“Who even says that like that?” I ask. “So casually?”

“Do you want the outdated Depeche Mode?” he asks.

I stare at him. “Stop calling them outdated.”

“Is that a yes?”

I look down. “Yeah,” I mutter.

“Which one? Take my phone and put on whatever you want.”

I look at him. “You trust me with your phone? Just like that?”

He gives me this weird look.

“I said pick a song,” he says. “Not search through it.”

“Right.”

I take the phone from his hand, flick the rest of my cigarette out the window. I turn it over in my hand.

Then I look at him. Then back at the phone.

“How do you even function with this?” I ask. “This thing looks like it’s from 2016 and like it got dropped from seventy-two floors up. You might actually be the most loyal Android user alive.”

“I’m fine with it,” he says. “It doesn’t need replacing.”

I just stare at him.

Insane behavior.

He’ll spend half a million on a car but look at a phone held together by trauma and say, no, this one still has spirit.

I put on Never Let Me Down Again by Depeche Mode.

Then I hand it back.

“I kind of like this one,” he says.

“Me too,” I nod.

Then he starts the car.

He drives, and I refuse to look at him for a long time because I’m embarrassed.

Like, deeply.

We cuddled for almost an hour. And not in some accidental, polite, “oops our shoulders touched” way.

No.

That was full-on actual cuddling. Tucked-in, leg-between-leg, chest-to-chest type shit.

If I had known it was him, I would not have gone anywhere near him.

Eventually I glance over.

One of his hands is on the wheel, tapping lightly to the beat of the song. The other is resting near the window, cigarette between his fingers, smoke slipping out every few seconds.

Both his hands are wrapped.

I point at them. “What happened there?”

He looks at them and stretches his fingers once. “Got hurt.”

I nod.

Incredible. I love how perfectly he explains everything.

Always just enough to kill the conversation, never enough to answer anything.

“Sorry about earlier,” I say after a second. “For… invading your sleep.”

“I forgive you,” he says.

That makes me look at him.

Not because of what he says. Because of how casually he says it.

Like I told him I borrowed a hoodie without asking, not climbed under a blanket and curled around his body by mistake.

Then Shake the Disease comes on and for a few seconds I forget my life is a trash fire.

I pull my phone out and take a picture of the dashboard screen.

I send it to Vox.

ME:

-you have haunted my brain with this song -also i need to tell you something when i get home. -will you be around?

“We’re here,” Victor says.

I lock my phone and look up.

Wow.

I get out of the car slower this time and stare up at the building in front of us. It’s stupidly nice.

I follow him inside while trying not to look too impressed, which is impossible because everything in here looks like rich people only breathe filtered air.

We get in the elevator. He presses forty.

Forty.

Jesus Christ.

He hands me his phone again. “Pick the food you want so I can order.”

I look at him, then take it back.

Choosing food honestly requires more care than choosing a partner.

At least tacos don’t emotionally humiliate you in public.

Then a message comes through.

From Leo.

I see it before I can stop myself.

LEO:

• If all this was just to take Silas, you should know you’re gonna stay unfucked with blue balls forever.
• You didn’t win anything.

My heart starts beating too fast.

Bad fast.

My whole head goes weird and numb around the edges. I just stare at the screen for a second, holding his phone in my hand.

I add my food to the cart and give it back to him without saying anything.

Then I turn my head away because I genuinely cannot look at him right now.

I can’t believe Leo said that. I can’t believe that’s what I am now.

A problem so big people talk about me like I’m some broken machine that ruins sex on contact.

It’s the most humiliating thing possible.

Victor barely knows me, and I’ve already handed him a hundred reasons to think I’m difficult, damaged, weird and problematic.

Which, okay, maybe I am. But why do people always have to learn it like this?

Why does it always come out in the ugliest way possible?

It’s not like I woke up one day and decided, wow, I’d love to be like this.

I wasn’t born ruined. Something happened.

A lot happened.

But nobody ever cares about the why. They just see the result and make their little conclusions.

He reads the message. I watch him from the corner of my eye.

This is so embarrassing I actually want to grab his phone and throw it at the wall.

He doesn’t react much. He just looks at the screen, locks it, and slips the phone into his pocket.

“The food will be here in half an hour,” he says. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

I shrug. “Give me an ashtray and do whatever you want after that.”

He nods once.

We keep walking and he opens the apartment door with a key card.

Wow.

His place really is kind of… empty.

Cold, too. Not cold like temperature exactly, cold like he moved in five minutes ago and hasn’t decided whether he actually lives here yet.

There’s barely anything in it. No clutter, no little useless objects, no signs of a person being soft anywhere.

Then suddenly something tiny launches itself at us like a bullet.

I gasp. “Oh my God, what is this baby???”

I’m not exaggerating. It’s the smallest puppy I’ve ever seen in my life. He comes sprinting straight at us, barking.

Victor crouches too, and seeing him laugh almost freaks me out more than the dog.

I’m used to the creepy stare. Not this.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask. “What’s his name?”

He looks up at me. “He’s a boy. His name is… I don’t know yet.”

I stare at him.

“Please name him Pickle.”

“Pickle?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” I say. “It suits him. He is a Pickle now. Can I pick him up?”

He nods.

I scoop the puppy up and instantly start laughing because he weighs absolutely nothing.

It’s like I’m holding warm air with paws.

“What a pretty little dog you are,” I tell him. “What a handsome tiny freak.”

He loses his mind in my arms. Full body wiggles. Kicking, licking, acting like he’s known me his whole life and I just came back from war.

Then I feel something warm on my shirt.

Pee drops.

I slowly lower him back to the floor and lift the hem of my shirt in front of me.

Then I turn to Victor.

“Um… Pickle was maybe a little too happy.”

Victor looks at me and his eyes suddenly go everywhere at once.

My shirt, my face, the dog, back to my shirt.

“Fuck. Sorry. Um… stay here. Actually, if you want, go to the bathroom and take it off. Don’t sit in it. I’ll bring you another one.”

I don’t answer right away, because what am I supposed to say?

No, don’t bring me one, I’d rather stay wearing dog piss with dignity?

And I am absolutely not standing around shirtless.

Ever. No chance.

So I nod.

“Come here,” he says.

I follow him down the hallway. Pickle follows too, obviously, his nails tapping after us.

Victor opens the bathroom door.

“Here. Wait. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Then he closes it and leaves.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but the air feels weird.

Not awkward exactly. But not comfortable either. Not pleasant, not unpleasant. Just weird.

Something is hanging there and I can’t name it. Something not bad, but not harmless either.

I take my shirt off carefully and lay it over the sink.

Then I catch sight of my back in the mirror and almost shiver.

Jesus.

“I brought it,” he says from behind the door.

I turn back around fast.

I open the door just enough and he hands me a folded shirt.

“Thanks,” I say.

He leaves immediately.

I stare down at it for a second.

It feels weird wearing a shirt that smells like Victor.

But better to smell like Victor than piss.

No offense, Pickle.

The shirt is folded so neatly I almost feel bad unfolding it.

Then I open it and blink.

Oh.

It’s the Depeche Mode one.

The same one he wore in my studio.

Damn.

This actually looks good on me. Maybe too good.

I might accidentally steal it.

I open the bathroom door.

“Put your shirt in the wash,” he says. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll take it home.”

“I’m putting a load on now, before I shower. You’ll have it back in a bit.”

There’s this little pause where I just stare at him, because I cannot believe I’m standing here arguing with Victor over laundry.

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m getting in the shower,” he says. “Quick one. There’s an ashtray in the first cabinet in the hall. Don’t smoke them all. I won’t be long.”

I laugh a little.

“Okay, do your thing.”

He disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door fast.

I go straight for the ashtray.

I open the cabinet.

…

What the actual fuck.

If I had superpowers, I would steal this whole cabinet exactly as it is and vanish into the night.

It’s packed with art supplies.

Packed .

Like a dragon’s hoard for mentally unstable illustrators. Everything. Pencils, charcoal, pastels, sketchpads, paper stacks, things I don’t even have names for.

Wow.

I grab the ashtray and close the door again before I do something insane, like robbing him.

Then I look around. And my eyes land on his desk.

It’s basically the only real thing in the living room besides the couch.

Cute.

The guy has millions of followers, enough bookings to tattoo people until retirement, and he doesn’t even have a proper desktop setup.

Just a laptop.

I notice two big pieces of glass behind it.

And another one next to them.

What the hell.

I pick them up carefully and head toward the trash, because I assume he doesn’t want broken glass just chilling in his apartment like decoration.

I spot the bin by the kitchen, open it, and toss them in.

Then I glance down.

The trash is stuffed with paper. Completely full of it. Like he had a confetti breakdown in a kindergarten classroom.

I stare for a second.

What a strange fucking man.

The doorbell rings.

THE FOOD.

I’m paying. He’s washing my shirt. That feels fair.

Weirdly domestic, but fair.

I go open the door and there’s a guy there, around my age.

“Oh,” he says when he sees me.

“Uh… hi?” I say back.

He hands me the bag and I pay him. Then he kind of lingers.

“Hey, does a guy live here…” he says, already laughing at himself. “Tall, brunette, foreign… maybe?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think that’s the one you mean.”

“Sorry if this sounds weird,” he says, grinning, “you’re not, like, his date or anything, right?”

“Not even a little,” I tell him.

“Thank God,” he says, laughing again.

Then he reaches into his pocket. “Cool. Could you give him this?”

He hands me a little piece of paper with a username on it.

“It’s not mine, I’m straight,” he says quickly. “It’s a coworker’s from the restaurant. I just took the delivery tonight. She wanted me to give it to him if he answered, but… you know. Different guy.”

I laugh, caught off guard. “Yeah, okay. Sure, I’ll give it to him.”

“Thank you so much,” he says. “Enjoy your food!”

“Thanks,” I say, and close the door.

I walk toward the bathroom, smiling to myself.

“Victor?” I call, a little awkwardly.

I don’t even know if he can hear me over the water.

“Yeah?” he answers.

“The delivery guy left a number for you,” I say through the door. “Well, a username. He said his coworker wanted you to have it.”

No answer.

“I’m leaving it on your desk,” I say.

“Um. Come back for a second.”

My whole body tightens. “Why?”

“I have a problem,” he says.

I immediately don’t like that.

“What problem?”

“Um…” He pauses. “I forgot to grab a towel from the closet. I don’t have anything.”

I panic for no reason.

I look toward his room.

“Do you want me to bring you one…?”

“Yes. If you can.”

“Okay…”

“It’s in the inside closet,” he says. “I don’t have a shower curtain, it’s… glass, so close your eyes if you want.”

I laugh. “Why? You got a small dick?”

“Do you want to see?”

I swallow.

And immediately remember the first day I saw him.

At Leo’s place. Before the competition.

Before I knew the universe had decided to clone my problems.

“I’m going to get the towel,” I say quickly.

I walk into his room.

And stop.

What the fuck is happening in here too?

There are these huge mirror pieces leaning against the wall. Huge.

I look around the room.

There is literally no wall space for them.

Is he okay?

Actually, no, don’t answer that.

I go to the closet and open it.

Towel towel towel.

I grab one at random and back out of the room.

I take a deep breath outside the bathroom door.

“Okay, I’m coming in,” I announce. “I’m not looking.”

I open the door with one hand while covering my eyes with the other. Towel in one hand, dignity in the other, barely.

I walk slowly toward where I think he is.

He takes the towel from me and his wet hand brushes mine, leaving hot water all over my fingers.

“You paid for the food?” he asks.

He is probably standing there fully naked.

I turn my head the other way so I can drop my hand from my eyes without risking visual death.

I immediately see him in the mirror in front of me, so I just cover my eyes again, fast.

My heartbeat is wild.

“No,” I say. “No, I didn’t pay. I made the dog pay.”

Silence.

I almost laugh.

I feel like he didn’t answer because he was actually considering whether I was joking again.

“Yeah,” I say. “I paid. You’re washing my shirt. We’re even. Am I leaving now? Or do you need anything else?” I ask, still facing away.

“Yes. But not now. After I’m dressed.”

I exhale and head for the door.

“Okay,” I mutter, and step back out into the hallway.

I go back to the living room where I left our food. Pickle is already sniffing the bag and I laugh.

I’m actually really awkward with animals.

Which is funny, considering my parents own a pet shop.

But we never really had one growing up. When I wanted one, our money wasn’t enough for vet bills and all the stuff a pet actually needs. At least that’s what my mom said.

Then later, when I started making money, I moved out to be closer to the studio and the idea just kind of… disappeared.

I always wanted either a stupid amount of cats or one dog.

Not both. One or the other.

Pickle feels perfect.

Happy, a little pissy, and way too cute.

I wish he knew who the real Pickle is.

I crouch to pet him and that’s when I spot another piece of glass.

Tiny this time.

Victor walks in while drying his hair with a towel.

“You know your living room has glass in it, right?” I say, holding the piece up. “If Pickle steps on this, what are you gonna do?”

His eyes go straight to the glass in my hand.

“Did it cut you??” he asks immediately.

“Not me. But your dog almost got lucky.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’ll clean up again. I dropped a glass yesterday.”

My brain lags for a second, because the glass I picked up before was straight-edged.

Not curved. But whatever.

I’m too tired to become Sherlock Holmes over broken glass.

“Can you do me one last favor before we eat?” he asks.

I cross my arms. “If it’s quick.”

He nods. “It’s quick. Come.”

I stand and follow him.

We go toward his room again, and I hesitate for half a second because I genuinely do not know what goes on in his head, and I don’t know why we need to be in his room together for anything.

“What do you want?” I ask before I step in.

He looks at me for a second, like he understood the hesitation exactly right.

“We don’t have to do it here,” he says quickly.

Then he steps back out again like he got more nervous than I did.

That catches me off guard.

He grabs something from a cabinet and heads to the living room.

“I want you to help me change the bandages on my hands,” he says. “So they’re not loose. Mainly the ones on the right hand.”

“That’s all?” I ask out loud.

“…Yes?”

I nod like five times. “Yeah. Okay. Fine. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

He sits in the corner of the couch and I sit on the floor in front of him.

“Is the shirt okay?” he asks.

I look down at it. “How do you think it looks?”

He actually studies it. Like genuinely studies it, trying to decide, and I smile a little because I meant it like yeah, it’s fine, obviously, can’t you tell?

“It’s fine,” I say, and lean forward. “Let me see your hands.”

He holds them out just like that, and I make the ugliest shocked face of my entire life.

“What the fuck?!” I blurt. “How did you even do this? Jesus Christ, Victor.”

He stays completely calm.

“I had an accident at the gym,” he says. “And the glass scratched me a little.”

“A little?!” I repeat, covering my mouth. “I can barely tell, truly. So subtle. So delicate.”

The knuckles are split up in the nastiest way. One cut near the joint looks especially bad, and there are raw places where the skin still looks open.

I exhale hard and take his right hand carefully.

“These are open,” I say. “So we need antiseptic first, right?”

He shrugs, which I’m choosing to take as yes, because clearly that’s all I’m getting.

“You know I’m gonna hurt you,” I warn him.

“Hurt me.”

I pour the antiseptic on.

Then I look at him.

Nothing.

Not even the tiniest flinch.

No twitch. No jaw clench. Nothing.

I look at the bottle. “Is this stupid thing broken?”

I pour more on.

Still nothing.

He watches me.

“Are you trying to make me hurt?” he asks.

I set the bottle down.

That is not my problem.

If his body doesn’t believe in pain, that sounds between him and God.

I pick up the gauze and start wrapping his right hand.

And immediately the whole thing feels way too intimate.

Like way, way too intimate.

I’m literally just bandaging his hand, and somehow it feels like we’re both naked.

Fully clothed, completely normal, and still it feels like something private I shouldn’t be trusted with.

I wind the white gauze around his wrist, then between each finger one by one.

“It shouldn’t be loose,” he says.

I glance up at him. “It’s as tight as it should be.”

Then I keep going.

I’m trying to be as gentle as possible because the cuts look rough. I take his other hand and do the same.

His fingers are long. If Jett saw them he’d spend ten minutes telling him to become a hand model. He says that to anyone with long fingers.

It’s one of his weird recurring diseases.

I wrap over the biggest cut at the knuckle and look up at him again.

“How the fuck are you not in pain?”

“Can you do it faster?” he says. “I want a cigarette.”

I keep wrapping.

“How do you say ‘I want you to shut the fuck up’ in Spanish?” I ask.

He answers immediately, his voice changing the second he switches languages.

“Quiero que te calles la puta boca.”

It sounds completely different coming out of him.

The whole sound of him changes with it and it’s weirdly intense to hear up this close.

I try to copy him, probably butchering half the accent.

He looks at me and smiles.

“What?” I ask. “Did I say it wrong?”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes. “That sounded like a lie.”

He keeps looking at me.

“You said it very badly,” he says.

“I love your honesty,” I mutter.

I finish the last wrap and smooth the end of the gauze down. He flexes his hand open and closed once, testing it, then stands up.

“Thank you,” he says.

He grabs the bag with the food, I grab the ashtray, and we head out to his balcony.

---

WAS IT GOOD DO I DESERVE A STAR???? (I’m on my knees please)

Also, I saw a lot of authors doing questions, so I decided to join because I have FREE WILL.

Question 1: Who is more likely to sleep with teddy bears in their bed, Silas or Victor?

15) Stalk Me And Find Out

Silas’s POV

His balcony is huge.

The asshole has a full panoramic view of Las Vegas. The whole city is spread out under us.

Neon, noise, little moving veins of traffic.

He goes and sits on the balcony couch. I follow and sit beside him.

He opens the bag and hands me mine.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

And then we just… eat.

That’s it. We sit there chewing tacos while below us the city keeps screaming in horns and sirens.

I did not expect this day to go like this.

I still haven’t fully processed that I’m single now.

That I don’t owe anyone sex.

That no one gets to look at me like disappointed because I’m not ready to take my clothes off on command.

I thought the worst-case scenario would be the breakup itself.

But right now I feel like I had an anchor chained to my ankle for a month and someone finally cut the fucking chain.

And now I can talk to Vox and Jett without Leo hovering over me every five seconds like, you shouldn’t have male friends if we’re together.

I inhale my food like a starving animal while Victor is still calmly halfway through his.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I was starving. Sorry I ate like crazy.”

He laughs.

“We should’ve gotten those cinnamon buns too,” he says. “Your favorite ones.”

My smile disappears.

So does his.

We look at each other.

“What?” he says.

I stare at him. “How do you know that?”

He glances at his phone. “I… saw it on your Instagram.”

Aha.

“So now you’re a stalker?” I ask.

His eyes widen a little. “It’s not stalking. Your profile is public and we work together. I just looked to see what kind of person you are.”

Hm.

Fair enough.

Jett looked him up too. So technically this is normal. Ish.

I gather up my wrappers. I can make this awkward in under ten seconds, and unfortunately I’m going to.

“Earlier on the couch…” I say. “You really didn’t realize it was me at all?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

I nod.

“I’m asking because… you literally hugged me.”

My heart is suddenly beating too fast again. He wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“I did it mechanically,” he says. “I didn’t register anything.”

I nod again.

“Okay,” I say. “Well. At least no more confusion now. Leo’s gone. I won’t put you in that position again. And you won’t put me in one either.”

He watches me for a second.

“So you’re not getting back together?”

I laugh.

“I’m looking for someone loyal, you know? Sorry if that’s asking too much. Your brother wasn’t.”

“Loyal…” he murmurs, lighting a cigarette.

I open my pack.

Shit.

One left.

I put it between my lips. He stretches his hand out with the lighter and I lean my head closer automatically.

He lights it for me.

I drag in the smoke and genuinely feel like I almost orgasmed.

“Thanks,” I say.

Pickle comes trotting over, but he’s so tiny he can’t get onto the couch by himself.

“Well, hello there,” I say, laughing.

Victor puts the cigarette between his lips, reaches down, grabs Pickle, and places him between us.

This time the tiny traitor goes straight to Victor and settles on his lap.

I take a quick drag and pull the cigarette from my mouth.

“Okay. This dartboard thing,” I say. “What’s the deal? Why do you have them everywhere? And why did you put one in my studio? You did not ask.”

“I like them,” he says shortly.

I stare at him. “What, you just like throwing darts all the time?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“It relaxes me.”

I look at him for a second. Then at the dog. Then at the city.

“Can I throw one?” I ask. “I’ve never done it before.”

He doesn’t answer right away, so I keep talking.

“Then I’ll leave. I’ll let you have your peace again.”

Still nothing.

I wait. “Will you show me?”

He exhales smoke. “Yeah. Fine. Come on.”

We gather the trash, take it inside, and he opens the cabinet. He pulls out a bunch of darts. Red and black.

“I had a dartboard here,” he says, “but it broke. Stay here. I’ll bring the one from my room.”

So I stay and wait.

I look around while he’s gone.

I think maybe I’ve overstayed a little.

I don’t know if I should’ve asked about the darts. Maybe I’ve been here too long already.

But then again, he invited me. So I’m probably not bothering him.

Probably.

He comes back carrying the dartboard and mounts it against the wall.

“Ready,” he says.

He takes a few steps back and I follow him.

“You can stand like this,” he says, turning just slightly to the side. “Hold it like this. Then throw.”

He demonstrates.

The dart lands dead center on the first try.

Oh.

Okay.

So apparently this is not that hard.

I get excited immediately.

He hands me one and I step into his place, trying to copy his stance exactly. Same angle, same arm, same face probably.

I narrow one eye a little and—

No.

Oh my God.

I’m going to die.

I don’t even hit the board.

I hit the fucking wall.

I cover my face instantly, eyes huge, then look at him through my fingers.

He’s laughing.

The first real time I see him laugh is because somebody put a hole in his wall.

“Victor, I swear to God, I did not mean to—I’m sorry—”

I rush forward and yank the dart out, then stare at the tiny hole it left behind.

I cover my mouth again, horrified.

He just hands me his phone.

On the screen is a picture of a dartboard hanging behind a door. The door is covered in tiny holes. Completely destroyed.

“What is this?” I ask.

“My door in Spain,” he says. “Don’t panic. Wait. I’ll show you.”

He steps behind me and gently lifts my right arm.

Then he moves around in front of me and adjusts my elbow and wrist like I’m some machine he’s calibrating.

He even fixes my fingers. Everything he does is weirdly soft.

“This is the correct position,” he says. “Try now.”

I throw again.

This time it lands somewhere in the middle, between the center and the edge of the board.

Nowhere near perfect.

And yet my face is like I just won the Olympics.

“Holy shit.”

I look at him.

“Okay, this is actually kinda fun. Give me another one. I get it now.”

He hands me more and I jog over to pull the darts out. I go back into position the way he showed me and throw again.

And again. And again.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I think I just burned every calorie I ate.

That’s probably why he’s so fit. If I paced around throwing darts like this every day, I’d be built too.

“Well,” I say, “one week of this and I’ll be champion. Why is it so addictive?! Fuck.”

He laughs again.

I look at him. “Okay, your turn. Throw.”

“Where?” he asks.

I stare at him. “Why are you asking me? If I point somewhere, are you really gonna hit it?”

“Yes.”

I look at him harder.

“You think you’re that good?”

“Yes.”

I nod slowly.

“Okay. If you hit all three in the center, I’ll come to the studio tomorrow in pajamas.”

His brows lift. “Really?”

“Scout’s honor.”

He turns, lifts his hand, and throws them one after another.

All three straight into the center.

I don’t know if I’m more scared by the speed or by how exact he is. It’s like his arm doesn’t even think.

It just knows.

“How do you say ‘I hate you’ in Spanish?” I ask.

“Something like te quiero.”

I grin immediately and repeat it back with full dramatic feeling.

“Te quiero, then. Fuck you.”

He just nods once, completely serious.

And that makes me stop laughing.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m gonna go home now and free up your space. I’m tired.”

“Wait. I’ll get your shirt,” he says, and heads for the bathroom.

Jesus.

I feel like a shameless hookup wearing his clothes and now tomorrow at work I’m gonna have to stand there like um, sorry, here’s your shirt back.

He comes back. “It’s still… soaked. I’ll dry it and we’ll exchange tomorrow.”

I nod.

“Your place is really close to the studio,” I say. “Did you know that or did you just randomly choose it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Where did they find this man?

His answers are genuinely impossible to predict. Every single time I think I know what he’s gonna say, he says something completely different and somehow more annoying.

He walks out with his car keys in his hand. I move to the side so he can get to the door.

“Bye, Pickle. Nice meeting you,” I say, petting the tiny dog.

He opens the door and I step out first.

In the elevator we stand across from each other with our arms crossed.

He’s wearing a tight black long-sleeve and loose brown sweatpants. I’m wearing his Depeche Mode shirt and black sweatpants.

At least he doesn’t judge me.

Leo wanted me to go to work in a suit because he preferred that look.

It’s still weird seeing the same face with a completely different style on it.

“Do you have a studio in Spain?” I ask.

“Stalk me and find out.”

“You are literally standing in front of me,” I say.

The elevator opens and he motions for me to step out.

I do, and we head toward his car.

“How much did you pay for it?” I ask.

“Around 500K,” he says. “Why? Do you want one too?”

I laugh. “Oh yeah, totally . I was actually thinking of asking for one for my birthday. Since it’s not that expensive.”

Tragic.

He comes around and opens the door for me again.

I look at him. “Do you not get tired of doing that?”

“No.”

I nod once and get in.

He goes back to the driver’s seat, lights another cigarette, and cracks the window so the smoke gets pulled out into the night.

Fuck.

I don’t have one.

How did I let this happen? How did I, a grown man with real responsibilities, leave myself with no cigarettes?

He starts the car.

“Where do you want me to take you?”

Shit.

I don’t know if I trust him enough to tell him where I live.

That’s the problem. He gives me such mixed feelings it’s actually rude. On paper, he’s still kind of a stranger.

Just the brother of my… ex now. Which is insane to even think.

I exhale. “Just drop me at the casino. I’ll walk.”

Nice.

There was no clearer way to say I don’t trust you and I don’t want you knowing where I live unless I wrote it on the windshield.

He just nods. “Okay.”

The whole drive we listen to Depeche Mode.

I can’t tell if this means I’m honoring Vox or betraying him.

Depeche Mode is supposed to be our thing. Like Minecraft.

Like late-night messages and too many thoughts and songs that got passed back and forth until they became attached to a person.

Maybe I’m overthinking it.

I probably am.

I open my cigarette pack automatically.

Empty.

I close my eyes for a second. God, I hate my memory.

Victor nudges me and holds out his cigarette.

His cigarette.

He’s holding it between two fingers, offering it to me.

My addiction wins over my pride in under half a second.

I take it slowly and put it in my mouth. I lean toward the window and blow the smoke outside and immediately feel my soul turn colorful and happy again.

Nicotine really is my most stable relationship.

Then the music cuts out because someone’s calling him.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s my sister.”

“No problem,” I say, and turn my face toward the window.

He answers, and suddenly this tiny little voice fills the whole car.

Then they start speaking Spanish.

Jesus Christ.

The man transforms.

His whole face lights up. Completely.

It’s so instant it actually catches me off guard. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I can hear the difference.

He talks faster and smoother. The language fits in his mouth properly. It’s like his face was built for these sounds and English is just a badly fitted jacket he keeps having to wear.

I smile a little to myself, mostly out of surprise.

It’s genuinely like there’s a different person sitting next to me. Someone warmer, whose mouth doesn’t have to fight every syllable.

On the other hand… he speaks two languages.

And you, Silas?

You know bonjour.

That’s it. That’s your international range.

One little French crumb and a dream.

So what am I supposed to do now? Sit quietly. That’s what.

Maybe one day I’ll ask him to teach me something. Just enough to act smart in front of clients.

Spanish is hot.

In general, I mean.

Not his.

---

I feel like a debt collector every time i ask for a star. But am I gonna stop asking? NO.

Please gimme a star.

Question 2: Who is more likely to get banned from somewhere?

16) Secrets Spread

Victor’s POV

I never washed your shirt. I’m sorry.

I hate lying to you, I do, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t.

I told you “bring it, I’ll wash it” because that’s the normal sentence.

That’s what a normal person says when a dog pisses on someone.

Laundry.

But I’m holding it in my hands right now and I can barely process what’s happening.

We’ve been talking for years. I know.

I know too much about you. I know the way you think, the way you spiral.

I know what you like, what you hate, what makes you defensive, what makes you softer.

I know details I shouldn’t know. I’ve built a whole map of you in my head without ever actually seeing the street.

But I didn’t know how you smell.

I had no idea.

And this is destroying me in a brand new way.

Your scent is… so painfully you.

The spot right near your neck is stronger, and it’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to instant relief.

It feels like my whole nervous system unclenches and goes, finally. Finally. Finally.

It’s a drug. Or maybe it’s worse than a drug.

Because drugs wear off. Hours pass, you come down, you breathe again, you return to baseline.

But what is the comedown for this?

How am I supposed to go back to my life after my body learned your smell?

If I get enough of you into my lungs, will my brain stop screaming?

Because right now I feel like a dog laying down after you finally put a hand on its head.

I want to crawl into your closet and die in there.

I want to disappear inside your clothes like a parasite and just stay close enough to breathe you until I shut off.

That’s how stupidly calm it makes me.

You could lock me in a dark room with my hands tied and as long as I’m lying next to you, close enough to catch your scent, I’d be fine.

I’d be quiet. I’d behave.

Just leave me near you. I don’t think my nervous system is going to let you go after this.

That sounds insane and pathetic.

I’m hearing myself and I want to hit myself for it. I’m ashamed of what you turned me into.

Ashamed that a smell can do this to me when doctors and pills and routines and all my stupid darts couldn’t.

But at the same time… you have me so fixated right now you don’t even understand.

You don’t even know what you did.

Maybe I’ll buy you a new one.

Maybe I’ll keep this one.

You wouldn’t even notice. You’d forget. You’d assume I washed it. You’d move on.

I don’t even know with what courage I’m supposed to wash the glass you drank water from.

You drank water. From my glass.

In my head, this is a ceremony.

Your mouth on something that belongs to me.

You touched my darts.

And you touched my hands.

You touched Pickle too. Our Pickle.

If I could, I’d lock the three of us in a house and throw the key away.

Me, you, Pickle.

Just us in a contained space where I can protect you both.

And yeah, fine, maybe I’d bring Jett too.

Only because someone has to keep you fed and you’re obsessed with those cinnamon buns.

I’d stick him in the kitchen.

Bake, talk less, don’t touch him, thanks.

That’s your role for now.

I pick Pickle up and he immediately climbs into my chest.

“You met your second daddy today,” I tell him, happy.

Pickle doesn’t understand a word, obviously. He just hears my tone and wags harder, licking my chin like we are celebrating something.

I’m celebrating the fact that you were in my space.

Existing in my life like you belong.

I put him down and he trots off, still in a good mood because he’s easy like that.

I grab my sketchbook and move to my bed.

My phone lights up.

Unread messages.

Organizer. Cousin. And you.

First I open the organizer’s chat.

Because if I open yours first, I won’t come back.

I’ll forget the rest of the world exists. So I do the responsible thing.

I read theirs first.

ORGANIZER:

• Hey man! How are you?
• I’ve been watching you and Silas Blackwood, the LINEA kid. You two are hella intense.
• I don’t know your personal business, but whatever this is, it definitely sells.
• I mean the crowd eats it up.
• A little tension is exactly what people are hungry for right now.

Another message pops in before I can even process the first one.

ORGANIZER:

• Just keep it clean, yeah?
• Don’t turn it into a scandal.
• You know what I mean…!

I do know what he means.

He means:

• Don’t fuck him.

• Don’t kiss him.

• Don’t let it look like you want him.

• Keep it hate.

• Keep it safe for sponsors and cameras.

ORGANIZER:

• I’m not judging you, really. I’m just warning you.
• This could turn into a disaster really fast, especially with your career. You know the people who follow you. A lot of them will stop the second they find out that you’re… yeah.
• I don’t like saying it like this, but I’d rather be honest now than watch both your careers get dragged later.

Right. Of course that’s how it works.

You can stab ink into people for ten hours straight.

You can cover a six-foot man in blackwork from neck to ankle.

You can build a name big enough to make people line up outside your studio like you’re a God.

But the second you want to go home and sleep with your face buried in another man’s throat, suddenly nothing else matters.

That’s the shocking part.

Not the needles. Not the blood. Not the skull tattoos. Not the fact that half my clients look like they’ve killed people.

No.

I’m so sick of this idea that what I do with my body at night has to match whatever the fuck I look like in daylight.

What the fuck does one have to do with the other?

I can tattoo a mandala on some giant bastard’s ribs while he growls through the pain and still want a man’s hand on my waist when I go to sleep.

I don’t understand why they act like masculinity is this tiny little glass object that’ll shatter the second a man wants another man.

I can wipe blood off my gloves and then later want to lick nicotine off your mouth.

Yes. And?

You think the machine suddenly gets lighter in my hand?

You think my linework gets worse? My shading gets worse?

This whole image they push is stupid.

Especially in my family and in my circle.

Tattoo artist in my Spanish family means tough and cold male clients.

It’s like: yeah, you can be rough, but only in the approved direction.

Only toward women.

The second a man like me wants another man, it messes with the little silly hierarchy in their heads.

I look like this and I still want what I want.

Those things do not cancel each other out.

If anything, they belong together better.

ORGANIZER:

• Keep it professional.
• Just don’t cross the line.

I exit the conversation.

He’s talking about it like we are performers and what we have is a costume we can put on and take off for the crowd, then go home and laugh about.

He treats our situation like it’s content.

I might tell him to go fuck himself.

I might explain the difference between “tension” and a nervous system that’s addicted to someone’s existence.

They see the rivalry and call it entertainment right away, but don’t see me turning upside down my own house because of how much I don’t hate you.

I’m wearing myself down for you. I’m rotting in slow motion because of you.

I’m changing shape around you until I don’t recognize what I am anymore and you have no idea.

You have no idea that I’m not acting.

And my organizer is telling me to keep the hatred style because “hell yeah, dude, it sells!”

Is my jealousy a marketing strategy? Is my anger just content to them?

He doesn’t want me to want you.

Because if I want you, the whole thing stops being entertaining and starts being real.

And real makes people pick sides, real makes sponsors nervous.

None of them even know I like a man.

None.

Nobody knows.

Only the organizer does, because I slipped.

Because I panicked one day and let it show. I didn’t type “I’m bi”, I just let it leak out in fragments.

That I’ve been with both. That I’ve fucked both.

And he caught it immediately. People like him catch everything they can sell.

That’s why I don’t tell anyone.

The fewer people who know a secret, the harder it is for it to become a weapon.

Secrets spread when they have mouths. I don’t give mine away.

And it’s not about shame, not about that at least.

I don’t care in a moral way. I’m not scared of liking you.

I’m scared of the noise that comes with people.

Because I already get enough eyes on me.

My family stares at me like I’m a fragile little animal.

Every single dinner is a test I didn’t agree to take.

I can feel the careful looks on me. The quick glances to each other.

The “is he… okay?” face. The “should we… talk about it?” face. The “don’t push him” face.

I already have enough attention for one lifetime.

I’m not handing them another label to whisper about.

I open my cousin’s message.

It’s a screenshot of some stupid inspirational post.

A sunset, and a paragraph about how life is beautiful and hardships are temporary and the universe has a plan and you just have to keep going.

I stare at it and I can feel the real message underneath it.

Please don’t kill yourself.

They are terrified I’m going to do it.

They have been scared ever since it got bad. Back when the episodes were more frequent.

When I would shut down and then snap and then go empty again. When I’d stare at a wall for an hour like I wasn’t even inside my body.

These were my everyday questions:

“Did you eat?” “Did you sleep?” “Are you okay?” “Are you sure?” “Promise me.”

Especially the last one.

They thought I’d actually do it.

My family, my teachers, even people at the studio when I first started and I’d go quiet and they’d exchange looks like they didn’t know what to do with me.

I fucking hated being watched like that.

I’m so goddamn sick of it.

Every time someone looks at me that way I want to smash their face into the wall.

That fucking pity look. That “oh poor thing” look. Like I’m slow, not even a real person.

And they still do it.

For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-five years old.  I’m not a fucking child. 

I’m not whatever the hell label they want to slap on me because my brain doesn’t work the way theirs does.

I hate it more than anything. 

The way they actually talk to me like I’m five. Slow words, big smile, head tilted like I’m a fucking puppy.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” “Do you understand?” “Let me explain it again, okay?” 

Shut the fuck up.  Talk to me like a man. 

I’m listening just fine. My brain just processes shit differently and that doesn’t make me less of a person, you condescending pieces of shit.

But I guess, sometimes I get it. I understand why they were scared.

There were moments I didn’t trust myself either.

I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t care enough about living.

There’s a difference and nobody understands it unless they’ve been there.

I never said “I want to end it.”

It was this thought of “if this stopped, I wouldn’t fight it.”

Life back then was just a loop I was running because I had to, not because I actually wanted to.

And the more they babied me, the more I liked these thoughts.

But you… you Silas, never did that.

You came in and you fucking slapped me across the face with the truth and I loved it.

Christ, I loved it so much.

It’s like when little kids fall and scrape their knee.

There’s the parents who start screaming “OH MY GOD MY BABY” and suddenly the kid is crying like it’s the end of the world because they made it feel broken.

And then there’s the other parents who just go “come on, you’re fine, get up.”

Maybe they even laugh a little. And the kid just brushes it off and keeps playing.

Doesn’t feel weak.

That’s exactly what you did to me.

You didn’t baby me. You didn’t say “aw poor thing, I’m so sorry, I’ll be more careful, okay?”

No.

When I didn’t get the sarcasm, you made a joke out of it.

When I said something weird you teased me about it instead of acting like I was problematic.

You treated me like a normal guy. Like a man.

You didn’t walk on eggshells around my brain. You just hit it. And I fucking craved it.

You’re the only person who ever made me feel like Victor.

Not as the guy who needs special treatment. You managed me the right way.

You didn’t pity me. You pushed me. And that shit turned me on more than anything else ever has.

Now I’m ready to talk to you as Vox. Not as Victor.

---

The star collector is here hey guys please gimme my star:)

(posting again on Sunday:) same hour

Question 3: Who is more likely to flirt just to annoy the other?

17) I’d Go Top For Him

Just so nobody gets confused: when Victor talks about Silas as “you,” it’s intentional. He switches into that when he gets too deep in his own head, too obsessive, and too emotionally locked in. When he’s more grounded in the present, he goes back to “Silas” or “he.” That change matters. It’s the difference between Victor seeing him and Victor being consumed by him :)

Victor’s POV

silasxX03:

• You can’t imagine how much shit went down today.

_v17:

• Cigarette’s lit and I’m sitting. Tell me everything.

silasxX03:

• first of all, I broke up with him. That’s where it all starts.
• He thought the house was empty and walked in with some purple-haired guy.
• I got over it pretty fast though, I was already at my limit with him. That’s not even the problem.

Sarcasm.

You do sarcasm when you’re masking.

When you’re trying to be casual about something that isn’t casual.

Sarcasm is the opposite of the normal response.

You say something you “shouldn’t” say. Something unexpected.

A small violence in sentence form.

I yank open my notebook, the one where I’ve been writing down every sarcastic joke you’ve ever made.

I flip pages too fast.

I’m not reading exactly, I’m looking for patterns and timing.

It has to match our previous jokes.

And based off your other texts, if I play this right, you will respond with an even worse one.

I find one that fits.

I grab my phone again.

_v17:

• oh, finally
• Was wondering when you’d dump that loser so we could finally fuck properly

Typing. Typing.

More typing.

silasxX03:

• Face down ass up. Where are you?

Thank God. It landed.

silasxX03:

• Anyway. Weirdly enough, that’s not even the worst part.
• the worst part is that my ex has an identical twin.

_v17:

• oh?

silasxX03:

• Yeah. And you have no idea how much of a fool I made of myself in front of that guy.
• it’s like destiny or some shit.
• On the day of the competition (which i lost to him, by the way) I went to my boyfriend’s place.
• I didn’t know the twin existed. He never told me.
• And bro… I was sitting there staring at his dick.
• LIKE A FUCKING WEIRDO because I thought it was my boyfriend. I just wanted to see if it was promising, you know??

_v17:

• and? was it?

silasxX03:

• objectively speaking?

_v17:

• objectively speaking.

silasxX03:

• I feel sorry for whoever’s bouncing on that guy.
• Their hole must be like… a tunnel by now

I’m hard.

In seconds.

I can’t believe he’s typing this shit about me.

About my dick. He wanted it. He wanted me.

_v17:

• ok, I got it.
• so how does this connect to your breakup?

silasxX03:

• It connects because this morning I was at my ex’s house and somehow I ended up in a fucking cuddle puddle with the twin

Hold on.

I stop.

I scroll back up. I reread his messages.

Slower this time.

“Promising.”

He said he was checking if it was “promising” like he didn’t… already know.

How didn’t he know already?

How didn’t he know who he was with already?

_v17:

• wait. you said you were checking if it’s “promising”?
• you didn’t already know?
• weren’t you two… together?

silasxX03:

• Oh right.
• we never did anything
• like… we never slept together
• never anything sexual
• Don’t judge. I had my reasons.

I close my phone.

I grab my face with both hands.

I feel like I want to cry and laugh and cum at the same time.

I want to shove my tongue down your throat right now.

You didn’t have sex with Leo. You didn’t let my brother fuck you.

I hate how happy this makes me.

I hate that my first reaction isn’t “good for you” or “poor him.”

My first reaction is the most selfish thought in the world:

Good.

Good that you weren’t ready. Good that you couldn’t. Good that something stopped you.

I don’t even need to picture you getting railed by my brother because it literally never happened.

That image I was torturing myself with, doesn’t fucking exist.

You never spread your legs for him.

I want to throw a party in my room, I want to smoke ten packs of cigarettes back-to-back just to celebrate the fact that you didn’t have sex with my brother.

You just told me the one thing that makes me want to own you even more.

This is too much. I need to jerk off right now.

But talking to you, especially about this shit, is like jerking off ten times in a row, better than anything.

I rush to the kitchen, grab a glass, and pour fast.

I even pull out the good whiskey, the expensive one I save for special shit, just for you.

Back in the room, I drop onto the bed and open our chat again.

_v17:

• Interesting.
• I’m not judging.
• Is it about an ex or was the guy just ugly and you couldn’t get your dick up?

silasxX03:

• dude… I wish it was the second.
• You don’t get it.
• We’re talking next-level beauty here.
• I’d go top for him in a heartbeat.
• Objectively one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. (Right after mine.)
• It was kinda the first thing you said, and I honestly wanna punch myself in the face for it.

I knock the whole shot back in one gulp, stand up, and start pacing circles around the room.

My eyes keep flicking to the phone lying on the bed.

This is so goddamn ridiculous. If you knew what’s happening inside my head right now you wouldn’t just stop talking to me, you’d probably want to fight me physically.

I hope we don’t fight. I’d have a boner so big it’d tower over you.

Then it hits me again, what you actually said in that chat.

I snatch the phone back up.

And now I’m pissed.

Because there are things that happened to you, big, important things, and you never told me.

“I couldn’t do it.”

“I want to punch myself for it.”

Why??

Because you couldn’t??

Or because you don’t understand why you couldn’t??

Because those are not the same thing.

And I hate that I’m trying to solve you like a problem instead of just asking.

But I don’t ask.

I analyze, then I connect. I fill gaps you leave behind.

You can’t even fuck your own boyfriend and I’m sitting here with zero idea why.

I know something fucked you up.

Maybe during sex. Maybe before it. Maybe something that stuck in your head and never left.

Something that makes your body hesitate even when your brain wants to move forward.

And you’re just not telling me.

Why?

Why not me?

You tell me everything else.

I need to know everything about you, Silabun.

Now it feels like you chose to keep that part away from me and I hate that.

I hate that there are pieces of you I don’t have access to.

I hate that you trust me with your chaos but not with this.

But at the same time, I don’t want Vox to know.

That’s the first thought.

I don’t want this version of me to hear this before I do.

I want it first.

I want whatever is wrong with you to belong to me before it belongs to anyone else.

So I swallow it and skip over it.

_v17:

• I’m sure you’re exaggerating and that even I’m better looking than them.
• Anyway. How did you end up cuddling the twin and how the hell did you justify that after?

I lean back, eyes locked on the screen.

silasxX03:

• First of all, I love your confidence. But you’re saying that because you haven’t seen what I’m talking about.
• They are casually humbling all of us.
• second, it was an accident. and I want to punch myself for that too because I literally almost assaulted him without meaning to.
• Imagine how ironic that would’ve been.

_v17:

• Did he take it the wrong way?

silasxX03:

• That’s what you’d expect, right? For him to get uncomfortable and tell me to get off him.
• But he didn’t. He literally pulled me closer in his sleep.
• Then I went to his place later and asked if he did it on purpose and he said he didn’t even notice.
• So I made it awkward on my own.

_v17:

• You went… to his place?
• Right after you broke up with the other twin? how did that even happen?

silasxX03:

• he invited me. I was desperate and I went.
• just got back from there actually.
• i’m wearing his shirt right now while we’re talking. and guess what shirt it is. — [photo]
• IT’S DEPECHE MODE.
• do you think he’d be mad if I just never gave it back?!

I stare at the photo.

If you let me keep yours, this shirt is all yours baby.

_v17:

• He listens to depeche mode? is he like us?

silasxX03:

• no… trust me. he’s not like us at all.

The smile drops.

_v17:

• what do you mean?

Now I’m paying attention.

Fully.

silasxX03:

• I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane.
• He’s not bad. I had a good time, which pissed me off, because now I can’t even call him an asshole properly.
• But something feels… off.

_v17:

• off? what do you mean?

silasxX03:

• that’s what i can’t explain.
• he didn’t make me uncomfortable. that was the uncomfortable part.

_v17:

• doesn’t sound like a problem.

silasxX03:

• maybe i’m overthinking it.
• it was just very different from how he is at the studio.
• like there are two different minds working in the same body.

I lean back slowly.

Two different minds.

You have no idea how close you just got. That’s actually not far from the truth.

I truly was different. Before you broke up.

I wasn’t planning anything.

I won’t try to win you.

I just saw you get hurt. I saw my brother betray you right in front of me.

And I needed to fix it.

Even if it was something stupid. Cigarettes and tacos.

Now I’m jealous of myself.

Because here, you talk about me easily.

You analyze me, you joke about me. You’re comfortable enough to do this.

But when I was right in front of you, you didn’t say anything.

Not one thing.

silasxX03:

• it was very… domestic.
• and i should’ve felt weird because i don’t know him.
• but it felt familiar. like i’ve been there before.

You have been there.

Just not like that. Not physically.

But you’ve been in my space for two years.

You just didn’t know it had walls.

silasxX03:

• anyway. i’ll probably take it all back tomorrow because he’ll piss me off again at the studio.
• we work together now.

_v17:

• don’t shove needles down his throat please.

silasxX03:

• i’ll shove something bigger if he keeps making fun of my shading and embarrassing me in public

_v17:

• calm down with the dick threats.
• he might be into that.

---

OKAY SO important update.

From THIS point on, we’re officially entering my personal favorite chapters 😭 there’s finally gonna be FOOD here.

I just want to warn you though… I only have 9 written chapters left right now, so once I run out, updates will probably slow down and you’ll have to wait for me to write more 💔 I’m sorryyyyy.

ANYWAY :) PLEASE VOTE 🩷⭐️

Question: who do you think is the worst cook in this story so far?

18) Stare All You Want

• One week later *

Silas’s POV

I don’t want to sound weird, but why the fuck do men act like they’re giving birth at the gym?

I swear the guy next to me is making more noise than my mom did when she had my sister.

We’re lifting almost the same weight, but he’s over there acting like he’s lifting the whole gym floor.

I wipe my forehead with the hem of my shirt and move on to the next exercise, ready to kill my arms a little more.

I set the dumbbells down, glance at the mirror in front of me, and immediately turn around.

He’s here.

Victor.

At least I think it’s Victor.

He’s wearing white sneakers, white athletic socks, and everything else is black.

Leo would never dress like that. Leo also hates lifting too, as far as I know.

There is no universe where Leo randomly decides to come in here and start doing… 250 kilos on hip thrusts.

I swallow hard.

I weigh 80 kilos.

This man is moving three times that with his hips.

His cheeks are red, his hair is stuck to his forehead, sweat literally dripping off him.

And he’s not wearing headphones.

He works out with no headphones.

He’s not listening to anything. Just raw dogged reality and his own thoughts.

That is sick. Genuinely sick.

I have to turn away immediately because I am staring.

Full-on staring. Which is rich, because now I’m the one looking exactly like him when he does that creepy stare thing.

So I look away fast.

I wander over to the bench press and start my set.

I hate bench press. Deeply. But I hate having a flat chest more.

I want to wake up, look at my chest, and go, hell yeah.

So we compromise.

I finish the first set and sit there breathing hard, arms burning like someone poured acid into my muscles.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Then Victor walks over.

He scans me from head to toe. His whole face is shining with sweat.

“How many sets do you have left?”

“One,” I say, still breathing hard. “Hello to you too.”

He nods.

And then, because apparently normal behavior is illegal for him, he sits down right in front of me on the floor.

Legs open, knees up, back against the wall.

He lifts his shirt to fan himself off and I immediately regret having eyes.

The skin underneath is all flushed and shiny with sweat, and my gaze drops on instinct to the one place there’s any hair at all.

The happy trail.

Just a faint line disappearing into his waistband.

I look down.

Then I drag my eyes back up to his face.

We just stare at each other.

“So you’re really just gonna sit there until I finish?”

“It’s my last exercise,” he says. “So yes. I’ll sit here until you finish.”

I laugh.

He’s absolutely waiting for me to be polite. To get off, let him go first, avoid the stare, avoid the pressure, avoid all of this.

Not happening.

I am not letting him win again. Let him wait.

I’m used to eyes on me. I’ve had people looking at me for years.

Yours are not gonna be the ones that break me, baby.

Stare all you want.

So I lie back under the bar again and keep going.

I push myself to get as many reps as possible, mostly out of spite. I am not giving him room to comment on my form, my face, my breathing, my soul, nothing.

It goes fine.

Until suddenly after some reps, it really, really doesn’t.

My muscles start dying mid-set. Then, while I’m lying there trying not to collapse, I see him lean over me.

I look up at him.

“What are you looking at?!” I snap. “Take it!”

“Since you can still talk,” he says calmly, “you can do two more.”

I’m going to throw this bar at his skull.

I’m literally dying down here. My arms are about to detach from my body and this psycho has the nerve to tell me two more.

I force one more out with every drop of strength I have.

“Victor, please,” I manage.

“Don’t talk,” he says. “Or you’ll do another.”

He says it so calmly I almost cry.

My arms are on fire. My face probably is too. He’s holding the bar lightly, but he’s not helping me lift it.

“You’re not using all your strength,” he says. “Focus.”

I hate him. I hate him so much.

I push the bar up one more time, squeezing my eyes shut, and then he guides it back into place.

“That’s better.”

I sit up fast, breathing hard, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Are you fucking insane??” I ask. “What the fuck was that??”

“That was you getting past your comfort zone.”

I wipe my face and try to breathe like a normal person again.

He starts loading more plates onto the bar.

“No. Forget it. I’m NOT doing that. You’re actually crazy.”

“It’s obviously not for you,” he says. “It’s for me.”

He grabs the bar and starts the reps like it’s nothing.

I’m still half-drunk on exhaustion, sitting there watching his arms move, the muscles in them tightening and releasing like I’ve got brain damage and this is somehow the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.

But I do not go spot him.

Absolutely not.

He can go fuck himself.

I’m still pissed because thanks to him I almost coughed up blood two minutes ago.

Let him see what it feels like to have someone stand there and do n—

He suddenly lets the bar dip like it’s about to crash onto him and my body launches up before my brain even checks with me.

He looks at me, and laughs.

Just a little.

I stop dead and stare at him.

What an asshole.

Actually what the fuck is wrong with this man? I cannot believe him.

He literally risked 120 kilos falling on his own chest just to play mind games with me. Just to see if I’d move.

I hate his ass.

“Are you insane?” I snap. “Do you have a death wish?”

He doesn’t answer.

I step back, furious. “Next time maybe let it crush you properly so I can save myself the cardio.”

Whatever.

Let him get tired now. Let him struggle. I’ll watch. I’ll sit here and laugh while he suffers.

That’s what he deserves.

I drop back down onto the bench nearby, and pull my phone out.

Straight to my chat with Vox.

silasxX03:

• almost catching up to your numbers btw

hit a new bench press record today.

• say congratulations.

I stare at the message for a second before sending it.

Then I hit send and look back up just in time to see Victor lock the bar back into place and sit up, sweat running down the side of his face.

Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my back.

Right along my spine.

No.

My heart starts going too fast immediately.

I grab my phone and open my notes, scrolling through the stuff I wrote down after the surgery.

Things I’m not supposed to do. Things that might mean something. Anything to reassure myself that I’m fine and this pain is just temporary and not my body deciding to ruin my life again for fun.

“Still tired?” Victor asks, breathing a little hard.

I look up at him, pissed.

I sit up. “I appreciate your little passion for pushing people past their limits,” I say, “but for some things, learn to fucking ask first.”

His face changes.

I don’t wait for an answer. I grab my bag and head for the locker room to wash up.

This is exactly why I hate when people decide they know what’s best for my body more than I do.

He doesn’t know. I know that.

So I can’t really be mad at him for that.

He has no clue.

No little warning label hanging off my spine saying hey, don’t be an intense psycho coach with this one.

Still, maybe I could’ve avoided the pain I’ve got now if he’d just asked first.

From what I read, it doesn’t look serious. Nothing emergency-level.

But the panic I felt definitely shaved three years off my life in under ten seconds.

I wash all the sweat off with an ice-cold shower because God forbid the gym have actual warm water like a civilized place.

By the time I’m done, I’m freezing, pissed off, and still lowkey thinking about his stupid little “two more.”

He almost send me into the afterlife for character development.

I get dressed fast and sit down to tie my shoes.

Victor is right in front of me with only a towel around his waist.

That’s a lot to process after chest day.

A tattoo artist with absolutely no tattoos in sight.

None.

His whole body is just bare skin. Not even one tiny dumb practice tattoo. Not one shaky little self-made line from when he first got his machine.

I don’t know a single tattoo artist who doesn’t at least have one tiny mark somewhere.

A wrist. A finger. A thigh. Something.

He has nothing.

It’s like someone who designs armor for everybody else… and then walks into battle completely unprotected.

Which is kind of insane.

He doesn’t talk to me now. Doesn’t even look at me.

Not once.

He moves around fast, grabbing his stuff, drying off, changing direction like I’m not even in the room.

As he should.

Still. It’s weird.

Because for days now this man has had his eyes on me, and now suddenly he won’t even glance at me by accident.

No hello. No rude comment. No creepy observation. Nothing.

Did something bite him?

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out of the locker room too.

Then I step into the elevator with him.

It’s just the two of us, boxed into this tiny metal coffin, and now the tension is so thick I could scrape it off the walls with my nail.

---

HEEEY i know it was a small chapter but you gotta vote because i post FAST FAST.

Yesterday I wrote THE BEST guilty pleasure chapter bro im not exaggerating ITS SICK. Like, Im almost scared for writing it, like do I need a Luna?!?!?!

it’s chapter 27 tho so you have to be patient:)

QUESTION: Who’s your favorite character so far and why :)))

19) Kissing Distance

Silas’s POV

Neither of us says anything. He looks like somebody scolded him.

I kinda did.

“What happened to you?” I ask him casually.

He doesn’t answer. I laugh under my breath.

The elevator stops on the second floor and more people get in.

Then the first floor. More again.

Suddenly there’s no space left. I get shoved forward until I’m right in front of him, my back pressed against his chest.

I turn my head a little, trying to give him this silent ’ not my fault, circumstances did this to us’ look, and immediately face forward again because I don’t have enough room to look at him without accidentally kissing him too.

Fantastic.

It feels like we’re packed into some train that hasn’t come for twenty minutes and now everybody in the city decided to get on at once.

The elevator opens and I get out first.

It’s dark already.

I can feel him directly behind me now while we walk, and it’s weird.

Really weird.

It feels like we’re together and not together at the same time. Close enough to count, distant enough to make it worse.

God, I hate how sensitive I am.

That’s why I’m gonna end up alone forever.

I always feel this stupid need to apologize to people even when they hurt me first.

I can’t not do it.

I want to hit myself every time I think like this, but I still feel bad for yelling at him earlier, because he didn’t know about my back.

He didn’t know.

I stop suddenly and turn around.

He’s adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He looks at me, coldly.

My heart starts beating too fast.

“Hey,” I say. “Sorry about earlier. For being sharp.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says.

I turn back around.

I feel like I have to say something else so the silence between us doesn’t turn into its own creature.

We work together, after all.

And I really don’t want him going back to Spain in a few months telling everyone, Silas Blackwood is so overrated. He’s actually just a whiny little bitch.

So yeah. I can survive him until he leaves. It’s a few months. I’ve survived worse.

I glance at him.

He lights a cigarette.

“Do you have anyone?” I ask. “A boyfriend? A girlfriend? Back in Spain.”

He blows the smoke out first.

“I don’t do boyfriends and girlfriends,” he says.

I nod.

Okay. That tracks.

“But I want someone.”

I look at him, actually surprised. No, more than surprised.

Shocked.

Because he does not look like someone who feels things at all.

I genuinely cannot picture Victor having a crush. Can’t picture him staring at someone’s story too long or replaying a voice note or smiling over a text.

If someone did pull Victor, they’d have to be a little insane too.

I laugh and light a cigarette.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks.

I blow the smoke out slow.

“Because the idea of you wanting someone is like a sniper suddenly deciding to write poetry,” I say. “I just didn’t expect it.”

He smiles a little. That alone is terrifying.

“First of all,” he says, “don’t call it a crush. It sounds… childish. And second, why didn’t you expect it.”

“Because you don’t exactly radiate healthy yearning,” I tell him. “You radiate locked room, single chair, handcuffs, and a file with my name on it.”

“Your name?” he asks.

“Figure of speech, Victor.”

He keeps looking at me.

“So who is he?” I ask.

“Why are you assuming it’s a man?”

I shrug. “You said someone with your whole face. It felt gay.”

He repeats it under his breath, flicking ash. “It felt gay.”

He takes another drag. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“I am worried about it,” I say. “Because I’m nosy. And because that’s probably the most interesting thing you’ve said.”

“I’m not telling you.”

I shrug, smile to myself, and take another drag.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.” I exhale smoke into the dark. “Congrats to whoever he is. Hope he enjoys emotional Russian roulette.”

He doesn’t answer.

We keep walking toward the parking lot in silence.

I stop walking.

Victor keeps going for like two more seconds before he notices I’m not beside him anymore.

He turns his head a little. “What?”

“Wait,” I whisper.

I hold my breath and listen.

There is a voice getting closer.

Then another one.

I peek past the corner.

My eyes go wide.

Yup.

That’s my mom. Walking toward us.

Without thinking, I grab Victor by the wrist and yank him hard into the narrow side alley next to us.

A tiny space between two walls. Barely big enough for both of us.

I drag him further in and put him in front of me like a shield.

“What are you doing—”

I slap my hand over his mouth in pure panic, then pull it away immediately.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just—I don’t want my mom to see us together. And she also doesn’t know I started smoking again.”

His chest is pressed right against mine and it feels illegal.

I turn my face slightly to the side so I’m not literally breathing on his mouth, but he doesn’t seem interested in looking anywhere else.

Above us, ripped posters hang loose and rustle in the wind, making this dry paper noise over our heads.

Then he adjusts. Moves closer somehow.

Lifts both his arms and plants them above my head, holding the torn posters flat against the wall so they stop moving.

My eyes widen.

And then, against my will, they drop to his arms.

I’ve always had a thing for big arms. I’m not gonna feel guilty about that part.

I am gonna feel guilty because they belong to the strangest man I know, who is currently boxing me in so close that if my heart decides to tap dance, he’s going to feel it through my chest.

His arms look even bigger like this, raised over me.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I know this is happening because there’s no space. I know that.

But that does not change the fact that there is something horrifically hot about the way Victor looks when he’s got me blocked in and nowhere to go.

He reaches up and pulls a little piece of paper out of my hair.

“Why don’t you want her to see us together?” he whispers, barely any distance from my mouth.

I swallow.

“You want the truth?” I ask, holding his eyes even though it’s too dark to see them properly.

“Always,” he says.

“She doesn’t like you very much.”

“But she might think I’m Leo.”

“That would also be a problem,” I say, trying to move a little even though there is nowhere to move. “She doesn’t know we broke up. So we’d have to act normal.”

“Normal?” he murmurs.

“You know what I mean.”

“Say it.”

I stare at him. “I mean we’d have to look close.”

“Yeah? How close?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Very.”

“Kissing distance?”

“Kissing distance,” I repeat.

And I don’t look away.

Because I’m not giving him that.

For a second neither of us moves. Then he shifts back.

“I think your mom left,” he says, and steps away.

I follow him out of that stupid little gap and immediately start dusting off my shirt.

I keep walking, just… not as close to him now.

Him and those fucking hypnotic arms can stay far away from me, thanks.

I pull my phone out. Jett texted me.

Obviously it’s an invitation to a party. Obviously it’s him telling me we should “just swing by, say hi” and then somehow end up black-out drunk again with random cash shoved into our pants like we’re two shameless little sluts working tips.

ME:

• that sounds awful.

• what drinks should I bring?

I lock my phone.

“I got invited too,” Victor says.

I look at him. “I really need to teach you not to snoop.”

“I have free time tomorrow.”

I ignore that completely.

“Are you going?” I ask, and I honestly don’t know what answer I want.

“No,” he says. “I don’t like loud places.”

I nod a little.

“I actually think it would help you, though,” I say. “You know. Meet people. Leave your empty apartment for once. Socialize. Maybe prove to the public that you’re not secretly haunting your own life. Hm?”

He looks at me. “So you’re inviting me?”

“Well… I’m making a suggestion—”

“You want me there.”

I look straight ahead. “I don’t—”

“Just say it.”

“No. Fuck you. Stay home.”

“I will.”

“Great.”

“Mhm.”

“Goodnight, then,” I say, looking away.

“Goodnight, Silas.”

---

I hate this chapter. I love all the next ones tho. Like a lot:) They are also big. Not like this one.

NEXT CHAPTER IS SO YUMMY AHHHHH

It’s about to start omg.

ALSO RIDE OR DIE IS ALMOST AT 8 MILLION AAAAAAAAAAAAA:)))) our babies are growing, but promise me you will love Silas and Victor too.

I know it’s too early to actually love them I’m just saying that because I don’t want to shadow them with my other characters 🥲

20) I’m Not Helping Anyone

Silas’s POV

I undo a few buttons on my white shirt and take a photo.

ME:

• better buttoned or unbuttoned

VOX:

• buttoned.

ME:

• didn’t expect anything else.

• guess who’s going to a party

VOX:

• you

ME:

• correct

• guess who is NOT going to a party

VOX:

• him

ME:

• correct

• I invited him but he hates loud places.

• your lost twin

VOX:

• people lie

ME:

• nah he does look like he hates them

• you will get it if you ever see him

I lock my phone and turn back to Jett and Poppy, who are both sitting on my bed.

Jett has a little stress ball and keeps throwing it at the wall over and over.

Poppy is dressed insanely well. Actually both of them are, but especially her. We are once again about to go protect her from every drugged-up idiot in the city.

“How come you finally dressed like a human?” I ask her. “Trying to move on from Julia tonight?”

She gives me this sad look.

Right. Bad joke.

Her girlfriend dumped her a few months ago because apparently men suddenly became her “true calling.”

Five-year relationship, by the way. Casual.

I soften immediately. “Okay, sorry. I’m kidding.”

I pull her into a hug and smooth her hair back.

“Do I not get a hug, you asshole?” Jett asks.

I look at him with all the evil in my soul.

“You’re a whore,” I tell him. “You don’t need hugs. Ask one of the men you’re constantly stuffing your dick into.”

“Hey, first of all,” he says, offended, “who said every day?! We have jobs, you know. Also, no, I do not ask them for hugs. Disgusting.”

Poppy, still half in my arms, looks confused. “You have sex with them… but hugs are where you draw the line?”

“Yes?” Jett says, like she’s the weird one. “I’ll risk catching the worst disease.”

“What disease?” she asks.

“FEELINGS.”

Poppy nods seriously. “That’s fair, actually.”

“Exactly,” Jett says, putting on his black sunglasses indoors. “Miss me with all that bullshit. No offense.”

He trails off, but Poppy turns to look at me, quieter this time.

“Oh, Silas, I need to tell you something,” she says. “About… Victor.”

My eyes widen. “What did he do now?”

“It’s about work,” she says. “He’s made a lot of money while he’s been here. All cash. Nothing on his card. And he keeps… refusing to take it.”

I stare at her.

“What do you mean refusing?”

“He keeps telling me to ‘use it for the studio.’”

I rub my face, fully shocked.

Oh my God. This is how we end up in a documentary.

Where did we find this man?

The amount he’s made while he’s been here is insane.

“How much are we talking?” I ask.

Poppy glances at her phone. “Thirty-two thousand six hundred dollars.”

“Holy shit,” Jett shouts.

“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter.

Because no. Absolutely not.

You do not walk into my studio, make over thirty grand, act like a creepy Victorian ghost with cigarettes, and then go just keep it in the studio like money is decorative.

“Fuck. I’ll talk to him,” I say. “Does his manager even know?! Maybe he genuinely didn’t realize. I’ll sort it out.”

I grab my jacket. “But right now, let’s go. I need tequila. Badly.”

We get to the house where the party is happening after very nearly throwing up in Jett’s car because of the way he drives.

This man drives like we’ve got seven lives and zero dreams.

He calls himself a champion.

Champion of bullshit , maybe.

He hooks an arm around both me and Poppy at the same time and drags us toward the entrance.

“Poppy? You’re driving later. I want to get obliterated.”

“I was gonna drive whether you liked it or not,” she snaps. “We almost died, idiot.”

Then she smacks him on the head.

Around us it’s absolute chaos. The pool is full of people, inflatable crap, and empty cups floating around. The house itself isn’t even that big, which somehow makes everything worse.

It just looks more packed and loud.

I watch everybody drinking and I get jealous.

Then I feel guilty, because with every sip I can already hear my muscles cursing me out.

I look at a group of people next to me.

Being a tattoo artist is so weird because what do you mean I’ve touched half the asses in this place, I know what half these people sound like when they moan from pain, and I’ve probably overshared with at least half of them while holding a machine?

I feel exposed.

We walk into the house and a wave of warm, nasty air hits me straight in the face.

“I’m grabbing a drink and going back outside!” I yell at Jett.

“Same, bro. I’m just gonna say hi to some people first,” he says, and disappears immediately.

I look around.

Search.

I hate my brain.

“I’m gonna say hi to a few friends too and then I’ll come out,” Poppy yells.

“Be careful, please,” I shout in her ear.

She nods and vanishes too.

Now it’s just me and the table of alcohol. I stare at it.

Shit. This is like a toy aisle for adults.

I have a problem.

One hour later

I made the mistake of saying, “this shit tastes like juice,” and then drinking three more glasses.

So now I’m sitting on the kitchen counter completely gone, eyes half-shut, listening to the people next to me talk like they’re just one long mosquito sound trapped in my skull.

I Turn to You by Melanie C is playing and suddenly I feel like I’m in a disco in the year 2000.

Only everyone around me is making out and I’m sitting here like a dying flower.

Maybe I should leave already.

I always say I’m not gonna drink that much and that I’m just gonna have fun, and then I end up like this.

Melted, useless, and spiritually horizontal.

I look around the chaos trying to find Jett.

Too many people.

Does nobody work tomorrow?! What the fuck?

I keep searching. Bodies everywhere. Everyone’s starting to fold from the alcohol, slipping into walls, onto couches, into each other.

Then, inside all that moving mess, I notice one deeply uncomfortable figure standing in the middle of it like he accidentally spawned there.

Victor.

He came.

My eyes go wide for half a second and then I smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

His hair actually looks like he tried with it.

He’s wearing one earring now too. Just a small white diamond, nothing dramatic, but it looks good on him.

Black loose pants. Black shirt tucked into his belt. Black leather jacket. Black boots.

He’s standing there looking around awkwardly.

Perfect.

I grin, fix my hair fast, and slide off the counter.

Then I start shoving through people who apparently forgot how to move.

Elbows, shoulders, “sorry,” “move,” “thank you,” “if you make out in doorways I hate you.”

I force my way through until I’m right in front of him.

I put my hand on his shoulder and lean into his ear so he can actually hear me over the music.

“Didn’t you hate loud places?”

He looks at me and smiles a little. “I decided to go out and practice my English.”

I stare at him for a second. “Your English is better already.”

Then I lean in again. “You look kinda nice,” I yell, looking him up and down.

He looks at me with this softer expression that does not belong on his face.

“You look nice too, Silas.”

My stomach does something stupid.

“I’ve had a little to drink,” I tell him, pointing at his face with one finger. “I would not have said that if I was sober.”

“Good to know,” he says.

I nod like, yes, that was an important legal disclaimer, thank you.

Then I just… look at him for a second.

I don’t even know why, but I feel weirdly relieved that he came.

Maybe because some part of me worries about what he does when he’s alone with nobody watching him.

Which is insane. Maybe I’m insane.

But his awkward little I don’t know why I’m here presence somehow changes the whole energy of the party.

Also he smells really good. But I’m not drunk enough to say that out loud.

“What’s Pickle doing?” I yell in his ear, and the smell of his neck almost makes me black out again.

“He barks,” he says.

I nod. Perfect.

I ask this man how his dog is doing and he basically tells me he is dogging.

Like asking a mom how her son is and getting, he’s breathing.

Yeah. Exactly the answer I wanted.

“AY, THE DARTIST!” Jett yells out of nowhere, throwing his arms over both our shoulders and shoving us close together.

He is definitely high.

He’s got one arm around me, one around Victor, pulling us in like we’re a boyband he created.

He leans into my neck to shout, “Should I talk to him or are we still mad at him?”

Victor can absolutely hear every word.

“You’re embarrassing us,” I tell Jett while looking at Victor, who is now looking at Jett with a deeply unfriendly expression.

I’m suddenly a little scared for Jett’s life.

“Can you bring a shot?” I ask him.

“One??” Jett says, offended. “I’ll bring three.”

He disappears to the counter and pours alcohol into three tiny glasses without even checking what it is.

Then he comes back and shoves one into each of our hands.

“Bottoms up, freaks.”

We all drink it.

Then Jett turns toward Victor and slings himself halfway onto him again.

“One time I yelled bottoms up at a party,” he says, already laughing before the story even starts.

He points at me. “And this guy right here stood straight the fuck up—”

“I will kill you,” I say. “That did not happen—”

Then Victor starts laughing.

Not smiling. Not a little amused exhale.

Actually laughing. Like fully gone.

What in God’s unholy name.

I just stop and stare at him. Because apparently he can laugh.

And not in a polite little ha-ha way either. He’s actually dying.

The laugh is so real it makes Jett laugh harder too, and now both of them are losing it in front of me like I’m some kind of live comedy event.

It’s almost scarier than the creepy stare.

Because his laugh is contagious. It catches in your chest before you can stop it.

“I know, I’m hilarious, calm down,” I say. “God forbid someone misunderstood something for one second.”

Victor wipes at his eyes and clears his throat, trying to pull himself back together.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch people looking at him.

And I know that look.

That’s thirst.

I know it because I’ve aimed it at people before and I’ve had it aimed at me.

I’m not stupid.

I know exactly what it looks like when someone’s mentally undressing you in real time.

A group starts drifting toward him.

They start talking to him in that fake-flirty, half-joking way people use when they want to get picked.

Asking him to teach them Spanish. Saying dumb shit. Laughing too much at nothing.

One of them literally meows her way into his space like that’s supposed to work.

He looks at them like they’re from another planet.

Which, fair.

Then one of them reaches up and fixes his hair.

That should not be the shocking part. The shocking part is that he lets her do it.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” he says flatly, and leaves all of us there like discarded background actors.

The girls follow him immediately.

I watch his back while I sip my own drink.

Jett puts a hand on my shoulder. “You like him.”

I don’t even look at him. “If you say that again, I’ll pin you to a wall and strangle you with my bare hands.”

“I didn’t say it in a good way,” he says. “You’re fucked if you like him. He’ll ruin your head.”

I keep watching Victor.

He takes his jacket off and drops it beside him. Then he sits on the couch and spreads his legs to get comfortable like the whole room belongs to him and the rest of us are just lucky to be breathing the same oxygen.

I turn to Jett, who’s also staring.

“No offense, Silas, he’s hot as hell,” Jett says. “But I’d stay away from the Acostas if I were you. You already saw what happened with the other one, dude.”

I nod without meaning to, still half-looking over there.

Victor looks back at me.

I snap out of it fast and turn to Jett. “Bro, shut up. When did I ever say I like him? Why are you even saying this to me?”

“That’s what I wanna hear,” he says, smacking my shoulder once before he disappears back into the crowd.

I head to the kitchen, grab an unopened bottle, and go find somewhere to dump my body for a while.

A little time passes.

I’m sitting on the couch opposite Victor’s, watching him sit there with that group around him. He looks like he accidentally got assigned a fan club and is too socially broken to know how to dismiss them properly.

I genuinely don’t know how they stand each other.

“Isn’t he perfect?” a girl next to me says, looking at him. She’s about as drunk as I am, which means dangerously honest.

I look at Victor.

“Him?” I ask.

“Obviously,” she says.

I stare at her.

“He looks like he sleeps in a coffin,” I tell her. “He looks like he hasn’t had human touch in ten years. He looks painfully awkward socially.”

She leans closer. “That is exactly my type,” she says. “It’s so hot. And I heard from a friend of a friend…” She lowers her voice even more. “That he’s packed.”

I look at him.

Then I look at her.

“The oven is hot too,” I say. “You don’t stick your hand inside it.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” she says. “I’ve handled worse. I was actually planning to make a move tonight. Do you think he’s single?”

I look at Victor again. He looks back at me.

Piss off.

I’m not helping anyone.

I’ve noticed, okay? I’ve noticed that everyone wants the mysterious Spanish guy.

And yeah, I fucking get it. But I’m not personally escorting anyone into his lap.

He’s not mine. I know that. Obviously.

Nobody bent me over a sink and stamped ownership across my forehead.

I am fully aware of reality, thank you very much.

But not having him doesn’t mean I’m gonna smile and go, yeah babe, go ahead, throw yourself at him and let me know how it goes.

Absolutely not.

There’s a line.

And for some reason, my body has decided that line is me.

So I turn back to her.

“I heard he didn’t let his ex leave,” I say casually.

She looks at me. “What do you mean?”

“Like… aggressively possessive,” I say. “Had her basically locked in the house or something.”

Her whole face changes. “What??”

I nod, dead serious.

She glances back at him, suddenly horrified.

I look at her.

“You can handle it though. So? What do you want me to do? Give him your number or…?”

“No, no, wait,” she says, already backing off. “I’ll… I’ll think about it. I need to go make a call. Nice meeting you.”

She disappears.

I turn forward again, smiling into my drink.

Sorry, girl.

Pick somebody else.

Pick anyone in this sweaty little zoo of a house.

Not that one.

And definitely not through me.

One hour later

I’m sitting in the bathtub like actual trash.

My legs are hanging out over the edge, my head tipped back against the wall, and my shirt is half open because I’m overheating from all the alcohol.

If Vox saw me right now, he’d give me the nastiest side eye of my life.

I look pathetic.

I drank half the bottle of whatever the hell this is, and now I’m just sitting here enjoying the silence like a divorced uncle at a wedding.

Of course the door opens.

And of course it’s my personal little psycho.

He stares at me.

“What, you never seen a man rot in porcelain before?”

He doesn’t answer. He closes the door behind him.

I lift my drink. “If you lock that door, I’m smashing this bottle on your head.”

He immediately opens the door a little, looking at me.

I smile lazily. “What happened? Your fan club finally let you escape?”

I take another sip straight from the bottle.

He smiles a little. “They spilled drinks on me. I’m a mess.”

Then he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it off.

Jesus Christ and the whole damn church.

I watch him while he rinses the shirt under the sink.

His chest is so big it almost needs a bra. His abs are actually defined.

Veins show down his arms while he scrubs at the fabric, and I genuinely want to start crying right here in this tub.

This is evil.

He walks over and stretches the wet shirt above me across the curtain rod.

I look at his hands while they move over my head.

Such a fucked-up brain in such a hot body. That combination should be illegal.

“Can I sit here?” he asks. “Until it dries.”

He points at the empty space beside me inside the tub.

I shrug.

He looks at me. “What does that mean?”

“It means sit down,” I say, laughing.

So he lowers himself next to me.

Immediately I look at him.

Up close his skin is warm, and I can feel it against my arm. His chest looks even bigger from this distance, which is deeply unfair to my peace.

“You drinking?” he asks, eyeing my bottle.

I look at it. Then hand it to him.

He takes a sip. Actually tastes it.

“It’s bad.”

“Fuck you, Victor.”

He opens his cigarette pack. There’s one cigarette upside down inside it.

He pulls it out and holds it up.

“It’s my lucky one,” he says. “Make a wish.”

“What?”

“Just make one.”

So I think.

And while I’m thinking, I look at him.

I hate that he makes silence feel like something physical.

“I did,” I say finally.

He lights the cigarette and puts it in his mouth.

I laugh softly and take another swallow from the bottle. His leg is pressed against mine now. Our arms too.

My head feels like it’s full of rocks.

“You can lean on my shoulder,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Then he takes another drag from his cigarette.

“If you’re doing that to get me into your bed, I’ll save you the time right now,” I say. “It’s not happening. So let me live.”

He doesn’t answer.

I just feel him shift a little farther away from me.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says after a second. “Sorry.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because I genuinely didn’t expect that response.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

“Okay.”

Fuck.

I don’t know what’s happening. He sounds like he means what he says.

What the hell is wrong here?

Why does this feel more unsettling than if he acted like every other guy?

“Do you think I’m ugly?” I ask, because apparently my drunk brain wants to self-destruct creatively.

He looks at me, actually surprised. Then he thinks. “Yes.”

I turn to him fast. “Excuse me?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Wasn’t that sarcasm?”

“Are you asking me that??”

He suddenly looks weirdly tense.

“No,” he says quickly. “I don’t think you’re ugly.”

I turn forward again.

Okay. So he thinks I’m pretty, but still doesn’t want to get me into bed.

I look back at him. “We’re alone in a bathroom, I’m drunk as fuck, you don’t think I’m ugly, and you still don’t want to get me into bed?”

He looks at me like I’m making no sense.

“Why would you being drunk in a bathroom make me want that…”

I stare ahead. Then I smile a little.

Damn.

Well, look at that.

The guy I thought was the most deranged one in the room has basically panicked because I accused him of trying to take advantage of me.

It’s almost funny.

My arms are still folded over myself while I sit there looking at him, thinking.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, adjusting in the tub so I don’t accidentally pass out and drown in two inches of nothing.

“If Jett comes in,” I mumble, “tell him you found me dead.”

Then I lean my head carefully onto his shoulder.

21) The Elite Citizens

Victor’s POV

It’s been seventeen minutes since you fell asleep on my shoulder.

I haven’t moved a millimeter.

Well, that’s actually not fully true. I did move once. Thirteen minutes ago.

I slid my arm behind your head because I didn’t want you freezing against the tile.

For the last fourteen minutes I’ve been running my fingers through your black hair as gently as I can.

I smooth it back with my fingers even though my shoulder is burning now and my wrist feels like it belongs to someone else.

It’s numb as hell.

I’m still not moving it. Not until you wake up.

You flinch a lot in your sleep. You do these sharp little twitches.

Your breathing changes too.

Every now and then it slips out of rhythm for a second, then finds its way back.

I should be happy.

No, more than happy. I should be losing my fucking mind from happiness.

Because I really never thought I’d get this.

I never thought I would live long enough, or get lucky enough, or deserve enough, to have something like this happen to me for real.

You. Sleeping on me. Even like this.

Not guarding every inch of yourself like a dog over a wound.

And still, instead of being happy, I’m fucking angry.

More angry than happy, actually.

Not at you, obviously. At the fact that you actually thought I told you to lay your head on my shoulder just so I could play the long game and “get you” in the end.

Like everything I do is some calculated move to trap you and eventually fuck you.

I’m crazy about you. I’m literally rabid for you. That part is absolutely true.

I’m not even going to insult either of us by pretending otherwise.

I want you so bad it makes me feel disgusting and alive at the same time.

I’d do almost anything to have you. That part is true too.

But I would rather put a bullet in my own head than trick you, or make you feel like you owe me anything, Silabun.

If I ever get anything from you, I want it to be because you decided to give it to me.

Not because I played nice and waited for the right moment to strike.

I don’t wanna steal a moment. I’m not that kind of monster.

I would rather wait forever and go insane than take something that isn’t freely given.

That’s why it hurts so much that you thought that about me tonight.

And the thing that makes me even angrier, is that someone put that idea in your head.

Someone made you believe that every guy who’s nice to you is just waiting to fuck you at the end.

Someone taught you that kindness always has a price and that price is always your body.

Someone made you think you’re only worth what people can get from you in bed.

I’m furious at that person.

Whoever the fuck they are, I want to find them and rip their fucking throat out.

Slowly.

Because I’ve been talking to you for years. Even as Vox.

Every single day, and you still haven’t told me what happened to you.

You still haven’t let me see the real damage.

And that kills me, Silabun. You don’t get it.

It actually kills me. Because I can’t protect you from something I don’t know exists.

I can’t stand between you and the people who broke you if you won’t even show me the scars.

I don’t want to be one of them, Silas. I don’t want to be another guy who was nice to you just to get something in the end.

I wanna know all your fears.

And yes, that probably makes me possessive. Yes, it makes me want to know things I have no right to know yet.

Because every time I find a locked door in you, I want to put my ear against it and listen until I understand what’s making noise on the other side.

Someone would call this obsessive.

But obsession and violation are not the same thing.

Wanting you badly is not the same thing as taking from you badly.

I can be starving and still keep my hands to myself.

So please, don’t put me in their hands.

I’m already trying hard enough not to put mine on you everywhere.

__

Silas starts waking up.

I look away first so I don’t seem strange while he’s still climbing back into himself.

I give him those few seconds. Let him come back properly before I make it obvious I’ve been watching him sleep like a complete psychopath.

Then I turn back.

He’s rubbing his eyes slowly, all heavy and disoriented, and one side of his face is bright red from where it was pressed against my shoulder.

I swallow a laugh.

He looks at me like a confused baby.

“Why the fuck are you laughing?”

“Nothing,” I say.

I get out of the tub first. My legs feel stiff. I hold my hand out to him and he gives me his without thinking, still half asleep, and I pull him up.

He almost folds instantly.

I catch him with both hands before he can collapse back into the bathroom and break his skull open on something expensive and stupid.

“I’m sleepy,” he mutters.

“Fuck,” he adds right after, like the word just fell out on its own.

I guide him carefully down onto the toilet lid.

He sits there all floppy and blinking too slow, and I’m trying to think.

“I’m hot,” he says.

Fuck.

If anyone sees him like this, they’re going to think I drugged him or something. This is exactly the kind of scene that gets a man beaten to death before he can explain himself properly.

He has to go home.

Jett is drunk out of his mind too. I am not letting that idiot drive and kill himself and Silas and somehow make my life even worse than it already is.

I crouch down to his eye level and take hold of his shoulders.

“Um,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, “I think you know you need to go home.”

“Jett’s taking me.”

“Jett,” I say carefully, “has probably had more to drink than you. There is no universe where he’s driving.”

His eyes narrow at me. “What are you trying to say?”

“That I’m taking you.”

“Nope. Not happening.”

I exhale. Of course.

“Silas,” I say, “listen to me for a second. You’re drunk. I’m just taking you home because that is the normal human thing to do, okay?”

I tighten my hands on his shoulders a little, enough to keep him focused on me.

“That’s it. Do you understand? Nothing else.”

His arms are folded now, and he’s looking at me with that deeply insulting expression of his.

“You’re buying me cinnamon buns,” he says tapping my chest. “Three boxes.”

I stare at him.

Then I smile before I mean to.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure. I’ll get you as many as you want on the way.”

“Good.”

I nod once.

“Come on,” I tell him, and I turn my back to him, lowering slightly so he can climb up and let me hold him properly.

“Dude,” he mutters, “I know how to walk.”

“You almost fell getting from the bathtub to the toilet,” I say. “Get on.”

“Fuck you, know-it-all,” he mumbles.

Then he wraps his arms around me.

And my heart starts beating so hard it almost makes me lose balance.

I was making fun of him two seconds ago, but now I’m the one who can barely walk. My whole body is going through some kind of shock.

Not fear exactly. Something stranger.

His weight settles over my back, loose, trusting in that half-conscious way that makes it ten times worse.

I hook my arms under his thighs and lift him carefully.

It feels like I’m carrying the whole meaning of my life on my back.

I lift him a little so he can settle more comfortably.

His arms are locked tight around my neck.

If he were sober and I told him right now that he’s light, he’d start preaching at me immediately.

About how he goes to the gym five times a week. About how many meals he eats. About discipline. About protein. About whatever the hell else he thinks keeps the universe spinning.

And at the end of it, obviously, he’d insult me.

Now if I said it, he’d just mumble, fuck you, Victor.

I shove the door wider with my foot.

“Wait,” he says.

“What?”

“My phone.”

I turn right back around, go to the edge of the bathtub, and drop into a squat so he can reach it from where it’s hanging half off the rim. He grabs it with sleepy fingers.

Then we go back out into the chaos.

Most of the party has collapsed into its ugliest form now. People are either passed out, bent over toilets throwing up, or half-dead on couches oversharing their life stories to strangers.

The air smells like sweat, alcohol, and chlorine from the pool outside.

I find Jett and Poppy.

The second Jett sees me carrying Silas, he stands up way too fast, and the look on his face is not friendly.

“What do you think you’re doing??” he asks.

“Relax,” I tell him. “I’m taking him home. He drank a bottle by himself.”

“No.” He rubs his eyes hard. “No, absolutely not.”

“Shut up, Jett,” Silas mutters from my back, then reaches down and pats my cheek three times, playful humiliatingly intimate. “I trust him.”

I look at Jett and give him a small smile.

He stares at me like he’d still prefer to kill me on principle.

Poppy reaches for her bag. “Here, I have his house keys—”

Jett knocks her hand down immediately and the two of them start whispering angrily right in front of me like I’m not there.

I let them. I don’t mind.

They should be careful. If I were them, I would be too. It’s the normal thing to do for your friend.

In the end, Jett turns back around and hands me the keys himself.

I take them. “Thanks.”

He points at me. “If anything happens to him—”

“Nothing will happen to him,” I say.

And I mean it in a way that surprises even me.

I walk outside and head toward my car.

Halfway there, Silas starts stroking the side of my neck with his thumb.

Just once at first. Then again.

It’s like his hand is following some drunk instinct his brain hasn’t had the chance to censor.

I adjust him higher on my back just to make it stop.

Not because I want it to stop. Because I won’t survive it if it keeps going.

His head drops right against the side of my neck. “Fuck you, Victor,” he says out of nowhere.

“Do it yourself, you coward,” I mutter, just low enough to count as a joke and not a confession.

He makes some sleepy sound against my skin that I can’t decode.

“Am I choking you with my hands?”

I swallow. “You’re good,” I tell him.

He drops one arm forward across my chest. I grit my teeth.

I realize, very suddenly, that I feel stronger right now than I do with two hundred kilos over me.

This takes three times the strength. More than any gym session ever has.

His mouth brushes close to my neck when he talks again.

“You smell nice.”

Four times the strength, then. Maybe five.

I get to the car and unlock it one-handed, then bend carefully to get him into the passenger seat without cracking his head on the door frame.

He complains under his breath the whole time.

I lean in and fasten his seatbelt for him. He laughs to himself for no reason.

I shut the passenger door and get into my own seat.

“Don’t forget to stop for the buns,” he says. “Please.”

“I’m not forgetting, Silas.”

“Good. Then drive.”

“You need to tell me where you live first.”

“Near the casino…” he mumbles. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

I start the car.

I can feel him looking at me.

“Why don’t you have any tattoos?” he asks, calm.

I turn the wheel and keep my eyes on the road.

“I like my body clean.”

I leave the silence there for a second to see if he’ll say something smart, since I know exactly how many tattoos he has.

I glance at him. “I love seeing them on other people, though.”

He nods once. “I can do one for you if you ever want,” he murmurs.

I smile a little. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then he turns away.

I keep driving in total silence.

There are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to do.

But apparently all these years of practicing restraint were for something after all, because tonight they’re finally useful.

I’m not scared of myself right now. Not in this moment.

I know he’s safe with me.

I look over. He’s asleep again.

I pull over to buy the cinnamon buns.

Every few seconds I glance back at the car to make sure he doesn’t suddenly wake up and bolt because he realizes whose car he’s sitting in.

I get the bag, and come back. I shake it once near him, hoping the smell will wake him up.

Nothing. He’s fully gone.

So I toss the bag in the back and start driving toward his house.

I know where he lives. I heard Leo mention it once.

But I’ll pretend I don’t until Silas gives me that information himself.

I don’t take it just because I have it. I don’t make something mine until he lets me.

I wake him up right before we turn onto his street.

“Hey. Hey.”

He blinks, lifts his head, looks out the window.

“That’s my house,” he says. “That one. Stop.”

I stop.

And for a second I just sit there.

Because this is a ritual to me, whether he knows it or not.

I am seeing things up close for the first time that I’ve already seen a hundred times through the glass of our chat, Silabun.

That stupid plant by your front door you always send with the message I’M OFFFFF WORK.

Your balcony. Your pool. The outline of your place.

I know your house inside out from scraps and angles and accidental background details, and now I’m here seeing it for real.

I kill the engine and get out.

When I come around to his side, he just lifts his arms on his own so I can help him out.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I take him. I hold him steady and pull him to his feet.

We make our way toward the house while I do my best to keep him upright.

One hand stays firm on his waist. With the other, I hold onto the arm he’s got slung around my neck.

By the time we reach the front door, he’s basically hanging his whole weight on me.

I unlock it.

Then I get him inside.

The first thing I do is look around for somewhere to put him down before my brain has time to fully process the fact that I’m standing inside Silas Blackwood’s house.

I spot the couch.

“Stay here,” I tell him. “I’m coming back.”

“Mhm,” he says.

I lower him onto the couch slowly, and he just melts into it.

I step back outside in a hurry and bring the bag of cinnamon buns in.

I leave it in the kitchen for him.

Then I open one of his cabinets and grab a glass.

I don’t count that as violating anything. He needs water. That’s all I’m giving him.

Water.

Nothing weird. Nothing stolen.

I fill the glass and glance around while the tap runs.

Everything is clean. Very clean.

His dishes are washed. His counters are spotless. Everything shines like he either cleaned before leaving or physically cannot rest if one crumb is left somewhere it shouldn’t be.

You are such a good boy, Silas.

In our DMs you try to act all casual, like you’re chill, like mess doesn’t bother you that much, like you don’t care.

Meanwhile your whole kitchen looks like it got polished for a magazine shoot.

I take the glass and walk back into the living room.

He’s gone.

My whole body tightens. “Silas?”

“Pissing.”

I exhale and move toward the bathroom. “You okay?”

“No. I’m dying.”

“What?!”

And then he loses his mind laughing.

Full hysterical drunk laughter from inside the bathroom.

I cross my arms and stare at the door.

Look at you. Blind drunk and still committed to being a little asshole.

I hear the sink running. Then the door opens and he looks at me.

I look back at him with all the coldness I can fake.

“Your water,” I say, nodding toward the living room.

“I’m not thirsty, thanks.”

“I didn’t ask,” I tell him.

I walk him back toward the couch and plant myself across from him, glass in hand, not moving.

“I’m not leaving until you drink at least two full glasses.”

I gesture toward the water. “Drink.”

“Fine,” he says, throwing his hands up dramatically like I’m holding him hostage.

He drinks the whole thing while flipping me off.

I take the glass from him, go refill it, come back, and hand it over again.

He drinks that one too.

While he’s drinking, my eyes land on a little Pokémon figure sitting on the table.

He catches me looking and hides it instantly.

“That’s not mine,” he says way too fast. “It’s… my brother’s.”

“Oh,” I say.

I look at him for another second, then shrug. “I have some too. Back in Spain. I like them.”

His whole face lights up. Actually lights up.

Like I just pulled a switch inside him.

“I have more,” he says. “Victor, I have a lot. Can you see?”

I freeze. Christ.

He says it like no one has ever wanted to see anything in his house before. Like this is some impossible little dream he didn’t expect to work.

“You’ll see them,” he says quickly. “Don’t leave, please. It’ll take a second.”

I laugh under my breath. “Okay. I want to see them.”

He pushes himself up too fast, immediately loses balance, grabs onto me to steady himself, and starts hurrying toward his room.

…

My eyes burn.

I can’t do this.

You’re this fucking happy because I brought you home and didn’t try to fuck you.

That’s all it took.

And yes, obviously I’m happy I’m here for you. I am.

I love that you feel safe enough with me to be this much yourself, even now, drunk out of your mind.

I love that you’re not scared I’m going to pounce on you the second you let your guard down.

That part feels so good I can barely stand it. But the rest of it is tearing me open.

Because you’re this excited over the fact that I didn’t come here expecting sex.

What the fuck happened to you, Silas?

I don’t even want to imagine it.

Because if I start really thinking about what kind of people taught you that basic human decency is rare, magical, unbelievable behavior, I’m going to throw up right here on your spotless floor.

Someone hurt you so badly that kindness feels like a miracle now.

That’s not normal.

That is not something I can just look at and move past.

I want you so badly some nights I can’t even breathe right because all I can think about is the fact I might never get to have you. I don’t know what to do with how much this hurts.

I’m happy I’m here for you.

And I’m also so sad I could cry, because you’re this grateful for the bare minimum.

Because the bar is buried in the ground somewhere, and “not trying to fuck you” feels like love to you.

I wish I could grab your face and make you hear me.

I wish I could tell you that someone can stay and help and carry you and bring you water and buy your stupid cinnamon buns without waiting for you to get naked.

Even if that someone is a fucked-up mess like me.

I’m still going to want you tomorrow.

I’m still going to be jealous and insane and completely delusional about you.

But hell, I’ll keep all of it buried inside me forever if I have to.

I’ve been living with this for a long time already. I know how to carry it.

I can keep it hidden so well you’d probably think I hate you.

You’d look at me and see coldness, attitude and distance.

Meanwhile the truth is that every night before I sleep, I hope something extreme happens to you.

Not bad. Never bad.

I mean something beautiful.

Something absurdly good. Something so good it shakes you. Something that fixes your whole day, or your week, or your month.

I go to sleep hoping life is softer with you when I’m not there to make it softer myself.

And even with all of that in me, I can still hold back.

The more I want you, the more careful I get around you.

Not less.

More.

Because wanting you doesn’t make me reckless. It makes me precise.

It makes me watch my hands. My tone. My face.

It makes me measure every movement so I don’t become one more thing your body has to recover from.

I hear footsteps behind me.

Silas.

I turn.

He comes back holding a huge plastic box against his chest.

And he looks so stupidly proud of it.

“I told you,” he says, dropping down to the floor in front of the coffee table with zero grace. “I have a lot.”

“I can see that.”

“No, like… a lot a lot.” He squints at the lid, fighting with it for a second. “This one is heavy because the serious ones are in here.”

“The serious ones?”

“Yeah.” He finally gets it open and looks up at me like I’m slow. “The elite citizens.”

I sit down on the couch and lean forward, elbows on my knees.

He starts pulling figures out one by one with drunk reverence, handling each of them like he’s introducing me to members of some tiny plastic royal family.

“This,” he says, holding one up too close to my face, “is Gengar. He’s nasty. I respect him.”

“I know Gengar.”

“Damn,” he says. “Sometimes I forget you’re a person.”

Me too. I only remember when I’m with you.

“This one,” he says, lifting another figure, “I got after a really shit week and it fixed me psychologically for, like, three days.”

I take it from him. My fingers brush his.

He doesn’t even seem to notice, too busy leaning into my space and talking like his mouth finally found something it wants to keep doing.

“You have to understand,” he says, “some people do cocaine. I do this.”

“You compare Pokémon figures to cocaine?”

“Absolutely. Maybe better, actually. Less nose damage.”

I look down at the figure in my hand.

“Snorlax.”

“Yeah.” His face softens. “He’s important.”

“Why?”

“Because he fucking gets me.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Sleepy. Big energy in theory. Useless in practice.”

“You are not useless.”

“Thank you,” he says.

He starts building a whole lineup across the coffee table, talking with his hands, rearranging them every ten seconds because drunk Silas is both sentimental and aggressively disorganized.

“This one is hot,” he says.

I look at the figure.

“It’s… a fox.”

“It can still be hot.”

“That’s concerning.”

“No, because you’re judging before you understand the lore.”

“You cannot call a Pokémon hot and then accuse me of misunderstanding lore.”

“I mean…” he says, waving a hand. “I kinda already did. Anyway. Wait, don’t leave. There’s another one.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I’m invested.”

That makes him grin.

He pulls out a Vaporeon and holds it up like a sacred object.

“I cried so much for this one,” he says. “I gave a guy my lunch three days in a row and solved two of his exercises.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“What an asshole,” he says immediately. “If he ever comes to the studio, I’m tattooing him with my left hand.”

I start laughing, and then he starts laughing too, and now we’re both sitting there losing our minds over a tiny blue plastic creature and some poor bastard from his past who apparently extorted him for Vaporeon access.

Then he keeps going.

That one is “a dramatic little bitch.”

Another one “looks like he’d cheat and then say sorry, his grandma died and he needed support.”

One of them reminds him of Jett “because it has the energy of someone who’d go to a club shirtless and come back with a business opportunity and pink eye.”

By the time he’s done, the whole coffee table looks like a tiny convention for mentally unstable little monsters.

When he finally starts slowing down, I help him put them all back into the box.

He watches my hands carefully.

“You know,” he says, quieter now, “there are still some I haven’t gotten yet.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t find them. Then I got tired of looking.”

He yawns right after.

I stand up.

“Very impressive collection,” I tell him. “But you need to sleep. You’re a corpse.”

He laughs at the word corpse like it’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever said.

It’s probably the accent.

“I left your cinnamon buns in the kitchen,” I tell him as I start walking toward the door.

Then I turn to say goodnight, and he hugs me.

Silas hugs me.

Both of his arms go around my waist and his head lands on my shoulder.

My heart starts beating so fast it actually hurts.

At first I hug him back carefully, almost stiff with shock.

Then I stop pretending and hold him properly.

“Thank you,” he says.

I smile, even though he can’t see it. “I didn’t really do anything.”

Slowly, he lifts his head.

His blue eyes lock onto mine.

They drop for one second.

Just one.

And I know exactly what that second means.

“Goodnight, Silas,” I say.

He lets his hands fall from my waist.

“Goodnight,” he says.

And I leave before I lose my mind and pin him against the nearest wall and kiss him like I’ve been starving for years.

---

HI PLEASE VOTE I LOVE YOU BYE 🩷🩷

wait actually who’s watching Eurovision tonight?? I wanna talk about Eurovision’s downfall bro. What is this 💔

22) Do I Go Or Not

Silas’s POV

How do I change studios? How do I leave my whole life behind, change my name, move to another country, and start over like some wanted criminal?

Because after last night, I’m genuinely embarrassed to look in Victor’s direction ever again.

My head hurts like somebody used it as a football and I was the ball.

Why did they even let me drink that much? Jett is getting beaten up, non-ironically.

I mean it this time.

I push myself up and the whole room spins. I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

WHY DID HE LET ME FALL ASLEEP IN YESTERDAY’S CLOTHES.

In my clean bed.

Then again… no. Actually.

He couldn’t just undress me, obviously.

You know what, good.

Thank God he left me like this.

I look at the open Pokémon box beside me and immediately want to launch myself into the sea.

Why do I have this disease where I constantly reveal too much of myself? Why do I keep handing people pieces of me? I’m waiting for the day that stops.

—

I drag myself to the bathroom to become human again.

On the way, I spot a bag sitting on my table.

I walk over and look inside.

Three boxes. Cinnamon buns.

…

I’m so fucked.

I know I’m fully, deeply fucked when something Victor did makes me feel warm.

Victor. That Victor.

I open my chat with Vox.

ME:

• help

• how do i say thank you without actually saying thank you to someone i still don’t even know how i feel about?

VOX:

• do something nice too?

ME:

• like what

VOX:

• who are we talking about

ME:

• him.

• he got me cinnamon buns and drove me home while i was blackout drunk. without making a move or anything

VOX:

• And what’s the problem now?

ME:

• that i felt something at his house yesterday and i want to beat myself up for that

• i don’t know if it was the alcohol or me.

• how the fuck am i supposed to know if it was the alcohol or me

• and how do i thank him

VOX:

• Silabun, you’re overthinking it

• don’t go there for him. You don’t owe him closeness because he helped you.

• You don’t owe him anything just because he did the right thing.

• Bare minimum shouldn’t feel like a miracle.

I stare at the message. Because he’s right.

VOX:

• A text is enough if that’s all you want. Go only if it helps YOU understand what last night was. not because you feel guilty for him.

• see him sober. Say thank you.

• If your body says leave, listen to it and leave. If your body says stay, then stay.

• Neither answer is wrong. You decide in the moment what you feel.

My stomach feels weird.

Because that’s the thing, right? I know I don’t owe him anything.

But I also know I’m scared to go.

Scared because I don’t know if I want the answer. Scared because if it was just the alcohol, then okay.

Embarrassing. Fine. I survive.

But if it was actually me, then what??

Then what the hell do I do with that?

ME:

• I know I don’t owe him, and trust me i’m scared to go. Because I don’t know if I want to find out if it was the alcohol or not

• last chance. do I go or not

VOX:

• that’s your decision, not mine.

ME:

• okay. I’m going.

Now I actually have to get dressed, drag my hungover corpse out of the house, walk into his orbit sober, and see what’s still there when the alcohol is gone.

I’m driving.

Which is unfortunate, because there’s no traffic.

Nobody’s in my way. Everybody’s moving fast. There should’ve been traffic. There should’ve been some dramatic, miserable line of cars so I’d have time to think about what the hell I’m supposed to say to him.

What am I even doing with my hands? That’s my main concern right now.

What do hands do in situations like this? Do they just float around uselessly in the air? Do I shove them in my pockets and look like I’m being held hostage by my own life? Do I cross them and look defensive? Do I point at him? Do I casually die?

I look around while I drive.

Bakery.

That’s it. I’ll carry food. Fake casual.

Like, oh, I just happened to be in the neighborhood holding carbs.

Also, if I’m eating, maybe I won’t have to be one hundred percent focused on him.

Perfect.

I pull over and get out. I go into the bakery and buy three things because suddenly I can’t choose.

Then I see the sandwich he eats every morning at the shop.

Fuck it.

I get that too. The bastard earned it.

I get back in the car and check the time.

Nine.

Which means he’s probably just getting ready to head to the studio. He won’t have left yet.

Perfect timing. Perfect little test.

Time to find out whether tequila made him suddenly likable or whether I need a therapist and a priest.

I get out of the car and stand in front of his door.

Like we said.

If my body tells me to leave, I leave. If it doesn’t, I stay. And then later I cry because I stayed.

I ring the bell. I wait.

Four seconds pass.

Okay. He’s probably dead. That’s sad. I should leave.

Then the door opens.

Fuck me. I turn back and see him.

What the fuck.

He’s sweaty. Actually sweaty.

He’s wearing a tight black tank top and black shorts, and he looks like I interrupted him mid-workout or mid-ritual sacrifice.

Pickle immediately runs out and starts barking.

I set the bag down for a second and scoop him up.

“Hi, baby. I know, you missed me so much, yes you did.”

I pet him like a maniac while he licks my face. I put him back down and pick the food bag up again.

Victor is looking at me with this confused expression.

“Hey—”

“Don’t hey me.”

“What?” he asks.

I hate myself.

Why am I this awkward? Why is every cell in my body committed to ruining me?

I grab the bag with the sandwich just so I have something to do with my hands.

“Here.”

He takes it and looks inside. “This is safe for eating?”

I stare at him. “For eating what?”

“This,” he says, holding it up slightly.

I look at him. “You mean safe to eat.”

“Safe for eating.”

“Safe to eat.”

“Is it?” he asks.

I keep the straightest face possible.

“Actually no. I poisoned it right before I came.”

He nods once. “If you wanted me dead, you could’ve just said so. Murder creates a lot of police problems. You don’t want that.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.

I kill it fast.

“Okay, shut up. I was joking.”

“Your jokes are actually terrible.”

“Fuck you, Victor,” I mutter.

Then I swallow hard and look at him properly.

“I came to say… thank you. For yesterday.” My throat feels tight for no good reason. “And sorry for wasting your time with my bullshit,” I add, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t know if you actually had plans or something. So I’m saying it. Thank you. And sorry.”

And then neither of us says anything.

We just stand there. Looking at each other.

He pushes his hair back.

“Nothing required my time,” he says. “And it was nothing. Thank you for the sandwich. I’ll see you at the studio, then.”

Panic hits me in the spine and I catch the door before he can close it.

My heart is going insane.

I glance past him into the apartment. I see mirror pieces.

Papers. Tools. Glue.

A whole weird little Victor nest of things I don’t understand.

“I have free time,” I blurt. “I can stay and help you with that.”

---

I edited that while still dizzy from the surgery btw. I DO THIS FOR MY SQUAD I DO THIS FOR MY GANG.

RAAAA SILAS STAYED WHAT DO YOU THINK

Also, I want to say something.

I know the whole Vox thing might feel violating, and it is. I want you to know that I know what I’m doing, and I would never actually have Victor get extremely close to Silas while carrying a lie like that, because at that point Victor wouldn’t deserve forgiveness!

Also, as you can see, Vox doesn’t take advantage of Silas’s ignorance in moments where he easily could. Like in this chapter. He clearly gives him the right to choose. He doesn’t tell him, “go kiss him,” or “he’s good for you,” or anything like that.

He tells him, “If you feel like you need to leave, then leave.” He tells him, “You don’t owe him anything just because he did the bare minimum.”

So I hope that makes you not hate Victor!

Anyway, vote, because the next chapter is HELLA JUICY MUAHAHAHAH. I was kicking my feet.

23) This Is Foreplay

Silas’s POV

Shit. Shit.

This whole time I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do. I was trying to figure it out while I was talking to him, but I couldn’t land anywhere.

It’s like he went to close the door on purpose just to force me to find out what I actually wanted, and I hate him for that.

Because now I’m confirming to myself that last night was… something.

I don’t know what. But it was something.

“You sure?” he asks, almost hesitant.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” I say too fast. “I’m telling the truth. I just have free time and I can stay. That’s it.”

He nods. “Okay, then. I need help with this anyway.”

I nod way too many times and follow him inside.

He starts fanning himself with the hem of his shirt, clearly overheating.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you want water??”

“You look like YOU want water,” I say, laughing a little. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just overheating.”

I can see that.

On your chest.

On your jaw.

On your forehead.

On your arms.

You’ve made it painfully obvious that you’re overheating and at this point I’m almost gonna believe your body is doing it on purpose to pull me in.

Which will not work.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“Right,” he says. “Come here.”

I follow him into his room.

All the mirror pieces are still stacked off to the side.

I stare at them.

“Take your shoes off,” he says.

I kick them off and leave them by the wall. Then I look back at the mirrors.

“Where the fuck are you even putting all of these?”

He points straight up.

To the ceiling.

Right above his bed.

I look at him slowly. Then at the bed. Then back at him.

I drag my tongue over my teeth.

“You nasty motherfucker,” I say. “You didn’t seem like the type.”

He opens his arms like, and yet here we are.

I look back up at the ceiling.

“What? You wanna admire yourself mid-workout or what?”

He glances up too. “I just like seeing the action. It’s artistic.”

“Artistic my ass,” I say. “You just want to watch yourself fuck.”

He looks back at me. “You gonna help or what?”

I stare at him, deeply disappointed in every choice that led me here.

“I genuinely hope the mirror falls on your head while you’re doing it.”

I grab one end of the mirror. He takes the other.

Then we climb up onto his bed together.

And then we realize the most important thing.

We can’t reach the ceiling like this.

I look at him. “You do have a plan B, right?”

He thinks.

Then looks around the room.

I stare at him and exhale. I cannot believe this man doesn’t have a plan B.

“I cannot believe I have to sacrifice myself for your sex life,” I say. “Come here. And bend down.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I’m getting on your shoulders and putting your precious mirror on your precious ceiling. And if you drop me, I swear to God I will never speak to you again. I’m not kidding.”

He looks at me. “You can do that?”

“Never speak to you again? Yeah, how hard can it be?”

“I mean put the mirrors on the ceiling.”

“Oh. Well, we don’t have a choice. I weigh less than you, so I go up. Move.”

I flip the mirror carefully so we can put glue on the back.

I don’t know if I can trust him to hold me up there.

I don’t know if my spine would survive a fall.

I don’t even know why I’m agreeing to risk this in the first place.

Fuck you and your sex mirrors, Victor.

We spread the special glue all over the back.

“I go up first,” I say. “Then you hand me the mirror. Hold me properly.”

“I’ve got you. Don’t panic.”

Easy for him to say.

He kneels on the bed and I step closer.

“Give me your hands first, then swing your legs over,” he says.

He holds both hands out. I grab them for balance, then bring both my legs forward and settle onto his shoulders properly.

“Just so you know, I’m holding onto your head,” I tell him. “I have no other option.”

He nods once.

“Okay. First one,” I say.

He leans down carefully, picks up the mirror, and lifts it so I can take it.

“Please hold me well,” I say.

I don’t care if I sound pathetic. I want that very clear.

“You’re not falling,” he says, and then his hands clamp tight around my thighs beside his head.

That alone nearly kills me.

He already marked the placement points, so all I have to do now is line it up.

Which would be easier if this wasn’t a mirror.

Because, obviously, I can see him in it.

Victor’s head between my legs, looking up, holding my thighs tight so I don’t fall off his shoulders.

I exhale slowly.

What the fuck am I doing with my life.

“I want it straight,” he mutters.

“Shut up, Victor. I know what I’m doing.”

I press it into place and now all I can do is hold it there while the glue catches.

I stay still with my arms up. We’re both quiet for a second.

I look down. “This whole situation would not be happening if you weren’t a whore.”

“I’m not a whore. My body count is so low you can count it on one hand,” he says casually.

That makes me bend lower so I can actually see his face better.

He tilts his head up a little to look at me.

“Really?” I ask.

“Really.”

Wow.

Well.

That is not what I expected.

Not from him. Not from the man putting mirrors over his bed like a porn director.

“Holy shit,” I mutter. “Look at that. Something about you I didn’t predict.”

He keeps holding my legs.

“I don’t do crowds,” he says. “I prefer accuracy.”

I stare at him. “Did you just compare sex to darts?”

“No?”

“You did.”

I laugh under my breath, still holding the mirror in place. “You are so strange.”

I tighten my grip on the mirror. He smiles just a little.

“Okay,” I say after a second, arms starting to burn. “I think it’s sticking.”

“Good,” he says, hands still firm on my thighs. “Don’t move yet.”

“I know how glue works.”

“You were confident with darts too and then you hit my wall with one.”

“Victor, I’ll crush your head with my thighs,” I tell him.

“No, you won’t,” he says calmly. “Then you’d fall.”

“I don’t care.”

I’ve got one hand holding the mirror in place and the other fist twisted in his hair for balance. We wait there, stuck like this, while the glue does its thing.

“I think it’s fine now,” he says, looking up.

I look down at him through the mirror.

“What, you want the mirror falling on your head while you’re balls deep in someone?”

He thinks for half a second.

“That depends who I’m with,” he says, “and what they like in bed, I guess.”

I stare at him. “You’re sick.”

More time passes. We get all the pieces up.

He doesn’t complain once about my weight, or the awkward angle, or the fact that I’ve basically been using his head and shoulders like gym equipment.

He just holds me there.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Put me down.”

He lowers immediately and sets me down clumsily.

“Okay, maybe don’t manhandle me like furniture?”

“You needed help getting down. That’s what I did.”

“In this case,” I say, dusting off my shirt, “I would’ve preferred something more civilized. Not like I’m a sack of potatoes.”

“But you’re light.”

“Say that again and I’ll put you on your back.”

Victor smiles. “How?”

“I used to do jiu-jitsu. I can flip you even if you weigh more.”

He cracks his fingers once. “Show me.”

I look at his bed. “No. We’re gonna break your bed.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It can take it. This bed is built for pressure.”

We stand there facing each other on opposite sides of his mattress.

I point at him. “If I do this and you start crying, don’t blame me.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t think you can make me cry.”

“Wow. So humble.”

“What does the winner get if one of us pins the other?” I ask, looking straight at him.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “What do you want to win?” he asks.

“A tattoo,” I say. “If I win, I tattoo you. If you win, you tattoo me.”

His expression shifts just a little. “You don’t want that.”

I frown. “Why wouldn’t I want that? I do.”

He holds my stare for a second longer, checking if I’m bluffing.

Then he nods once. “Fine,” he says. “Winner tattoos the loser.”

He backs up on the bed and gestures me closer with one hand. “Come at me.”

I exhale hard through my nose.

God, I want to beat him up. Not actually beat him up-beat him up.

I want to win. I want to wipe that calm little look off his face.

Humble him. Fold him into the mattress and make him admit I’m stronger.

The problem is he’s standing there like he wants that too.

I reach for his wrist. He pulls back enough to make me miss.

“Too slow,” he says.

“Keep talking, I love motivational abuse.”

I grab for his arm and shoulder, aiming to turn him off balance, but this asshole is annoyingly solid.

He gives just enough to make me think I’m getting somewhere, then plants himself again.

I try to hook my leg around his and shift my hip into him.

His hand catches my waist.

I try to drive into him harder, using the little bit of momentum I’ve got, but he turns with me instead of against me and suddenly we’re stumbling across the bed together, tangled up.

I shove into him with my shoulder, trying to force him backward. He moves, but not enough.

“Fuck you, you’re heavy,” I snap.

“You said you can top me.”

He pushes forward again, harder this time.

I fall back on one hand but keep my foot planted against his hip before he can get over me. His body leans above mine for a second, too close, his shadow cutting across my face.

His mouth is right there.

Not close enough to be an accident, but still not far enough to feel like we won’t accidentally make out.

My breathing gets heavier.

Victor notices. “You okay?”

I shove my foot harder into his hip and twist out from under him before he can say anything else.

I catch his wrist, drag it across his body, and duck under his arm.

Bad idea.

Because now I’m low, and when he shifts to block me, my head ends up between his thighs.

Not in a fun way.

I freeze. Victor looks down.

My shoulder is pressed against the inside of his leg. One of my hands is still gripping his wrist.

His other hand hovers near my back like he doesn’t know if touching me right now will make the situation better or significantly worse.

I use the second he’s still looking at me to move.

I grab the back of his knee, shove my shoulder into his thigh, and pull his wrist across his body at the same time.

Victor’s balance goes. He drops to one hand on the mattress.

I scramble up before he recovers, sliding behind his arm, trying to take his back.

He turns fast.

Suddenly we’re chest to chest on our knees again, both of us breathing harder now, his hand wrapped around my wrist, my fingers caught in the fabric of his tank top.

His mouth is close again. Really close.

I can see the sweat at his throat. I can feel his breath against my cheek.

My brain is still suspiciously quiet. My body not so much.

Victor’s eyes drop to my mouth. For one second.

Then back up.

“Focus,” he says.

I laugh, breathless. “Go fuck yourself.”

He moves first. I move with him.

He tries to roll me sideways. I hook my leg around his, blocking the turn.

He grips my forearm and tries to peel me off.

I twist my wrist free and shove his shoulder back.

This time he actually gives ground. Just a little.

I hook my arm around his neck and pull him down, trapping his head against my chest before he can straighten.

Victor goes still.

Not because he can’t get out. I know he can get out, that’s the problem.

My heart is beating right against his face.

Fuck. He can probably hear it.

I push harder. He resists this time.

The mattress shifts beneath us, the frame groaning faintly.

I fake going for his wrist again, then switch directions and push my knee across his hip. He catches it immediately.

Damn it.

His hand wraps around my thigh to stop the pass.

I shove his shoulder. He shoves back.

We roll sideways.

For one second, he almost gets on top.

I panic, roll us again, ending up on top. This time I sit high on his chest, with my knees pinning his shoulders.

My dick is right in front of his face.

Mount. Finally.

Not pretty, but still a win.

I adjust myself lower, knees bracketing his hips now, one hand planted on his chest, the other grabbing for his wrist when he tries to move.

“No,” I breathe.

Victor looks up at me.

For the first time, he looks slightly less composed.

His hair is messy. His chest rises under my hand. His mouth is parted just a little.

He tries to lift one arm. I catch it and pin his wrist above his head.

He tries the other. I catch that one too.

Now both his wrists are pinned into the mattress above him, my hands around them, my body leaned forward to keep pressure.

I hate that with other people I flinch, I stiffen, and I count exits.

I always prepare for something bad before anything even happens.

But with Victor, I keep catching myself not minding.

Or worse, I catch myself wanting to be even closer.

Closer to the man who looks at me like he can see every thought before I even finish having it.

I don’t understand myself around him.

I don’t understand why his body doesn’t feel like threat first.

It should. He’s bigger than me. Stronger than me.

But when my hands are on his wrists, all I feel is this awful need to press harder.

My eyes drag down his arm.

Wrist.

Forearm.

Elbow.

Bicep.

Shoulder.

Back down again.

…

I want to bite him.

What the actual fuck.

Since when do I want that?

This is extremely new and I did not approve this update.

The position hits both of us at the same time.

I know because Victor stops moving.

Completely.

His eyes stay on mine.

My breathing is loud. His is controlled, but not as much as before.

Good. Let him suffer too.

“Down,” I say.

His gaze moves slowly over my face. “You worked for that.”

I swallow.

I hate that praise from him specifically feels extra rewarding.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

He flexes his wrists once under my hands.

I press down harder. “Don’t.”

I lean closer, because I’m stupid. “You’re already on your back, Victor. I won.”

His eyes drop to my mouth again.

This time they stay there half a second too long.

His voice comes lower. “Guess you’ll have to tattoo me now.”

His eyes flick toward the ceiling.

Then back to me. “Look.”

“No.”

“You really should.”

“I really, really should not.”

“You wanted proof.”

“I have proof. You’re pinned.”

“Then look.”

I hate myself, because I do.

I look up.

Us.

Me sitting on Acosta, holding his wrists above his head.

His black tank top stretched across his chest. My hair falling forward. My shirt slightly twisted from the fight. My knees pressing into the mattress beside his hips.

It does not look like training. Jesus Christ.

Jiu-jitsu is gayer than being gay.

And I’m saying that as someone who is aggressively, professionally gay.

There is something deeply wrong with a sport where another man can put his whole body on top of you, trap your wrists, breathe into your face, and everyone is supposed to clap and call it technique.

Technique my ass. This is sex with rules.

I don’t know who invented this, but I need to speak to him.

I need to know what happened in his life that made him look at two men rolling around on the floor with their legs tangled, faces too close, hands gripping thighs and waists, and go, yes, bravo, THIS is discipline.

No, sir. This is foreplay.

---

Come on you have to vote I had to do Jiu jitsu research for this 💔

Also sorry for posting late oops. I was sleeping, so my stitched up boobie had more time to heal

Also you have no idea what’s coming next omg I’m so evil. It’s about Silas’s PAST :)))))

24) S’ Breaks Easily

Victor’s POV

We finished all the tattoos we had for today, and now we’re finally outside by the entrance, having a cigarette.

I feel wrong after what happened at my house today.

Split open down the middle.

Because on one side, I’m happy.

I know what it means that you stayed. I know how much it says without saying anything at all.

And on the other side, I feel sick for the exact same reason.

Because I know what it means that you stayed.

And I should not know that. That’s the part eating through me.

I should only know what Victor knows. What you gave Victor.

What you showed him with your own stupid drunk honesty.

That should be the full limit of what I’m allowed to understand from you in that room.

But it isn’t. Because I’m not just Victor.

And every second I’m with you now, I can feel that other name rotting under my skin.

Vox.

That faceless version of me you trusted first.

So while you were in my house, I wasn’t just reading the moment as the man in front of you.

I was reading it as Vox too.

Every little thing you did touched two versions of me at once.

Victor saw you stay. Vox knew what staying actually meant.

We’ve become such a mess.

Every good thing from you lands dirty now because of it. Even when it’s real and beautiful.

Because the second I let myself enjoy it, another thought comes crawling in right behind it.

You don’t deserve this side of him.

That’s what’s been scratching at me all day.

You do not deserve the good side of Silas while standing there half-buried in a lie.

And yeah, I know, technically I haven’t lied with words.

Not directly… I didn’t look you in the face and invent a new life.

I just… let things keep happening.

I let you keep giving to one version of me while another one stood there with his hands in his pockets pretending that was survivable.

That’s worse, maybe.

Because it makes me feel like a thief with manners.

Like I’m not breaking into your house, I’m just standing politely in the doorway while watching someone else do it.

It’s eating me alive.

I go home after seeing you and I can’t even enjoy the memory the way I want to, because every good second has a hook in it now.

You in my house. Hook.

You on my shoulder. Hook.

You hugging me. Hook.

You asking me to stay. Hook.

You showing me those stupid fucking Pokémon. Hook.

Everything hurts twice now.

Once because I want it so badly. And once because I don’t know if I’ve earned any of it.

I don’t know if I deserve your softness when I’m still hiding the full truth from you.

And yes, I know why I’m hiding it. I know all the reasons.

I know exactly what could happen if I tell you wrong or too soon.

I know you could look at me and feel humiliated and tricked.

I know you could hate me.

I know all of that.

Still. It doesn’t stop the guilt.

You’re trusting one person and slowly opening to another, and they’re both me, and you don’t know it.

How am I supposed to feel normal about that? I can’t.

I can’t even enjoy being happy like a normal person.

But I also can’t stop looking at you.

Even now.

I want to say “your eyes are insane, I could stare at them for hours,” but I know you will get weird about it.

You hate compliments about your eyes.

You say it feels old-fashioned if you just say, “I like your eyes.”

Hearing that from you hurt my feelings. Because people used to make fun of me for that.

I liked old things.

Old ways of doing things, actually. Old ways of… wanting.

I’d say something normal to me, like if I like someone I want to walk them home.

I want to make sure they get inside safely. I want to open the door.

I want to sit there and listen when they talk, even if they’re talking about something stupid, because it matters if it matters to them.

They’d look at me like I was saying something embarrassing, like I’d confessed I write poetry with a feather pen and cry over rain.

They’d say shit like, “bro, it’s not 2005 anymore.”

Or, “you’re acting like somebody’s husband and you haven’t even slept with them yet.”

As if wanting to care for someone before touching them was outdated.

I never understood why it was funny. Still don’t.

Why is it embarrassing to want things slowly?

Why do people act like the only modern way to want someone is with one hand already under their shirt and one foot already out the door?

That always felt cheap to me.

Not sex itself, I’m not stupid.

I’m definitely not made of church bells. I know very well what my body does. I know exactly what wanting feels like.

I know what it is to look at someone and think filthy things.

But I can only feel these things if I’m emotionally there too.

That made them say that if I kept acting like this I’d scare people off before I even got started.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I do scare people.

But I never learned how to want in that lighter way.

I never learned how to split affection from responsibility.

I don’t know how to do half-care. I don’t know how to look at someone I want and think, yeah, I’ll just take what I can get and disappear before morning.

That’s not in me.

I would rather be mocked for wanting too deeply than become one of those men who call detachment maturity.

“So?”

Silas asks it while blowing smoke from his mouth, and my thoughts scatter.

He pulls both feet up onto the chair and plants his elbows on his knees.

I’m sitting on the low ledge in front of him, lower down.

“Where are you getting the tattoo?” he asks.

I look down for a second. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something when the time comes.”

He studies me. “Okay. I’m doing you a favor and making time for you after work. Come to my place.”

I look at him immediately.

“What?” he asks, blowing smoke again. “Bring Pickle too. So he’s not alone.”

I smile.

Our Pickle.

“Okay,” I tell him.

Then I remember. “Oh,” I say, slipping my hand into my pocket. “I have something for you.”

He gives me a flat look. “Is it a psychiatrist’s card? No thanks.”

I stand up and place the Pokémon figure beside his ashtray.

“You were missing this one.”

He puts his cigarette out and picks the figure up carefully.

“Oh, no way,” he says, smiling a little.

He turns it over in his fingers. His whole face changes.

“Where did you find this??” he asks, suddenly excited.

“I got it in Spain,” I tell him. “I told you, I like them too.”

He keeps looking at it, then laughs under his breath in disbelief.

It’s my favorite one.

And I thought no one on earth could make me give it away.

But I’m not telling him that. Obviously not.

Because I know him.

The second I tell him it’s my favorite, he’ll start protesting, whining, trying to give it back, acting all offended on my behalf.

So I let him think it’s just one of many.

Because I would still rather it be with him, mixed in with all the others, than sitting with me alone.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I shrug like it’s nothing. “Is he joining the Elite Citizens?” I ask.

He looks up at me and starts laughing. “Oh my God, stop. I’m never drinking again.”

I laugh too, mostly because he is.

And then, suddenly, I see a man coming toward us from behind him.

He’s tall. Too much body hair. Too many tattoos.

And a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Silas catches the direction of my stare and turns to look too.

Then he turns back around.

His foot starts bouncing.

The color starts draining out of his face little by little. He turns his head the other way.

The guy comes closer and drops into the chair beside him.

Silas stays turned away.

The guy looks like he’s on something.

I don’t know if it’s alcohol or pills or both, but it’s something.

His eyes are wrong.

His whole body has that loose confidence people get when they drink too much.

He looks at Silas and laughs a little. “Oh, come on,” he says. “Don’t be like that, love!”

Silas doesn’t answer. And my heart starts beating faster.

Because I’ve never seen him this tense before.

Every muscle in him looks like it’s bracing for impact.

I hate it instantly. Which means I hate this man instantly too.

“Adam, leave.”

My eyes widen a little and I turn slowly toward him.

Adam. I know the name Adam.

It’s come up too many times in our chats as Vox.

Never cleanly, I don’t know the whole story, but I know enough to understand that Adam is not a great person.

I don’t know exactly what he did. But I know he did something.

And the second I see Silas’s face when he sits down, I know I was right.

He’s defensive.

And I hate not knowing why. I hate that his body knows something I don’t.

“Leave? Now??” Adam says. “I just got here! Come on, I even brought you flowers. Since I didn’t get the chance to bring them to the hospital.”

He offers the bouquet.

Silas takes it and immediately throws it into the trash can beside him.

Adam laughs under his breath. “Okay. Rude .”

He glances at me for one second, then around the shop.

“Nice little place you made,” he says, fake cheerful. “I see it on Instagram. Lot of people. Busy.”

Neither of us says anything.

“I’m glad your accident didn’t stop you from tattooing, Silas.”

My whole body goes cold.

Accident. Hospital.

The way Silas is sitting. The way Adam is smiling.

He must be one of them. The one who did something to him.

Something serious enough to put him in a hospital.

Something serious enough to still make his whole body lock up just from seeing him.

I look at Adam again.

I just met him and already I know I’d enjoy watching his teeth hit the floor.

Then he looks at me.

“Sorry, man,” Adam says. “I was hoping we could talk a little… alone. Me and Silas.”

He looks between the two of us.

“You catching the hint? Could you maybe give us a minute? Come on. Up.”

“No, he can’t,” Silas says sharply. “Victor stays right there.”

Adam laughs. Raises both hands and leans back. “Alright then. Let him hear it. Since you want an audience.”

I look at Silas. His eyes are glassy.

Adam turns back toward him. “I came to see how your back is doing,” he says. “I heard recovery’s been rough.”

“I don’t want your concern,” Silas says.

Adam tilts his head, enjoying this. “I heard you haven’t had sex since… then,” he says casually. “That true?”

Oh, Adam. You’re drunk.

You have no idea what you’re doing. You think you’re hurting Silas right now.

And you are. I can see it.

But you don’t understand that while you’re trying to make him hurt, you’re hurting yourself too.

You’re giving me information.

Every sentence that comes out of your mouth tells me something new.

You are telling me where to look. You are telling me which words matter. You are telling me what still hurts.

And you don’t even know you’re doing it.

Your confidence is going to damage you. Just not right now.

Not in front of him.

If I do anything now, if I let my hands become what they want to become, then this becomes about me.

My violence.

“What?” he says. “We can’t talk about it now??”

Silas finally turns his head. “I said leave.”

“Yeah, you said a lot of things back then too.”

My fingers twitch once.

Adam looks at me. “Is this one just here to play guard dog?”

Guard dog.

Yes, actually.

If I were a better man, I would hate being reduced to that. I would feel insulted.

But I don’t. Because I would be a dog for him and I know it.

“He asked you to leave,” I say.

Adam looks at me, then laughs. “ Oh , he speaks.“

Silas turns his eyes toward me.

I look at Adam.

Fuck you. I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of exploding in front of him.

I’m not going to smash your face into the concrete, or do any of the things I’m imagining right now.

I’m not going to let Silas see that side of me tonight.

I want to do terrible things to you. Really terrible things.

I could do them. I could make you wish you were never born.

But I won’t.

I’m not going to traumatize Silas even more just so I can feel better for five minutes.

I’m not that far gone yet. I can control myself.

I can listen to what Luna told me. I can get out of here.

I can go inside, close the door, and keep myself away from you.

Because that’s what matters right now.

Not my revenge. Protecting him.

I glance at Silas. His leg is still bouncing like crazy.

I don’t feel well.

Luna said leave. Luna said if I feel it coming, I have to leave the situation.

My heart starts beating faster.

I spent years trying to bury this version of myself. The one that wants to smash his head against the table until his skull splits open.

The one that wants to drag him into the alley and make him scream the way Silas probably screamed when this fucker broke him.

I don’t want to be this person again.

I fought so fucking hard to not be this person.

I went to therapy. I took the pills. I did the breathing shit. I did everything they fucking told me so I wouldn’t become the violent freak I used to be.

And now Adam is here, one sentence away from making me throw it all away.

I look at Silas. He’s pale, and it’s killing me.

I want to grab him, throw him over my shoulder and run. I want to put myself between him and this garbage human.

But if I move, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.

I hate this. I hate that they made me like this. I hate that one pathetic excuse of a man can drag me back to the edge so easily.

I’m not going to let him ruin me again. But God… it’s so fucking hard right now.

Every word he says makes me want to paint the sidewalk with his blood.

I stand up. Take a deep breath.

“Silas,” I say, too fast. “I’m going inside. Are you coming?”

He stands immediately. He trusts the exit I’m giving him.

I walk toward the entrance, cutting across Adam’s side on purpose.

I don’t touch Silas, but I put my body exactly where it needs to be.

Between them.

I don’t let Adam have a line to him.

Silas follows. Good.

We’re leaving. This is control.

This is what Mrs. Luna meant.

Leave the space. Get out. Don’t sit in the middle of it and hope it burns itself out.

I’m doing it.

This is it. I’m fucking doing it.

Then Adam starts laughing behind us.

“Fucking dog,” he says.

I keep walking.

“Make sure he doesn’t arch his back too much,” he smiles. “S’ breaks easily.”

My body turns before my mind catches up.

25) I’m Sorry

Victor’s POV

I grab Adam by the throat with one hand and twist his head violently with the other, slamming my fist into the side of his skull.

He stumbles. I don’t let him fall, I throw him down onto the concrete with every ounce of rage in my body. I’m on top of him before he can even breathe.

I start hitting him.

Every single hit is for every time he put his hands on Silas.

My knuckles are splitting open but I don’t feel the pain yet. I feel nothing except this burning, obsessive need to erase him.

I know I need to stop, but my body won’t listen. My arms keep moving like they belong to someone else. I’m slamming my fist into Adam’s face again and again.

He pushes me hard and clocks me right in the jaw.

My head snaps back. I taste blood instantly.

The metallic taste floods my mouth and it makes me even angrier.

I spit it out and press my knee into his ribs with all my weight.

He screams. The sound is so good it makes me smile.

Yeah… scream. Scream louder.

I can make your spine hurt twice as bad as Silas’s.

I can break every bone you have.

Jett is suddenly behind me, grabbing my shoulders, trying to pull me off.

“Dude, Victor! Chill the fuck out!”

I shrug him off violently. I can’t stop now. I literally cannot stop. My body is moving on its own, driven by this obsessive rage that has completely taken over.

I still hate it. I hate myself and I hate what I’m becoming right now in front of Silas.

But every punch is another memory of Silas being trapped.

Every drop of blood on my hands is proof that I failed to protect him.

Actual sobs are mixing with the blood on my face.

Silas is watching. I know I’m becoming the exact person I swore I would never be again.

I feel someone grab me from behind with serious fucking force, trying to yank me off.

It’s a cop.

“Get off him! Now!”

I freeze instantly.

I raise both hands high in the air before the cop even finishes the sentence.

Blood is dripping from my knuckles, running down my arms.

Adam sees his chance.

He snarls and lunges at me again, grabbing me by the throat and slamming his hand over my face, trying to choke me.

His fingers dig into my mouth and nose.

I bite down as hard as I can on his hand.

He screams like a fucking animal. The sound is raw and high-pitched. He rips his hand away instantly.

Another cop tackles him from the side and slams him face-down on the ground. I hear the click of handcuffs.

My whole body is on fire. My face is burning where he grabbed me, my ribs are screaming, my hands are shredded.

The street has turned into complete chaos.

People are pouring out of the bars nearby. Phones are out everywhere, recording, flashing, pointing at me.

A girl is screaming. Two more cops are running toward us. Someone in the crowd shouts “holy shit, he bit him!” and people start laughing nervously.

I can hear the whispers: “that’s the tattoo guy” “he just lost it” “look at all that blood”

Some phrases I don’t even understand fully.

I turn my head slowly and look for Silas.

He’s standing a few feet away, pale as a ghost, staring at the blood in front of him.

That look destroys me more than any punch Adam landed.

The cop behind me is saying something but I can’t hear him and process what he’s saying over the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my own heart.

All I can think is that I did it again.

And now the whole fucking street is watching the freak show I just put on.

We are at the station. Behind bars.

But at least Adam is too.

He is on the other side, sitting there with blood on his face and cuffs around his wrist.

Silas is standing in front of me on the outside of the bars, carefully holding a tissue under my bleeding nose while Jett and Poppy talk to the officer a few steps away.

I can feel the blood still trying to come down.

I keep looking past him. At Adam.

Now I’m angry for two reasons.

Because he hurt Silas.

And because he made me break a nine-year streak.

Nine fucking years.

I had not touched another person like that since then.

Not physically.

Maybe verbally. I can be cruel. I know that. I can cut people with my mouth when I want to.

But not physically. I kept that locked down.

For nine years, I kept that thing in me on a leash.

And Adam walked in with flowers, said three sentences, and somehow ripped it right out of my hands.

Then I realize.

My family.

Mrs. Luna.

My little sister.

My mother.

The organizer.

If they find out what happened, I’m finished.

They’ll all look at me the same way again.

That afraid look will come back.

The one that says, there he is. We knew he was still in there.

They’ll want me back in Spain.

In that same cycle.

Same pills. Same tests. Same soft tone. Same questions. Same fucking pity. Same appointments. Same miserable little room. Same tape where I explain what happened before and during and after.

I don’t want to go back there.

I don’t want to sit across from people who think I’m an incident waiting for a place to happen.

I don’t want my mother crying quietly in the kitchen again.

I don’t want my sister looking at me like she’s scared I’m going to disappear into myself and never come back.

I don’t want Mrs. Luna to hear my voice on the phone and already know.

I don’t want the organizer using that fake-calm voice like he’s trying to protect the brand while deciding how much of me is still profitable.

I don’t want any of it.

My eyes sting harder.

Fuck.

I lift my finger and tap Silas lightly.

Tap tap.

He turns to me immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He leans closer.

He looks at Adam. Then back at me.

“What you did doesn’t exactly bother me,” he says quietly.

My throat closes.

“But the place you chose to do it bothers me.”

I nod.

Because he’s right. He’s completely right.

His studio. With blood outside the entrance.

LINEA INK with people whispering and filming and posting and turning his place into a scene.

I did that. Maybe Adam started it, maybe every single person there knows he pushed first, but still.

My hands were the ones they recorded.

My body was the one on top of him.

My anger is the thing people will remember first.

“I know,” I whisper.

I don’t know if I protected him or made everything worse.

Maybe both.

Maybe I gave Adam exactly what he wanted. A show.

Proof that being near Silas turns people unstable, and proof that his past can still walk into his present and ruin the whole fucking room.

Maybe I took a moment that should have belonged to Silas and made it about me and my control.

I look at Adam again and hate him so much my eye twitches.

Then I look back at Silas and hate myself more.

He presses the tissue a little closer under my nose.

“Hold this yourself for a while,” he mutters.

I take it from him.

Our fingers touch for half a second. My whole body notices.

Jett glances back at us from the officer. Poppy looks like she cried and then got angry about crying.

Adam shifts across from me.

The chain on his cuffs makes a tiny sound.

Jett comes toward us. “Silas,” he says, “can I have one minute with the dartist?”

I look at Silas.

Silas looks at Jett.

Then he lifts both hands like he’s too tired to argue with either of us.

“Sure,” he mutters. “I’ll go tell my new tragic life story to the cop. Bye.”

He walks away.

Jett waits until Silas is far enough not to hear us clearly, then turns back to me.

For once, he is not smiling.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower now. “First of all, that was scary as fuck.”

I don’t answer.

“Deserved,” he adds immediately, pointing at me through the bars. “But scary as fuck. Like, listen, I got mad too when Silas told me about Adam, okay? I wanted to break his face too. But damn. Your reaction was… something.”

My whole body goes still.

“What did he tell you about Adam??” I ask.

Jett’s face changes. “You don’t… know?”

“No,” I say. “Tell me.”

He stares at me.

“You’re behind bars and you don’t even know why???”

I don’t answer. Because what am I supposed to say?

That I saw Silas go pale and my brain decided details were optional???

Jett drags a hand down his face. “Wow,” he whispers.

Then he looks at me again.

And I see the exact second his brain catches up.

His eyes widen.

He gasps.

Then he steps closer to the bars like he just found the missing piece in a murder board.

“Holy shit,” he whisper-shouts. “You like Silas, don’t you?”

I look at him.

He looks like he wants to laugh, scream, and slap me all at once.

“Dude,” he hisses. “You like him like that??”

Before I can say anything, an officer walks up and puts a hand between Jett and the bars.

“Step back.”

Jett moves back, still staring at me like I’m the world’s most concerning plot twist.

The officer unlocks the cell.

“You’re leaving,” he says to me. Then he glances toward the other cell. “He stays. We checked his record.”

The officer opens the door.

“Still,” he says, “I’d strongly suggest you calm the hell down. The marks you left on him aren’t exactly… scratches .”

I nod. My throat feels raw.

“Sorry.”

He gives me back my things. I unlock my phone.

Messages.

Calls.

Too many.

My whole screen is a disaster.

LUNA:

• We need to restart sessions as soon as possible.

• I’m not angry.

• But we cannot ignore this, Victor.

• Call me when you are alone.

ORGANIZER:

• What the hell, man??

• There are videos everywhere.

• What am I supposed to tell sponsors??

• Do you understand how bad this looks?

• Call me NOW.

LEO:

• You are genuinely the most exhausting person I’ve ever had the misfortune of sharing DNA with.

• Do you know how humiliating it is to have your face right now?

• Maybe stop chasing pretty boys and start chasing a fucking psychiatrist.

MOM:

• Victor, answer me.

• Please.

• I saw something online.

• Tell me you are okay…

• Tell me you did not get arrested.

• Baby, please.

DAD:

• Vic?

• It’s Luciana.

• Mom is crying…

ORGANIZER:

• Sponsors are asking questions.

• You need to make a statement.

• Do NOT post anything.

• Do NOT talk to anyone.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

• Is this Victor Acosta?

• We are reaching out regarding footage circulating online.

My eyes burn instantly.

I destroyed everything.

---

Ughhh i don’t know how I feel about these. I don’t even care if you don’t vote oop.

I specialize in yearning, not fights bro😔

BTW Victor’s reaction in today’s chapter was never meant to be “I don’t give a fuck about Silas, I’m gonna fight this dude.”

His issue is that his neurological responses are abnormally fast and poorly regulated His body enters fight mode before his brain fully evaluates what’s happening. The emotional realization comes afterward which is also why the guilt destroys him later. Imagine living with your own nervous system constantly being faster than your ability to emotionally process things correctly. That’s literally one of Victor’s biggest tragedies as a character.

I’m not trying to romanticize it or excuse it, btw. I just wanted to write a character whose brain genuinely functions differently instead of making him “cold” or “crazy” for drama.

And sorry if anything isn’t 100% medically accurate. I did a LOT of research while building Victor, but I’m still a writer, not a neurologist😭

Anyway next update probably on monday, it will be a fat, juicy chapter from Silas’s POV.

I have writer’s block now tho, so i feel sad

26) Kiss It Better

Silas’s POV

I’m driving my car and Victor’s next to me, still holding tissues to his face.

I keep looking between him and the road and swallowing.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

He thinks about it.

“No.”

I glance at him. “No?”

“I’m being sarcastic, you’re being dumb.”

I look at him with my mouth open. He’s laughing, but his hands are still shaking.

I see it. I just don’t say anything. I don’t want to point it out.

I’m still in shock too, and if I start talking too much I might actually cry.

Because I’ve got a man sitting next to me with someone else’s blood on his hand, and instead of running from him, I want to sit him down somewhere quiet and make him talk.

Maybe that makes both of us a little wrong.

But tonight made something click in my head.

It wasn’t violence by itself that made me hate a person.

It was the person.

I’ve felt more threatened by men with soft voices and clean hands than I did by Victor standing there with blood on his hands.

Sometimes the real fear is the guy smiling at you gently while he teaches your body how to panic, and then actually makes it suffer for it.

I look at him again.

“I’m guessing you don’t have what you need at home to take care of that,” I say.

“I do,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Just drop me at my place.”

I bite my lip. “I’m coming with you.”

He turns his head and looks at me.

I look back, suddenly nervous. “If you want,” I add quickly. “To help.”

“Go rest, Silas.”

“No. I’m coming.” I grip the wheel tighter. “Not for you. I just want to see Pickle.”

He laughs and rubs his jaw.

Then I turn toward his place.

The second he opens the door, Pickle starts bouncing with all the strength in his tiny body.

I laugh a little, mostly to break the mood from the car.

“Does your dog even know he exists?” I ask, petting him. “He’s tiny. I want to steal him.”

Victor closes his phone and rubs his eyes.

Yeah. Something is definitely wrong on his side after what happened.

He looks too calm. Way too calm, considering he’s probably about to have to explain this whole mess to 1.2 million people.

If it were me, I’d already be folded into a corner crying.

“Bring me whatever you’ve got,” I say. “I’m helping you clean the cuts.”

“I can do it,” he says.

“Your hands are open everywhere,” I tell him. “I’m helping.”

He pauses, then nods. “Okay.”

He disappears down the hall.

I pick Pickle up and sit on the floor in front of the couch with him in my lap.

“Your daddy is very weird, you know that?” I whisper to him.

He licks my face.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” I murmur. “But you can’t tell him, okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just starts sniffing all over my neck.

Victor comes back from the hall and lowers himself onto the couch right in front of me.

Not easily, though. I see it in the way his body moves.

I see it on his face too, even if he tries to hide it.

“Where does it hurt?” I ask.

“Here,” he says, touching his side. “And here,” he rubs his neck.

I look at him. And shame hits me all over again.

Then anger.

Because I’m so fucking tired of Adam leaving marks on bodies.

“Take your shirt off,” I say. “So I can clean you up.”

He grips the hem of his shirt with both hands and pulls it over his head.

I know this is not the time.

I know.

But my eyes still drop for a second. To his chest. To his arms.

Then I snap out of it the moment I see the bruised side of his ribs and…

Jesus.

Nail marks on his neck.

I drag a hand over my face. The guilt is going to eat me alive.

“Give me your hand,” I mutter.

He gives it to me immediately.

I turn it over carefully and look at the cuts across his knuckles.

“What the hell are your bones made of?” I ask. “Concrete?”

I press the pad to the first cut.

He inhales through his nose and stares at the wall behind me.

I narrow my eyes. “Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” I press a little harder to clean the blood properly. “The whole silent suffering statue thing. I know it hurts.”

“It’s manageable.”

I drag the antiseptic across a deeper scrape and his entire face changes.

His eyebrows pull together. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second. His fingers curl against mine. There.

Pain.

I stop immediately.

“You okay?”

He opens his eyes again.

“Yeah.”

When I finish wrapping his hand, I tap the bandage lightly.

“There. Try not to beat anyone else with this for at least twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll try.”

Now I lean in and start cleaning his side as gently as I can before I press the ice to it.

His skin is burning. Like, actually burning.

I lower the waistband of his pants a little so I can get the ice pack properly against the bruised side of his ribs, then press it there with my hand.

A rough sound comes out of him before he can stop it.

My entire body reacts.

He presses a hand against his ribs and breathes through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

I stare at him.

Not because I like that he’s hurt.

I don’t. Obviously I don’t.

I want Adam’s face rearranged again every time Victor winces because those marks came from him.

But the sound. The sound did something.

It dragged heat down my spine.

I reach back awkwardly for some paper towels because the cold is making everything drip, and before I can grab them, he puts his hand over mine on the ice to keep it steady.

Half his hand over mine.

And then Pickle comes over, does one tiny circle, and casually sits right on Victor’s lap.

I laugh. Victor smiles too.

“Jesus, Pickle, he’s yours, I’m not stealing him,” I say. “Overprotective little creature.”

I take a closer look at him.

“Your dog is trying to eat medical supplies.”

Victor looks down.

Pickle has a cotton ball in his mouth.

“Pickle,” Victor says.

Pickle freezes.

Guilty.

I snatch it from him.

“No, baby. Don’t eat random stuff. Have you seen the vet prices? You are already expensive enough.”

Victor laughs a little harder at that.

And then his lip starts bleeding again from the pull of it.

“Oh, shit,” I say.

I grab a piece of cotton, pour a little antiseptic on it, and lean in closer.

With one hand I carefully take his jaw, thumb near his chin, and with the other I start cleaning the cut on his lip.

I swallow.

My face is on fire.

His is only inches away.

He lets out this soft little sound of pain when I touch the bottom lip.

“Oh, shut up,” I mutter under my breath. “It barely touched you.”

“It burns,” he says.

I look at him.

Then I lean in and blow gently over his lip, still holding his jaw.

So now, yeah, maybe his lip burns less. Unfortunately, the rest of me burns more.

His lip twitches. I smile a little.

Then I look up at him. “Better?”

He nods.

I exhale through my nose. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better.”

“Hold it longer.”

“I’m already holding it.”

“Use more pressure.”

“I’m not trying to kill your mouth, Victor.”

“Put ice on it.”

“And freeze your lip off? No.”

“Antiseptic again.”

“I already did that.”

“Kiss it better.”

I look at him.

My face starts burning even more in under a second.

“What?”

“You’ve got the face for it,” he says. “Kiss it better.”

I look down immediately.

Talking about a kiss when your mouth is inches from mine should genuinely be a crime.

It does not take much.

It really, really does not take much to let the intrusive thoughts win when I’m already this close, already touching his jaw, already staring at that split lip.

I can feel how close we are now in a way that’s suddenly unbearable.

His breath. My hand on his face. My own pulse humiliating me.

I don’t even know where to look. His mouth feels dangerous now.

If I look too long I’ll do something catastrophically stupid and then we’ll both have to pretend it never happened.

He watches me for one more second.

“I’m kidding,” he says.

“Psycho,” I mutter.

I pull my hand back from his jaw and toss the cotton aside harder than necessary, trying to act like my body didn’t forget how to function for five full seconds.

“Want to go smoke?” he asks.

I nod once.

Because yeah. If I stay this close to him any longer, I’m either going to say something embarrassing or do something even more embarrassing.

I head for the balcony.

“We’re not going to the balcony,” he says. “Follow me.”

I do.

He leads me out of the apartment, up another flight, and onto the roof.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder and suddenly all of Las Vegas is there, glittering.

He walks right toward the edge and looks down.

I sit on the ground instead.

He comes over and sits to my left, then looks over the side again like he’s got no sense of self-preservation and was born without the fear gene.

“I hope you fall,” I say.

He immediately makes a move like he’s about to.

And my stupid fucking hand, without even checking with my brain first, shoots out and grabs him back.

My eyes go wide. “How the fuck did you do that?”

He looks at my hand on him and then at me.

“I’m helping you see what you actually want,” he says. “It worked, see? You don’t want me to actually fall.”

“Give me a lighter right now.”

He takes one out and lights my cigarette for me.

I drag in smoke and let it out slowly.

He does the same, then drops backward onto the rooftop.

I look at him from the corner of my eye. “You don’t care that your clothes are getting dirty?”

“I’m covered in blood,” he says. “A little more dust won’t hurt. It’s worth it. Try it.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I look ahead again and take another drag.

“Okay, I’ll try it. Not because you said so. I’m just curious.”

“Sure,” he says.

So I let myself fall back too.

And for a second there’s just black sky above me.

No ceiling. No walls.

No mirrors.

Just nothing.

I don’t say anything, I just smoke. Then he turns his head and looks at me.

“Silas?”

“Hm?”

“I’m really sorry for earlier. And for filling your entrance with blood and… making you see what you saw.”

I take another drag and shrug.

“If it makes you feel any better, you didn’t hit an innocent person. So you’re not a complete asshole.”

“What do you mean?”

I don’t answer. My eyes start burning.

I’m tired of not saying anything. I’m tired of swallowing every ugly thing and letting it rot inside me like that’s somehow healthier than talking.

Sometimes saying nothing is worse than oversharing.

Sometimes silence is just another way to keep bleeding without making a mess.

I roll the cigarette between my fingers.

“I mean he’s done enough damage that I can watch him get beaten and feel nothing,” I say.

He goes a little more upright beside me. Like he’s concerned.

Which is shocking, I know.

“Talk to me.”

That makes my eyes sting even more. I don’t even know why.

Maybe because I keep expecting people to want something ugly from me.

Maybe because I don’t know what to do when someone sounds like they actually want to hear me without twisting it into something else.

Maybe I’m so used to people wanting something from me that this feels fake.

Now I’m angry at myself too.

“You know what I hate?” I say, trying so hard to keep my voice steady. “That he did shit to me and somehow I’m the one walking around feeling disgusting after. I’m the one who has to live with guilt, like I’m difficult, like I’m too sensitive, like I’m cold and impossible.”

Victor stays quiet. I can feel him listening.

“You’re not the first person Adam left actual marks on,” I say. “Not even close.”

His voice stays low. “Show me.”

I laugh once. “So you can make fun of me?”

He turns his head more toward me. “Why would I make fun of you?”

“Because it’s ugly.”

“The fact that it’s ugly doesn’t give me the right to mock it.”

That does something terrible to me. Because I wish I’d heard that more often.

Something so simple, so obvious, and still somehow it feels huge.

My eyes fill.

Fuck it.

I pull my shirt off for the first time in front of anyone besides Jett.

My hands shake a little while I do it.

And the whole time I’m praying I’m not making the wrong choice.

I turn my back to him.

Now he’s face to face with it.

The ugly scar that runs all the way down my spine.

Top to bottom. One long line splitting my back in two.

I start tearing up harder just knowing there are eyes on it right now.

That someone is looking at it.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just looks.

“Did he do that?” he asks.

“His hand pushed me,” I say. “That’s what caused the fall. So yeah. I guess that makes him guilty.”

“Why?”

I don’t answer right away.

But for the first time, it feels like I physically can’t keep it in anymore, no matter how humiliating it is.

“We were at a party, few days before the tattoo competition in January,” I say. “It was around Christmas. I was sitting with some friends of Kaiser’s from Canada. We were just there, drinking. A lot.”

I swallow.

“At the same time, this guy nearby kept looking at me. A lot. And my drunk ass flirted back, because how was I supposed to know?”

I glance over my shoulder to see if Victor’s still listening.

He is.

His chin is resting in his palm. Eyes on the scar.

So I turn away again, because somehow it’s easier to say it when I don’t have to look at him.

“At some point I had to piss, so I went to the bathroom. And he followed me. Him and some of his friends. I thought he just liked me, because he’d been circling me for days.”

I laugh once, bitter.

“Apparently my studio had been stealing their clients. I knew they wanted something from me. I just didn’t know what.”

I feel my throat closing.

“Then they locked the door behind them.”

I stop. Because I can still hear it.

“That click—” I say, wiping my cheek, “the second I heard the lock click, everything clicked in my head too.”

More tears come and I get pissed off instantly.

I wipe at them harder, but that just makes more come and now I’m losing the fight with my own face and I fucking hate it.

“Hey,” he says.

His hand taps my shoulder gently.

“Don’t force it back down. Let it be ugly.”

I turn and look at him.

He opens his arms.

I look at them for one second. Then I go.

I wrap my arms around his neck and that somehow makes it worse.

I hold on tighter and bury my face in the side of his neck.

He rubs my back slowly.

“Touch was my thing,” I say, full of anger now, voice breaking. “Do you get that? That was my thing. That was my love language. That was the easiest part for me. I was good at that.”

I wipe my eyes against his shoulder.

“I liked hands on me when they were gentle. I liked giving that back even more. I liked the physical part of caring about someone.”

My fingers twist tighter into the back of his shirt.

“Now sometimes even good touch gets mixed up with bad memories and I hate that. I hate it so, so fucking much, Victor. I hate that I can want something and still feel scared of it at the exact same time.”

I pull back just enough to breathe and wipe my face again.

“I’ve hated myself for months because of that.”

I’m crying into his shirt now. I can feel how wet I’ve made it.

“Do you know how heartbreaking that is? To miss not overthinking every tiny shift in pressure? Every hand placement? Every change in weight?”

My voice cracks and this time I can’t fix it.

“I hate that something as beautiful as physical closeness got dragged through something filthy, and now I have to pull it back out and rebuild something I didn’t even fucking break.”

I laugh once through the tears, like my body doesn’t know what else to do with all this.

I wipe my face hard with the back of my hand, but it doesn’t do shit.

More tears just keep coming and I’m getting angrier every second because I hate crying in front of anyone.

“Do you know how hard it was to tell my dad? My siblings?” I ask. “Do you know how hard it is to look your father in the face and tell him another man assaulted you?”

My voice breaks. “I didn’t want my parents to picture it. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was so fucking embarrassed, because it felt like admitting I was weak. I was too weak to stop him.”

He doesn’t interrupt. I’m glad he doesn’t talk. He just listens.

That’s exactly what I need right now.

Not pity.

Not some soft little aw, poor you, that’s so sad. I don’t need to be looked at like a broken bird somebody found on the sidewalk.

I just need to talk.

I pull away from him for a second because I do not need his soaked shirt added to the list of humiliations tonight.

I grab another cigarette and bring it to my mouth.

He hands me his lighter.

I light it and take a drag.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” I say, blowing the smoke away from his face. “I don’t tell anyone. Because I’ve seen how people treat the ones who actually find the balls to say it.”

I smile, bitter. “They look at them like they were supposed to enjoy it. Like if you have a dick, you automatically must’ve been okay with it. You’re a man, how can you be harassed?”

I take another drag. “It’s so fucking wrong.”

I look out over the city lights. “It’s actually easy to violate a man. Especially the ones who’ve been trained their whole lives to crush their own boundaries down and step over them to look more manly.”

I shake my head slowly. “Everybody acts like if you’re a man, your limits can’t really be crossed. Like it’s not possible. And do you know what that does to you? It makes you shut the fuck up. That’s what it does.”

The cigarette trembles a little between my fingers.

“It makes you bury it so deep you start choking on it from the inside. Because who the hell is going to take you seriously if you say it plain? Who’s going to take you seriously if you say, he put it in me and I didn’t want it?”

My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “People think that can’t happen. They have no idea how simple it actually is. How often it happens.”

I take another drag and flick the ash over the edge.

“You don’t need dark alleys and screaming and all the dramatic bullshit people use to decide if something ‘counts.’ Sometimes all it takes is one person deciding your body is less yours than theirs… and enough noise outside that nobody hears a thing.”

I stare ahead. “That’s it.”

I smoke again, longer this time.

“So yeah. That’s why what happened today didn’t really bother me. Adam spending one night in a cell? Please . Whatever. He’ll be out in like three days with a good lawyer.”

I laugh under my breath. “I’m the one stuck here trying to teach my body that touch is not automatically danger now. I’m the one who has to sit there and fight my own fucking nerves over things that used to come naturally to me.”

Victor lights his own cigarette. “You’re carrying two wounds. The thing itself, and the way the world teaches you to choke on it after.”

I turn and look at him.

“Exactly,” I say.

He puts his cigarette out. “Can I… see it again?” he asks, almost hesitant.

“The scar?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I turn away from him again and lift my shirt.

“Can I touch it a little?” he asks. “I’ll be careful.”

“Okay,” I say.

Then I feel his hand on it.

Soft. So soft it makes me shiver.

His fingers trace the scar from top to bottom, carefully. He follows it all the way down my spine and I hate how much I feel it.

“It didn’t happen during the actual… thing.”

I breathe in slowly.

“It happened after. After it was over, we came out of the bathroom.”

My throat tightens. “There were stairs. People everywhere. Noise everywhere. And I remember thinking that if I run now, maybe I can tell someone before they leave. Maybe if I say it while they’re still close, someone will believe me. So I tried to run.” And one of them fucking tripped me. Like we are five.“

I laugh.

“He did it on purpose. I know he did. He stuck his foot out right when I moved, and I went down so fast I didn’t even have time to catch myself properly.”

I can feel the memory in my body.

“I hit my spine.” I press my lips together for a second.

“And everyone thought it was an accident because of course they did, there were too many people. Too much movement and chaos. Someone laughed at first because they thought I just fell like an idiot.”

My stomach twists.

“I remember lying there and not being able to breathe. Not because of the pain, the pain came second. It was because I knew right there that they had stopped me again. They got to leave like normal people, and I was on the floor with my back fucked up, trying not to cry and not to look guilty for something that happened to me. I had no proof,” I mutter.

“Nothing. No one saw what mattered. No one could say he tripped me on purpose. No one could say what happened before that. So it all just became this stupid accident. Silas fell. Silas hurt his back. Silas probably drank too much. Silas is dramatic. Silas is messy. Whatever.”

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, staring out at the city, “I’m not dying from it anymore, as you’ve probably noticed. I’m used to it now. It only really hurts if I twist too fast or arch too suddenly.”

I take a drag. “But I’m trying to believe it’ll get better with time.”

He’s still touching it.

“I didn’t go swimming once all summer,” I say. “Not even once. I didn’t feel like having people stare at me.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “And don’t say they wouldn’t. They absolutely would. I know it’s ugly enough to get people making faces and point their fingers. I can almost hear a child going, ‘mom, why is he like this?’”

“You could build around it,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

I turn. “Excuse me?”

“You could work around it.”

I turn more and look at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” he says. “You could transform it. Think of it like a spine for something else. Build a tattoo around it. A dragon, maybe. Wrapping around it. The scar I mean.”

I actually laugh a little, because that is not where I expected him to go with this.

“I knew I shouldn’t have shown it to a tattoo artist,” I say, taking another drag.

He ignores that.

“I’m just saying you could make a new image around it,” he says. “You can’t erase it. But you can change what the eye sees first.”

I look at him. “A dragon, huh?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a hard piece,” I say. “I’d need to trust someone insanely good for that. Someone who can actually see the vision. Someone with ridiculous patience and attention to detail.”

He looks at me. “Am I not good enough?”

I smile despite myself. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“I am,” he says, calm as ever. “I gave you the vision. And I have patience.”

I turn back forward and blow the smoke out into the night.

“If you say so. Maybe I’ll pick you when and if I ever decide to do it.”

And only then do I pull my shirt back down.

---

Guys this is one of my favorite chapters 🥹 YOU BETTER VOTE.

Also in the paperback and Kindle version that’ll come out after the story is completed, there’s going to be an extra scene where Victor finds Adam and… let’s just say he gets his own version of revenge for Silas.

Before anyone panics, no, I’m NOT hiding important plot points from the Wattpad version. The extra scenes are always meant to feel like bonus content, not mandatory chapters to understand the story.

The reason I’m keeping this specific scene out of the main story here is because it gets way darker than Victor’s usual behavior. I mean genuinely uncomfortable, ugly dark. And I know not everyone wants to read something like that. (No, he doesn’t rape him back.)

I never want people to suddenly open a normal chapter update and get hit with a scene that feels disturbing or too heavy for them without choosing it first. Especially because the main story is not about glorifying violence or turning Victor into some edgy revenge machine.

The extra scene exists mostly because realistically… Victor is Victor. And after everything that happened, I don’t think that anger would just magically disappear. But I also don’t want that darkness to become part of the actual main plot or the emotional core of the story here.

So the bonus scene will basically be there for the readers who want to explore that side of him voluntarily:)))))

That’s all, see you in 2 days ❤️ (it’s time for my favorite chapter)

27) Safe To Say No To

Victor’s POV

I tear the page out.

Start again.

This dragon cannot be wrong.

I shade around the shoulder line and stop.

Wrong again. It’s too heavy.

If I make the dragon too aggressive, it’ll look like it’s attacking your back. That’s disgusting. I’m not putting another violent thing on you.

It has to wrap, not own. Adam already did enough of that.

My pencil presses harder. The paper nearly tears. I have to be careful.

Because one day you will look at this. And I cannot disappoint you.

You said, “I might pick you when and if I ever decide to do it.”

Might. Terrible word.

Word that leaves room for someone else. Some other artist.

No.

I hate that.

I start again.

Sharper lines this time. More controlled.

You will not pick someone else, Silabun.

Keep your options, I’m not against that. I’ll just remove them properly.

Not by asking. Not by begging.

I’ll just make the design so exact, so disgustingly right for your body that every other artist looks like they are guessing.

I will make everyone else feel wrong.

I think that’s fair.

That’s not manipulation. That’s simple competence. I can live with competence.

Art is the only place people reward obsession.

Anywhere else, it looks weird.

I can obsess for ten hours over one curve on a stranger’s ribs and everyone calls me a genius.

But if I obsess over the exact shape of Silas’s scar, suddenly I’m supposed to calm down.

No. I don’t want calm.

Calm makes average work.

This needs to be sick .

It needs to be so good he looks at it and forgets for half a second that Adam got there first.

That’s all I want.

I want his eyes to land on the dragon before they land on the scar.

I want him to turn in the mirror and not flinch first.

If his body has been saying ruin, ruin, ruin every time he looks at it, then I can give it another word to say first.

Dragon. Mine.

No.

Not mine.

Wrong word.

His.

His dragon. His back. His choice.

But my hands. My design.

Me.

That part can stay.

I can earn that place with hard work.

I want every option he has to die naturally when he sees it.

I’ll perfect it until my eyes and my hands ache.

I want Adam’s damage to become the foundation under my work.

The doorbell rings. I lift my head.

For half a second, I think it might be you.

Which is stupid.

You just left.

I open the door.

Reality is standing there. Or, in other words, David.

My organizer.

I smile a little. “Hi, David. I’m not in the mood right now.”

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask, did I?”

My smile drops.

He walks straight inside and starts pacing.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

I close the door and go back to my bed.

My sketchbook is still there. So is the pencil. So is you.

David turns to me. “Do you have any idea what you caused today??”

I sit down and pick up the pencil again.

“Victor.”

I look at the page. The paper in front of me already has six different versions of the same dragon spine on it.

None of them are right. The scar line keeps changing in my head.

I should probably be more concerned about the fact that there are videos of me online biting another grown man in public.

“Victor, look at me.”

I keep sketching scales around the line.

“Clients are calling me right now. Clients who were supposed to travel from the other side of the fucking world to get tattooed by you. Do you understand that?? They’re calling me asking if you’re safe enough to be around.”

The tail looks wrong. Too aggressive.

That’s not what I want.

I don’t want the tattoo to hide the scar completely.

That feels disrespectful somehow.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not responding.”

“You said people are asking if I’m safe enough.”

“That is not the only thing I said.”

I erase part of the wing. No.

The wings need to wrap lower.

“Victor.”

“What?”

“What are you doing right now?”

I glance down at the sketchbook.

“At the moment?”

“Yes, at the moment.”

“I’m trying to decide if blackwork would overpower the scar tissue.”

Silence.

Long silence.

“…what?”

I keep staring at the page.

“The dragon,” I explain. “I think the body should stay darker and the wings lighter. Otherwise the spine disappears completely.”

Another silence.

“Victor,” he says slowly, “there are videos of you covered in blood all over the internet.”

“Yes.”

“You assaulted someone.”

“He assaulted someone first.”

“I don’t give a shit,” David snaps. “I literally don’t give a shit! Do you think your sponsors care about the moral order of the fight?? Do you think your parents care who technically started it? This is about you, man.”

I stop drawing for one second.

Then start again.

“This is Vegas, not Barcelona. You don’t get to do whatever the hell you want because people treat you like a god online. Here, everything gets filmed and uploaded. Everything turns into evidence before you even wash the blood off.”

I draw one scale too dark. Wrong.

I erase it.

“You’re trending for assault, Victor. Assault. Not ink. Not awards. Not your work. Assault.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. Because you’re sitting there drawing dragons like this is some cute little recovery day.”

“I don’t find it cute.”

“I’m glad we agree on one fucking thing.”

I look at the sketch again.

The dragon’s head should turn slightly. Not toward the viewer. Toward the scar. Guarding it.

“Do not post anything,” David says. “Do you hear me? Nothing. Nowhere. Not a story. Not a cryptic quote. Not a cigarette photo. Not a song. Nothing.”

“I heard you.”

“Did the police say anything else?”

“No.”

“Are there charges?”

“No.”

“Is Adam pressing charges?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anyone at the studio talk to reporters?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know ANYTHING right now that isn’t about whatever the hell you’re drawing??”

I look up at him finally. I look back down.

“No.”

He laughs once. “Beautiful. My client has entered his haunted art phase during a crisis.”

I keep drawing.

The lower part needs space. Silas needs space.

The dragon still isn’t right.

I need to perfect it.

“Victor,” David says again.

“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

I look at him. He looks serious now.

“I’m drawing.”

“You’re dissociating into a drawing while your career is on fire.”

“I’m not dissociating.”

“Then tell me what you’re feeling.”

I stare at him. “No.”

He rubs both hands over his face.

“Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me. But you need to call Luna.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“Later.”

“No. Tonight.”

I shade the dragon’s spine.

“You cannot do this thing where you act calm because your face isn’t moving,” he says. “I know you. You’re not calm.”

I hate when people say they know me because they saw the symptoms enough times.

My phone buzzes beside me.

Mother. I flip it over.

David sees. “Was that your mom?”

“Yes.”

“You need to answer her too.”

“No.”

“Victor—”

“No.”

“She’s scared.”

My pencil stops again.

“Call Luna,” David says.

I laugh.

“Call Luna,” I repeat. “Call my mother. Call my father. Call the sponsors. Call whoever the fuck else needs to stand around me and decide if I’m safe enough to exist tonight.”

David goes still.

I stand up fast and the sketchbook slides off the bed and hits the floor.

“Victor—”

“No.” My voice cracks. “No, shut up. I’m so fucking tired of everyone talking at me like I’m a bomb with a pulse.”

His face changes.

“You’re scared??” I say, pointing at him with my shaking hand. “You’re scared? My mother is scared? Luna is scared? Sponsors are scared? Clients are scared?”

I hit my own chest once. “I’M scared.”

My voice breaks completely. “I’m more fucking scared than all of you!”

David doesn’t move.

“I’m the one living in here,” I say, tapping my head too hard. “Not you. Not them. Me. I’m the one who has to wake up inside this fucking head every day and check what kind of weather it is. I’m the one who has to wonder if a feeling is normal or if it’s about to become something ugly. I’m the one who has to catch my own hands before they become a problem.”

Tears start coming and I hate them. I wipe my face hard.

“Leave me alone.”

David’s jaw tightens. “Victor—”

“Leave me the fuck alone! All of you!” I shout.

My voice echoes around the apartment.

Pickle barks once from somewhere near the hallway and that hurts too.

Everything fucking hurts.

“I don’t want one more person standing here looking at me like I’m a fucking incident report. I don’t want soft voices, I don’t want questions, I don’t want ‘promise me’ and ‘are you alone’ and ‘tell me what you’re feeling.’ I don’t fucking know what I’m feeling. Don’t you get it?”

I drag both hands through my hair.

“I feel everything. I feel nothing. I feel sick. I feel angry. I feel guilty. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. I feel like if one more person says my name carefully, I’m going to break my own teeth just to make a sound bigger than theirs.”

David’s eyes are wide now.

I laugh again, but it turns into a sob halfway through.

“I’m trying,” I say, quieter for one second. “I am trying so, so fucking hard and nobody sees that part. They only see when I fail. Why do they only see when I fail?”

I point toward the door.

“They see blood. They see my hands. They see me biting someone. They don’t see the ten minutes before, where I was trying so hard not to move. They don’t see me choosing the door. They don’t see me holding myself by the throat from the inside, trying to keep this version of me polite.”

My chest is moving too fast.

“I was leaving,” I say. “I was doing it. I was doing exactly what Luna told me. I was fucking leaving.”

My voice breaks again.

I look at the fallen sketchbook. The dragon page is bent.

That makes me cry harder for some reason.

Fucking pathetic.

“I don’t want to be like this,” I whisper.

David takes one small step forward.

I step back immediately. “No. Don’t. Don’t come closer.”

He stops.

“Can you feel me? This is not a choice. I don’t want everyone scared. I don’t want my mother crying. I don’t want my sister seeing videos. I don’t want Luna restarting sessions like I’m some old case file that opened again. I don’t want you managing me like damage control with legs.”

David flinches.

“I’m not a fucking brand first. I’m not. I know that’s inconvenient for you. I know it makes your job harder. I know blood is bad for sponsors unless it’s on gloves. I know I ruined the controlled mysterious Spanish artist thing. Sorry. Sorry I became a person in public.”

His throat moves. “Victor…”

“No. You’re doing it again. Don’t say my name like that.”

I point at him.

“Don’t say it like you’re trying to calm a dog.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Everyone fucking does. Everyone. Like I’m stupid. Like I’m five. Like I don’t understand what I did.”

I wipe my nose with the back of my wrist.

“I understand.”

My voice drops.

“I understand better than all of you. That’s why I’m scared.”

David doesn’t answer.

“I liked it,” I say. “I liked hurting him for one second and that is the part you people don’t know what to do with, right? That’s the part that makes everyone’s face change.”

His face does change.

I laugh through tears.

“There. See? There it is. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted to put fear back where it came from.”

I press both hands over my mouth.

Too late. It’s already out.

“And then it didn’t fix anything,” I whisper against my hands. “It didn’t take one ounce of pain out of him. It just made more.”

That one destroys me.

I look at him. He looks pale.

Sad. I hate that too.

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

“How?”

“Like I’m breaking your little heart.”

His mouth opens. Then closes.

I wipe my face again. “Just leave me alone, please,” I whisper. “Please.”

David shakes his head once. “No.”

I stare at him. “No?”

“No,” he says, calmer now. “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t get to own your crisis. But I do get to decide whether I walk out while you’re this scared.”

“I told you to leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Then leave?!”

“No.”

My hands shake harder. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I could fire you.”

“You can fire me tomorrow.”

I stare at him.

He points to the floor. “Sit down, Victor.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

That surprises me.

He sits down himself, right on the floor, back against the wall. In my room.

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

“Why?”

“Because you told me to leave and I’m not leaving, but I’m also not coming closer. So this is the least annoying option I have.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I know.”

“Stop fucking saying you know.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

Then Pickle comes out from the hallway.

He trots toward me.

I immediately step back.

David watches me.

Pickle stops, tail wagging.

I look down at him. He tilts his tiny head.

My face crumples.

I slide down the wall slowly until I’m sitting on the floor too.

Not near David. Not near Pickle.

Just down.

My whole body feels finished.

Pickle comes closer on his own. I don’t reach for him. I let him choose.

He climbs into my lap like nothing happened.

I start crying harder. Quiet this time.

David looks away for a second like he’s giving me privacy inside my own breakdown.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not even sure who I’m saying it to.

Pickle licks my tears.

David speaks after a while. “You’re not wrong for being scared of yourself.”

I don’t look at him.

“But you don’t get to use that fear as proof you’re beyond help.”

I swallow. My throat hurts. “I don’t want help.”

“You don’t want it, but you need it.”

I close my eyes. “You’re annoying.”

“I know.”

“Stop.”

“Okay.”

Another silence. Then my phone buzzes again.

I check it.

Not my mother. Not Luna.

Silas.

SILAS:

• Depeche Mode is coming to Vegas :)
• I would’ve told you to go with me if you didn’t consider them outdated.

I stare at the screen.

Everything stops.

Everything drops back just enough for one clean thought to come through.

He wants to go with me.

David says my name. I don’t answer.

My thumb moves.

ME:

• Let’s go.

I send it immediately.

Then I open the browser.

David is staring at me. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Victor.”

“What.”

“You were crying thirty seconds ago.”

“I know.”

He just looks at me.

I type too fast.

Depeche Mode. Vegas. Tickets.

Silas wants to go. Silas thought of me when he saw the concert.

That is an insane thing to care about right now.

David slowly gets up from the floor. “Do you understand how concerning this is from my point of view?”

“No.”

“That was not a real question.”

I click the first site. Sold out.

Second site. Almost sold out.

Two tickets. Bad seats.

No. Not good enough.

I open another tab.

David comes closer. “Are you smiling?”

I stop.

Am I?

I touch my mouth like a complete idiot.

Yes.

I am smiling.

That makes David look even more horrified.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers.

I ignore him.

Third site.

Too expensive. I don’t care.

For five seconds, my hands stop shaking.

David sits back in the chair and watches me for a second too long.

“Okay.”

I look up. “What?”

“I’m glad you calmed down. But we need to talk about that.”

My jaw tightens instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m calm now.”

“That’s exactly why we’re talking about it now.”

I look back at the sketchbook.

“Vic.”

“What.”

“This isn’t normal.”

I laugh once. “Nothing about me is normal. You can pick a more specific sentence.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You went from full panic to calm because one person texted you.”

I look at him. “So?”

“So that is not sustainable.”

“Why?”

“Because you cannot put your whole nervous system in another person’s pocket.”

I stare at him. That sentence makes me angry.

“My nervous system is not in his pocket.”

David gives me a flat look. “‘His’… I see.”

I hate him.

“Well…” he says. “I’m glad he helped. I’m glad you feel better. I’m not saying he’s bad for you.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

“I looked worried because I am worried.”

“Everyone is worried.”

“Yes, Victor, because tonight gave us reasons.”

I stand up again.

David lifts one hand, not stopping me.

“Walk if you need to. Just listen.”

He takes a deep breath. “You can draw him dragons until your hands fall off. Fine. I’m not here to police your emotional disaster.”

“That sounds exactly like what you’re doing.”

“No. I’m here because the emotional disaster is connected to assault charges, sponsor panic, family panic, and you almost spiraling into the floor five minutes ago.”

I don’t say anything, because he’s right.

He points toward my phone.

“That message helped because it proved he didn’t run.”

My throat tightens. I look away.

“Correct?” he asks.

I don’t answer.

“Victor.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Good. But… what happens the first time he doesn’t text back fast enough?”

I look at him sharply. “What?”

“What happens when he’s asleep? Busy? Angry? What happens when he needs space and your brain reads it as abandonment?”

My whole body goes cold. “Stop.”

“No.”

“I said stop.”

“And I said no.”

The room goes quiet.

David’s face is serious now.

“You need someone to say no to you before this gets worse,” he says.

“I’m not saying he is the problem. I’m saying the way you’re attaching is dangerous for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. For you.”

I laugh. “That’s new.”

“No, it’s not. You just don’t listen when people care about you unless they’re bleeding.”

That shuts me up.

David regrets it immediately. I see it on his face.

But he doesn’t take it back.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” I say.

“I believe you.”

“Then why are we talking?”

“Because you can destroy yourself without touching him once.”

I look down.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Vic. You’re sitting here acting like the only danger is whether you become violent again. It isn’t. You can starve yourself inside somebody else’s existence and call it devotion until there’s nothing left of you.”

I hate this so much.

“It looks like you’re building a religion out of one man.”

I stop breathing for a second.

A religion.

I look at the dragon sketch. At everything I’ve been trying to make holy with pencil and obsession. “Don’t say it like that.”

David is quiet for a moment.

I close my eyes. “I don’t know how to want things normally,” I say.

“I know.”

I open my eyes and glare at him. I rub my face.

“I don’t know how to want halfway,” I say. “I don’t know how to think about him like he is just a person I like.”

David doesn’t interrupt.

“I know it’s fucked up.”

David says, “I didn’t say fucked up.”

“I did.”

He exhales slowly. “You need support before it eats you alive.”

I laugh once. “Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why can’t it eat me alive?”

David stares at me. I stare back.

“Give me a real reason,” I say. “Not professional. Not sponsor. Not my mother. Not Luna. Why not?”

His face changes. He looks genuinely angry for the first time.

“Because it won’t fucking give you what you think it will.”

He stands up. “It won’t make you loved better. It won’t make you safer. It won’t make HIM safer either. You’ll just become exhausted, paranoid, ashamed, and completely fucking dependent on whether one person smiles at you correctly that day.”

I look away.

He keeps talking. “And trust me, it’s not worth it.”

My eyes flick back to him.

He clears his throat. “I’ve seen people do this. You pour yourself into someone until you think being empty proves you loved them enough.”

I say nothing.

“You want to be good for him?” he asks.

My jaw clenches. “Yes.”

“Then listen to me and don’t make him responsible for keeping you stable.”

“I’m not.”

“You might not mean to. That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

I sit down on the bed because my legs suddenly feel wrong.

David sits back too, slower this time.

“He has enough inside him,” he says. “You know that.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“Then don’t hand him yours too.”

That one hurts a lot.

Because part of me wanted to lie down in front of Silas and say:

Here. You saw the worst of me. Do something with it. Tell me I’m still a person. Tell me I’m not what they think. Tell me you’re not leaving.

I press my hand over my mouth.

David sees. “You need Luna,” he says.

“I hate needing Luna.”

“I know.”

I look down at my hands.

“I don’t want everyone to treat this like I’m back at the beginning,” I say.

“Then we won’t.”

“My family will.”

“Probably.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t lie.

It makes me hate him less for half a second.

“My mother is going to cry,” I say.

“Yes.”

“My sister…”

That one stops me. I can’t say it.

“We can protect her from most of the noise.”

I look up. “How?”

“I’ll contact your family first. Not as a manager. As me, David. I’ll tell them you’re safe. I’ll tell them you’re talking to Luna. I’ll ask them not to flood you with calls tonight.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

“Because twenty terrified family messages are not going to make you less likely to spiral.”

“What else?” I ask.

David’s shoulders drop a little, and now he’s thinking.

“Okay,” he says. “We make a plan.”

I hate plans. I need one.

He pulls his phone out. “First, you call Luna tonight. Not tomorrow.”

I look away.

“Victor.”

“Fine.”

“Second, you don’t post anything for forty-eight hours. No stories. No music. No cryptic bullshit.”

“I don’t post cryptic bullshit?!”

“You absolutely would post a cigarette and a Depeche Mode lyric right now if I left you unattended.”

I don’t answer. Because yes.

Probably.

David points at me. “Exactly.”

I roll my eyes.

“Third,” he says, “I write a neutral statement. Something like: you were involved in an altercation, you’re cooperating, no further comment, you apologize for the disruption outside LINEA INK.”

“I’m not apologizing to Adam.”

“You’re not. You’re apologizing to the studio, witnesses, clients, and anyone who saw blood before dinner.”

That is annoyingly reasonable again.

“Fine.”

“Fourth, we contact LINEA privately. Not publicly. You apologize to the studio owner directly.”

Silabun is the owner.

“Fifth,” David continues, “we reschedule any nervous clients without punishment. Anyone who wants out gets out. We don’t pressure them.”

“But that makes me look guilty.”

“No. It makes you look safe to say no to.”

Safe to say no to. I want to look safe to say no to.

“Sixth,” he says, “you do one session with Luna before any public appearance. I don’t care if it’s video call at three in the morning. I need you grounded before cameras.”

“Okay.”

“Seventh, no direct contact with Adam. Ever. No threats and ‘I hope your ribs hurt’ notes.”

I nod once.

“Okay. Can I draw now?”

“You can draw. But when you catch yourself thinking this tattoo is the only thing that matters in your life, you stop and call someone.”

I stare at him. “That’s too many rules.”

“That’s because you’re too much work.”

“Fuck you.”

“There he is.”

David stands up.

“I’m making coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“It’s for me, you fucker. You’ve aged me six years tonight.”

I look back at the page. Then at my phone.

I pick up the pencil again. I draw one scale. Then stop.

My hand hurts.

So I stop.

I hate that I stop.

I’m proud that I stop.

Both things are true. That is annoying.

“If you’re drawing through pain, I’m stealing your pencil.”

“I stopped.”

“Good.”

---

HEYHEYHEY this was my favorite chapter what do you guys think? :) I think it’s beautiful because it’s kinda ugly.

SO VOTE✨✨✨✨

Anyway, question.

28) Brick Daddy

Silas’s POV

I shut off my alarm, which survives yet another morning without me throwing it against the wall.

I rub my face.

I’m sooo excited to go to my probably blood-covered studio.

Truly. Can’t wait.

Can’t wait to waste half my day explaining to reporters why my coworker bit a man ten years older than him like some attack dog.

I wrap myself back up in the blanket.

Then my brain remembers the other parts of last night and my eyes snap fully open.

I turn and stare at the ceiling.

I showed him my back.

Oh my God.

I actually showed Victor my back and told him what happened.

That was not a drunk hallucination. He saw the ugly scar and got the ugly story with it.

We nearly kissed while I was blowing on his lip.

My stomach reacts immediately to that thought.

I cover my face with both hands.

If I say I’m sick, will anyone believe me?

I’m so embarrassed to see him after last night. Now he might look at me differently. He might’ve agreed to go to the concert with me because he felt sorry for me.

Oh fuck.

I really, really hope he doesn’t think I asked him to go because I like him or something.

First I need to find out if he even still wants to talk to me after last night.

I grab my phone with half-shut eyes.

He’s probably awake already. He has to be.

We’re supposed to be at the studio in an hour.

I open our chat and just stare at it.

Then I start typing.

ME:

• good morning

No. Disgusting. Delete.

ME:

• ignore everything i said last night.

Absolutely not. Delete.

ME:

• did the mirrors kill you yet

No. Too weird. Or maybe not weird enough.

Delete.

ME:

• hey

EW.

Delete.

ME:

• are we pretending last night never happened or doing the awkward eye contact thing in silence

Jesus Christ, no no no. Delete.

ME:

• morning. don’t be weird today please

That sounds like I’m the normal one. Delete.

I stare at the screen again.

I type.

ME:

• if you don’t reply in the next 5 minutes I’m gonna assume the mirrors fell on you while you were sleeping and I’ll call an ambulance to your house

The second I send it, he opens the chat. Immediately.

My heart starts beating faster.

Okay. Good. Alive. Fine.

I wait. He doesn’t type.

Why are you not typing anything?!

Type. Write. Speak. Confirm your existence.

Maybe the mirrors fell now. Maybe I jinxed it and now he’s dead because of me.

Then a photo comes through.

And I immediately throw my phone to the other side of the bed and stare at the ceiling.

…

I feel all the blood in my body gather in both heads in under a second.

My heart starts beating faster.

I grab the phone again. It’s a picture from the cursed mirror.

He’s on his bed, shirtless, one arm behind his head, the other holding the phone up.

Just lying there under the stupid sex ceiling we installed together.

And he’s making a face too. Like he’s innocent.

Like the photo he just sent isn’t screaming that he’s actually just one giant slut who happened to wake up shirtless under a mirror.

I zoom in.

I start looking for something to insult. Anything.

A bad angle. Weird skin. One ugly muscle. A single tragic hair out of place.

Something I can use against him so I don’t have to sit here feeling like this.

Nothing.

His body is fucking flawless. I can’t say one bad thing about it.

Not his skin. Not his muscles. Not his hair. Not any of it.

What a whore.

VICTOR:

• they look stable enough to me.

• you did a good job.

I don’t answer.

I don’t answer because the situation behind my phone screen is becoming catastrophic.

And I don’t mean his picture.

I mean mine.

My blanket currently looks like a camping tent and my face is burning so hard I could probably fry eggs on it.

I lift the blanket slightly.

Yeah. I’m fucked.

That picture made me hard instantly and now I’m just gonna suffer through it because there is absolutely no universe where I jerk off thinking about Victor Acosta.

None.

Sure, he’s hot. Obviously.

But orgasms are dangerous.

My brain gets emotionally attached to dumb shit way too easily and I am not bonding with that psychopath through post-nut clarity.

Absolutely not.

Also, I am NOT masturbating over a man who bites when cornered.

I leave our chat and start checking my other messages instead like that’s gonna save me.

VICTOR:

• I dislike when people ignore my art

I tap the conversation immediately.

Art.

This man really looked at a shirtless mirror selfie taken under his porn dungeon ceiling and called it art.

What am I even supposed to say to that?

“Sorry bro I was busy trying to survive the biological consequences of your shoulders”?

Hell no.

ME:

• tell me why you thought it was normal to send that at 9am?

VICTOR:

• Because you asked if the mirrors fell

ME:

• SO YOU THOUGHT THE APPROPRIATE RESPONSE WAS “no btw here’s my bare chest”

typing…

typing…

VICTOR:

• yes. To admire what i built

I stare at the message.

ME:

• built? Are you talking about the mirrors?

• I risked my life for your porn ceiling, not you

VICTOR:

• you did a good job

• thank you

I hate it immediately.

Because praise normally does absolutely nothing to me.

Nothing.

People compliment me all the time. The tattoos, my face, my body, my work. Whatever.

Usually it just slides right off me like water. Sometimes it’s nice. Sometimes it’s annoying. Most of the time I don’t really care.

But this feels different for some horrible reason.

Maybe because it’s Victor. Victor, who looks allergic to kindness.

Victor, who talks like every sentence physically pains him.

Victor, who acts like human affection should be studied in a lab.

So when HE says something nice, it feels earned.

Like finding money in a video game after killing a boss that took four hours and damaged your mental health.

And now my dumbass brain suddenly wants more. Which is terrifying.

I lean back against the headboard slowly.

No. No no no.

I am not becoming one of those people that melts because a man says “good job” one time.

That is embarrassing.

ME:

• wow

• did victor acosta just compliment me

typing…

VICTOR:

• observation, not compliment.

Liar. That was absolutely a compliment and now I’m smiling at my phone like a fucking loser.

I scrub a hand down my face aggressively. This is bad. Actually bad.

Because now I want to hear it again. I want him to look at something I did and approve of it.

Which makes no sense because I don’t even like him properly.

I barely survive being in the same room with him without developing a stress headache.

But there’s something deeply addictive about his attention.

It’s so rare. So specific.

He doesn’t throw praise around casually. You can feel that immediately.

Which means every nice thing he says lands ten times harder.

Like he examined the thought first. Turned it around in his head, decided it deserved to exist.

And for some reason my body reacts to that like I’ve been let into a secret room.

Disgusting. Actually disgusting behavior from me.

I lock my phone and physically force myself out of bed before this turns into a full spiritual collapse.

Because clearly staying alone with my thoughts is dangerous.

Unfortunately, my solution is somehow worse.

Because I will face the madness again in an hour.

One hour later

Jett’s taking a break from piercings downstairs, sitting across from Victor while spinning Victor’s trophy around.

Jett smirks. Victor stares back at him completely expressionless.

It looks less like two human beings interacting and more like a hostage negotiation.

“…Everything okay?” I ask carefully, looking between them.

“Silas,” Jett says immediately, leaning forward. “What piercing do you think would suit Victor?”

I glance at Victor automatically.

I’m analyzing his face way too hard.

The eyebrows. The nose. The lips.

I force myself to look back at Jett. “None.”

“Oh, come on.” Jett throws his hands up dramatically. “You’re telling me an eyebrow piercing wouldn’t be sexy on him?”

“You literally said eyebrow piercings hurt.”

“He has a fucking tongue piercing,” Jett replies instantly. “I’m sure he’ll survive.”

My eyes snap back to Victor before I can stop them.

“I like the eyebrow idea,” Victor murmurs casually.

Jett slaps the table once. “Great. Upstairs in five.”

Then he disappears immediately.

Traitor. Absolute traitor.

Now it’s just me and Victor sitting there alone.

I look at him from the corner of my eye. He’s drinking coffee while scrolling on his phone.

So naturally I open my messages with Vox.

ME:

• hey

VOX:

• hey

ME:

• i hate men

VOX:

• i thought you were gay

• be specific

I glance up at Victor again.

ME:

• my spanish one

VOX:

• your spanish one?

ME:

• he’s sitting in front of me and i can’t stop imagining him naked now

• what do i do

• he sent me a mirror selfie this morning from his sex mirrors

VOX:

• did you save it?

ME:

• yes i saved it

• i’m not showing you if that’s what you want

Across from me, Victor suddenly laughs quietly at something on his phone.

I immediately look up.

“What?” he asks.

I don’t answer because unfortunately his voice still does weird things to my internal organs.

I look back down at my phone fast.

ME:

• he just spoke to me

• i’m suing

VOX:

• why don’t you just talk to him?

ME:

• i don’t know

• i get nervous

The typing bubble appears instantly. Then stops. Then appears again.

VOX:

• nervous?

• silas just admitted nervousness?

• historic moment

ME:

• die

• we have the concert tomorrow and i’m genuinely nervous

VOX:

• Do you think he’s dangerous?

ME:

• dude i’m scared OF MYSELF

• it’s depeche mode

• you know what depeche mode does to me

• what am i supposed to do if i’m drunk and never let me down again starts playing and i suddenly make terrible life decisions

VOX:

• such as

ME:

• i don’t KNOW

• dramatic eye contact

• accidental touching

• inappropriate thoughts

• he’s already influential by himself

• he literally feels like he was handcrafted in some underground depeche mode laboratory

VOX:

• describe

ME:

• dark clothes

• terrifying eye contact

• emotionally unavailable

• looks expensive and exhausted at the same time

• if this man stood under red lights while synth music played i think i would just evaporate

Across from me, Victor shifts slightly and pushes his hair back.

VOX:

• if he was a depeche mode song which one would he be

I slowly lift my head again. Look at Victor from head to toe.

ME:

• definitely Precious

• or Ghosts again

I stare at the message after sending it. Then physically drag a hand down my face.

ME:

• i need to hit myself with a brick

VOX:

• you can hit me with the brick if it helps

• I have harder boners

• BONES.

• Bones. I’m sorry.

I fold over completely, one hand gripping the edge of my station, the other still holding my phone.

My shoulders shake violently.

I’m coughing and laughing at the same time, making these awful little strangled sounds like a dying seagull.

The second I try to act like I’m fine, another laugh punches out of me and I cough so hard my eyes start watering.

I’m fucking destroyed. Victor looks nervous.

ME:

• I’m crying

• Vox.

• harder boners??

VOX:

• bones.

ME:

• no no. don’t get shy now.

• speak your truth, king.

VOX:

• fuck.

ME:

• FUCK?

• he swore.

• everyone shut up, the brick boner incident has escalated.

VOX:

• Who are you telling to shut up?

ME:

• the voices.

VOX:

• I’m sorry. Please stop

ME:

• no, don’t apologize.

• show me.

VOX:

• show you what??

ME:

don’t get shy now, Brick Daddy.

VOX:

…

• do not call me that.

ME:

• sorry. Bone Daddy.

• I’m dead.

Victor glances up briefly. Our eyes meet for half a second.

I immediately look back at my phone.

ME:

• okay, Brick Daddy.

• i’m gonna attempt to speak to him

• if i die tell people i was brave

VOX:

• good luck little soldier.

• Please don’t call me Brick Daddy.

I lock my phone slowly.

I keep playing with the tattoo machine beside me just to keep my hands busy.

Because if I don’t keep my hands busy, I’m probably going to start staring at Victor again.

And we’ve already established that this is medically unsafe for me.

So instead I stand up and start pouring ink into little caps on the counter in front of him.

Black.

Gray wash.

More black.

I can feel him watching me quietly from the couch.

“Sorry, by the way,” I tell him.

Victor glances at me.

“For what?”

“For telling you about the tickets two days before the concert,” I say, scratching the side of my neck. “I panicked.”

“I don’t mind,” he says simply. “I booked them,” he adds. “Gates open at six-thirty tomorrow. But Depeche Mode go on around nine.”

I nod.

Then I smile before I can stop myself.

Because I’ve never actually been to a Depeche Mode concert before.

And if I hear Never Let Me Down Again live, I might genuinely explode.

Like legally. Full emotional detonation.

“I suggest we go by public transport,” Victor says. “There will be too much traffic. The car won’t move.”

I nod again because, unfortunately, that makes sense.

Even if public transport makes me want to peel my own skin off sometimes.

“Where do you want to meet?” I ask.

“I can come to your place,” he says. “Then we go together.”

My brain pauses for half a second.

Him. At my place. Before Depeche Mode.

Great.

The universe is clearly trying to murder me in themed stages.

I nod anyway. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll come at six.”

“Cool,” I say.

Cool.

Very cool.

Nothing about this is cool.

This man is picking me up from my house to take me to Depeche Mode.

“How much were the tickets?” I mumble while focusing aggressively on the ink. “So I can pay you back.”

“You don’t need to pay me back.”

I glance at him.

“You’re giving me a free tattoo.”

“Yeah, but the free tattoo was because I won the battle in your bed.”

Silence.

Victor looks at me. Directly at me.

My soul leaves my body because I hear how that sounded.

I turn toward him fast.

“I mean—you know. The jiu-jitsu thing.”

“I understood,” he says calmly.

Did he though. Did he REALLY though.

Because now my face is burning alive.

“Speaking of tattoos,” Victor murmurs after a second, quieter this time. “Come here.”

I blink at him.

Then walk closer automatically.

He opens his sketchbook.

And I actually gasp.

Like fully. Audibly.

Holy shit.

It’s a back piece.

My back piece.

I recognize the scar along the spine immediately.

And wrapped around it, there’s a dragon.

Huge.

Violent in the prettiest possible way.

The dragon curls around the scar instead of hiding it, like the scar is part of the design.

Like the dragon grew around it naturally.

I turn and stare at Victor with wide eyes.

Then immediately lean closer again because I physically cannot stop looking at it.

The detail is insane .

The scales shift shape around the curve of the spine. The body twists exactly where my muscles would move.

This psychopath studied my back. I smile.

Victor laughs quietly beside me.

“Can I hold it?” I ask immediately.

He nods once and hands me the sketchbook.

I take it carefully.

And Jesus Christ. This man cannot be real.

He saw my back ONCE. One time.

Yesterday night.

And somehow he already made something that feels like it was always supposed to exist there.

I can literally picture it on my skin.

That’s the dangerous part. Not just that it’s beautiful.

But that I can SEE it.

He studied every part of my body while drawing this. Every angle. Every curve. Every scar.

My face feels unbearably hot.

“How the fuck did you do this?” I ask quietly without looking up.

Victor just laughs under his breath. “Told you. I had a vision.”

What the fuck does that even mean.

“Holy shit,” I whisper again while staring at the page.

Victor watches me instead of the drawing. “You could win awards with that.”

I finally look up at him.

“We could become fucking legends with this,” I correct automatically, eyes dropping back to the design again.

I mean it. I genuinely mean it.

That tattoo would destroy competitions.

But then reality hits me again.

The pain. The healing.

The fact that my back already went through hell recently.

I just wish I was ready to go through pain in the same spot again this soon.

“So?” he asks seriously. “Do I have a chance of you choosing me if you decide to do it?”

I laugh softly.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I think the odds are in your favor.”

Victor’s eyes flicker slightly at that.

Tiny reaction. But I catch it.

Then suddenly Jett storms downstairs dramatically.

“COME ON,” he yells excitedly. “Eyebrow piercing time.”

Victor stands up from beside me.

I grab my phone quickly and open my chat with Vox.

ME:

• convince me not to do something i’ll regret tomorrow

We go upstairs and Jett immediately points at the chair dramatically. “Sit.”

Victor sits down without arguing while Jett grabs his chin and tilts his face toward the light to examine his eyebrow properly.

“This is gonna slap so hard,” Jett mutters while marking the spot carefully. “You’re gonna look hotter.”

“Stop flirting with every customer you have,” I tell him. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Why would I get tired?” Jett replies proudly. “It always works. By the end I get money AND phone numbers.”

Victor looks at him dead in the soul. “Really?”

Jett nods proudly. “I’m the king of flirting. I could’ve had all of you if I wanted. But unfortunately none of you are my type.”

“Fuck you,” I say immediately. “You’re not our type either.”

Jett laughs and grabs my cheek dramatically.

“Awww. The little bear got angry.”

“Shut up,” I mumble, slapping his hand away. “Finish the piercing. Some of us have lives.”

“Right.” Jett turns back toward Victor. “So, Victor. What’s your studio called?”

“Diana.”

Jett pauses. “Wait. Like Diana darts?”

Victor nods once. “It’s because of precision.”

Jett gasps dramatically. “That’s smart. I like that.”

I hate that I like it too.

“Do you have people working under you now?” Jett asks while putting gloves on.

Victor nods again.

“Do you miss it?”

“No.”

Jett bursts out laughing.

“I love honesty so much. Okay, I’m piercing you now. Don’t scream.”

Victor looks unimpressed. “Why would I scream?”

“I don’t know. Many do.” Jett lines the needle up carefully.

The needle goes through smoothly. Victor doesn’t even flinch.

Psychopath.

Jett quickly places the jewelry in and screws it closed.

I swallow hard without meaning to.

Victor immediately turns toward me. “Do you like it?”

My stomach does something weird.

Because oh my God. It suits him.

The piercing makes him look even more dangerous somehow.

Meaner.

“It suits you,” I mumble quietly.

Victor watches my face for half a second too long. Then nods once. “Good.”

Jett pulls his gloves off dramatically.

“Alright. You’re both free. Leave my establishment.”

“Jett. I need to talk to you.” Victor’s voice suddenly sounds serious.

Both me and Jett look at him instantly.

Wide-eyed.

“Why…?” Jett asks carefully.

“About something.”

The way he says it makes my stomach immediately tighten.

Jett squints suspiciously. “That didn’t sound friendly.”

Victor stays calm. “Can I?”

“…Okay,” Jett says slowly. “Yeah.”

Then he points at me. “Silas downstairs.”

I look between both of them suspiciously.

What the fuck is happening.

“Uh,” I mumble while standing up slowly. “Okay. See you downstairs I guess…”

Victor glances at me once before I leave.

And for some reason that look feels weirdly apologetic.

Which makes this approximately ten times worse.

---

HEY sorry for taking so long to post this. I just added the boner scene. I felt like it oop.

What do you think Victor wants from Jett?? 😼😼😼

29) Gay Emergency

Victor’s POV

I cross my arms while Jett closes the door behind us.

Slowly.

He acts like sudden movements might make me eat him.

“Are you gonna kill me?” he asks. “There are cameras, you know.”

I don’t answer.

He swallows. “This is about Silas, isn’t it? About what I said at the police station?”

He lifts both hands immediately. “I’M NOT JUDGING IF YOU WANT HIM. I’m just overprotective. I don’t want him like that, I swear to God, leave me alone—”

“I want you to teach me how to flirt.”

Jett stops breathing.

His eyes go wide, and for a second he just stands there staring at me.

Then he bursts out laughing and wipes his forehead with his hand.

“What?”

“What?” I ask.

“You said…” He points at himself. “You want ME to teach YOU how to flirt?”

“You said you know how to do it.”

“I do,” he says. “Obviously. I’m gifted.”

“So teach me.”

He stares again.

Then his face changes into something so excited and annoying.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “Can I hug you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Another time.” He laughs again. “Sorry. Sorry. This is just so fucking funny.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“NO,” he says fast. “I swear. I just didn’t expect it. This is like a criminal walking up to me and saying, help me pick flowers for my daughter.”

We look at each other.

Then I laugh once.

I don’t mean to. It just happens.

Jett points at me, shocked.

“There it is. See? You have potential.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like we’re plotting a murder. “So who do you want to flirt with? Is it Silas? It matters.”

I say nothing.

His eyes widen again.

“Oh my God.” He grabs his own face. “Is it him?”

I keep looking at him.

That is enough.

Jett turns in a full circle, dramatically.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “We are living through biblical events.”

“Will you help me or not?”

He turns back to me, smiling too much. “Hell yeah, baby. You’re in good hands.”

I don’t know if I believe that.

“But,” he adds, pointing one finger at my chest, “if I find out you hurt him for any reason, I’m disowning you.”

I swallow hard.

The sentence lands in a place he doesn’t know exists.

If I hurt him.

I already am.

Not with my hands. Not like Adam.

Not with force, not with cruelty, not with some ugly little demand dressed up as love.

But still.

I need to stop talking to Silas as Vox.

I know that.

Every time I open that chat now, something in me splits.

One half reaches for him like it always has. The other half stands there watching, disgusted, because I know exactly what I am doing.

I am taking comfort from him under a name he does not know belongs to me.

And yes, I can explain it. Of course I can explain it.

People always can.

I can say I didn’t start this to trap him. I can say I was young when Vox became real to him. I can say I didn’t know it would become this. I can say I was scared if I told him too soon, he would feel humiliated. I can say I keep waiting for the right moment because the wrong one could destroy everything, and for once in my life I am trying not to destroy something by moving too fast.

All true. Every word.

Still not enough to make it clean.

That is the problem with guilt. It doesn’t care how many reasons you stack in front of it.

It still crawls over them.

I don’t want to be bad for you, Silabun.

That sounds stupid even inside my own head. Too desperate.

But it is true in the most embarrassing way possible.

I don’t want to be another thing you look back on and think, of course.

Of course he wanted something. Of course he hid something. Of course softness always comes with a trick buried under it.

I cannot become that. Not to you.

Not after last night. Not after your head on my shoulder. Not after your Pokémon lined up on the table.

I need to reduce the damage before I tell you.

That is what I keep telling myself.

Reduce the damage.

Stop depending on Vox so much.

Pull back slowly.

Stop being the first person you run to in the dark while Victor is standing there in the light.

If you talk about Victor, Vox stays quiet.

If you ask what to do, Vox tells you to choose for yourself.

That is the only clean thing I can still do with dirty hands.

Give you space to know me as me.

I need to let you know Victor without Vox pulling strings from the dark.

I need whatever happens between us to happen in real life, even if I’m already too late to deserve it.

Maybe that is cowardly. Maybe it is careful.

I don’t know anymore.

All I know is that I have to find the right moment to tell you, and then I have to stand there and let you hate me if that is what happens.

No tricks.

No explanations sharp enough to corner you into forgiving me.

No making myself pathetic so you feel too guilty to leave.

Just the truth.

Finally.

I hope you don’t hate me forever for it.

Jett snaps his fingers in front of my face.

I look at him.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

“Nowhere.”

“Liar. You just looked like you were mentally writing a suicide note in cursive.”

“I need you to teach me how to flirt.”

“Right. Yes. Good. Back to the gay emergency.”

I frown. “I didn’t say gay.”

He gives me a look. “Victor.”

I look away.

He claps once.

“Okay. First rule. Don’t stare at him like you’re trying to locate his organs. Very important, don’t you think?”

“I don’t do that…”

“You absolutely do.”

“I observe. That’s not flirting?”

“No,” he says. “That’s how people end up on podcasts.”

I take that in. “Okay.”

“Second rule,” he says, starting to pace now like he’s a professor. “Compliments. Normal ones. But not weirdly intense.”

“I can compliment.”

“Give me one.”

I think. “He has very precise hands.”

Jett closes his eyes. “No.”

“Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“That sounds like you want to keep them in a jar.”

I frown harder. “I don’t.”

“Great. Don’t make me wonder!”

I breathe out.

“What should I say?”

“Something simple. Like, you look good today.”

“But that’s boring.”

“It’s safe, not boring.”

“I don’t want boring.”

“You are not advanced enough for interesting.”

I stare at him.

He points at me.

“See?? That. Don’t do that after a compliment. If you say you look good today and then stare like that, it becomes less cute.”

“I don’t know how to make my face different.”

“Then use your mouth better.”

I go still.

He realizes what he said and points again.

“Don’t make that weird. You know what I mean.”

I don’t answer. Jett sighs and leans against the counter.

“Look, Silas likes banter. He likes being challenged. But he also panics if something gets too sincere too fast. So you have to make it feel like… a joke with a knife under it.”

“A joke with a knife.”

“Yes. Exactly. That is your lane.”

“I can do that.”

“I know. Unfortunately.”

He studies me for a second. “And don’t try to be smooth. You are not smooth. You are unsettling.”

“I know.”

“No, but that can work,” he says. “He likes your weirdness,” Jett says, and then immediately lifts a hand. “Don’t get excited. I said LIKES, not wants to marry you in a thunderstorm.”

“Does he??” I ask.

Jett’s face softens for half a second. Then he ruins it by smirking.

“Oh, you’re down horrendous.”

“Answer.”

He holds my stare.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think he does. But he’s Silas, so he’ll probably act like that means he needs to throw himself into the ocean.”

That sounds too right.

I look down at my hands. “I don’t want to do it wrong.”

Jett gets quieter. “I know.”

“No,” I say. “You don’t.”

He says nothing. Good. Because he doesn’t.

He doesn’t know that every step toward Silas feels like walking closer to a confession that could ruin us.

He doesn’t know I’m trying to become someone Silas might want before Silas finds out all the reasons he shouldn’t.

And maybe that’s disgusting.

Maybe that’s exactly the kind of thinking that proves I don’t deserve him.

But I am trying.

That has to count for something. It can’t count for everything. But something.

Jett taps the counter once. “Okay. Practice on me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

I stare at him.

“Okay, there is it again, we definitely need to fix your eye contact first,” Jett says. “You need sexy eye contact.”

“I already make eye contact.”

“No. You do interrogation eye contact.”

“What is the difference?”

Jett grabs his own face in frustration. “One says, ‘I want to kiss you.’ The other says, ‘where were you on the night of the 14th?? ANSWER ME.’”

I stare at him. “That’s… a lot for eyes to say.”

“Eyes are sluts, Victor. Let them work.”

He looks at me while thinking. “Try saying something playful.”

I think.

“If you keep provoking me, I’ll have to do something about it.”

Jett’s smile drops instantly. “Absolutely NOT.”

“Why? I meant kissing.”

“THEN SAY KISSING.”

I panic. “But that’s less interesting.”

“THAT’S LESS CRIMINAL DUDE.”

He writes on a napkin and slides it across the table.

I read it.

1. You look good.
2. Stop being hot, it’s distracting.
3. If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll do something stupid.
4. Come here.

I look up. “These are dangerous.”

“They’re flirting lines.”

“They sound like traps.”

“They are?! SEXY ONES.”

“I don’t want to trap him.”

Jett pauses. Then points at me. “Okay… That was weirdly good. Keep that energy.”

“And how do I know if… Silas is flirting with me?” I ask.

Jett stares. “Are you joking?”

“No.”

“Oh my God.” Jett leans forward. “Does he insult you?”

“All the time.”

“Does he look at your mouth after?”

“Yes.”

“Does he pretend he didn’t?”

“I don’t think he hides it.”

“Does he get mad when other people flirt with you?”

I think. “He did once.”

“Bro.”

“What?”

“You two are gonna kill me. Okay,” Jett says. “Practice on me. I’m Silas.”

I look at him from head to toe. “You are… nothing like Silas.”

“I’m hotter, I know. Move on.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“I really didn’t.”

“Okay, never mind. Try something else. Something confident you would like to tell him.”

“Something confident?”

“Mhm.”

“I could physically overpower you.”

“VICTOR THAT’S A THREAT.”

I look away.

“Say something seductive.”

I think. “I observe you frequently.”

“BRO YOU SOUND LIKE A SERIAL KILLER. No. Let’s try something else. Imagine you’re jealous.”

“I would remove competition.”

“For fuck’s sake, this literally sounds like a murder confession. Let’s try another one before I give up. I’m Silas.”

Jett flips his hair dramatically and leans against the counter.

“Hi, Victor. I’m Silas. I’m emotionally unavailable and painfully sexy. What do you say?”

I stare. “Where is the real Silas?”

Jett groans. “No, idiot. FLIRT.”

“You should eat lunch.”

Jett goes completely still. “That’s not flirting what the fuck.”

“It is care.”

“It’s giving father of three. Forget it.”

He stares at the wall, then turns back to me again.

“Casual touch,” he says. “This is important. You don’t grab. You just tap his arm. Like this.”

He taps my forearm.

I look down at the spot. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“That seems useless.”

“It’s not supposed to knock him unconscious?! It’s flirting.”

“How does he know what it means?”

“Silas has gay instincts, Victor. Trust the process.”

“I don’t trust processes I don’t understand.”

“Clearly, because your current process is staring until people check if the doors are locked, dude. You need to stop making every sentence sound like it belongs in a psychological thriller.”

I cross my arms. “Give me an example.”

“Okay. Instead of saying, ‘I notice everything you do,’ you simply say, ‘I pay attention!’”

“But I do notice everything.”

“Baby, that’s the part we hide until marriage.”

“I don’t want marriage now.”

“You say that now. Give it three traumatic eye contacts and a good kiss.”

He finishes his glass of water. Wipes his mouth.

“Also Silas likes bold,” he says. “But not threatening bold. There’s a difference. Say, ‘come here.’”

“Come here.”

“That sounded like you were summoning him to his execution. Try again, a bit softer this time. You got this.”

I try again, smiling a little. “Come here.”

“BETTER. More bedroom, less courtroom. I like this.”

“You’re making this so confusing.”

“Flirting IS confusing, Victor. That’s why everyone is stupid and horny all the time. They don’t think. And they definitely don’t leave space for them to say no. You need to make him feel like he can say no.”

I look at him. “That isn’t flirting, that’s basic decency.”

Jett pauses. Then points at me.

“Yes. That. That right here. Say shit like that more often.”

“Basic decency?”

“No, dumbass. The part where you sounded like a man.”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, final test, because unfortunately I have an appointment in ten. Silas walks in. He looks extremely hot. What do you say?”

I think based on his advice.

“You look good.”

Jett waits. “That’s… it?”

“Yes?”

“No weird detail?”

“No.”

Jett slaps the table. “Okay. Progress. I like it. Now ask him to smoke with you. Simple.”

I nod. “Do you want to stand outside and poison your lungs with me?”

Jett screams. “NO. Ask again.”

I clear my throat. “Do you want to smoke with me?”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, listen,” Jett says, pointing at me. “I actually think you have potential.”

I stare at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. You do. There’s something there. It’s just…”

He waves his hand vaguely at my entire body. “You need to work on the creepy part.”

“The creepy part.”

“Yeah. Like, tone it down by maybe… seventy percent.”

I don’t answer.

“And ideally,” he continues, “I’d suggest not beating people up in front of him and biting them.”

“That wasn’t flirting.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He lifts both eyebrows. “Maybe don’t end up at the police station either. That’s not usually a cute first move.”

I look away.

Jett sighs, and for once, his voice softens.

“But between us, Adam deserved that and more.”

My eyes move back to him. He holds my stare for a second, serious now.

“I’m not saying he didn’t. I’m saying Silas doesn’t need more chaos attached to what happened. He needs something steady.”

Something steady. I want to be that.

Christ, I want to be that so badly it makes me feel sick.

“Just… go slow,” he says. “Really slow. He needs that. Trust me.”

I nod once.

I can do slow. I can do starving quietly.

I’ve been doing it for years.

I can sit with want until it rots in my ribs and still not let it touch him wrong.

I can be jealous, insane, pathetic, completely fucked in the head over him, and still move carefully.

I can stop being Vox so much. I can pull back. I can reduce the damage.

I can tell you. I have to tell you.

But not today.

Not when the truth would look like another weapon in the middle of everything else.

Soon, Silabun.

I swear. Soon.

Before this becomes unforgivable.

Or maybe it already is, and I’m just standing here learning how to smile through it.

---

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH GUYS

I’m afraid someone will do something VERY gay soon.

here I have a Depeche mode playlist for you guys with some important songs hehe. (the ones that Silas and Victor/Vox would listen to)

check this comment for the link➡️

if the link doesn’t work, this is my public spotify profile you can search my name

also I wanted to ask, for those of you who’ve read both Ride or Die and Guilty Pleasure, do you think Guilty Pleasure is just as hooky or not yet? 😭 I know there’s no smut YET, but how does it feel to you so far? :)

😼

30) Just A Concert

Silas’s POV

“I told you not to get attached and instead you organized an erotic concert with him, nice,” Jett tells me through my phone speaker.

I’m buttoning my pants in front of the mirror.

“It’s not erotic,” I mutter.

“Fuck you, Silas. Even YOU don’t believe that, man.”

I roll my eyes automatically and fix the waistband.

“Wasn’t the song World in My Eyes literally about orgasms from another dimension?” Jett continues dramatically. “And It’s No Good is basically a public announcement for yearning.”

“Jett, shut up. It’s just a concert.”

I fix my hair very carefully in the mirror.

“And how are you going?”

“Public transport. Too much traffic.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice drops slightly.

“Be careful, okay?”

I put my silver hoop into my ear slowly.

“Chill. We’re good. I’m hanging up now, I still need to find a shirt.”

Jett groans loudly. “Why do you sound so HAPPY? I’m gonna cry. This is a disaster.”

“Because I’m going to a concert, dumbass,” I laugh.

“Yeah, a concert or a fucking DATE—”

“Bye Jett, kisses, talk later.”

I hang up immediately before he says anything else.

Then I turn toward my closet.

Okay. Shirt.

Easy. Simple task.

Except my eyes land immediately on the Depeche Mode shirt Victor gave me.

And now I’m standing there staring at it.

Would it be cringe to wear it?

Absolutely.

Would it make me look like I planned this entire night around him psychologically?

Probably.

But unfortunately I’ve never been the right person for dignity.

So I grab it and pull it on anyway. I’ll buy him another one if he wants it back.

This one belongs to the streets now.

I’m the streets.

My phone vibrates suddenly. I grab it immediately.

VICTOR:

• coming

I just press like on the message and lock my screen fast.

Okay. Okay okay okay.

What am I forgetting.

Perfume. Shit.

I rush back into my room and grab my good one.

Not the everyday one.

My good one. Versace Dylan blue.

Because I do NOT go to Depeche Mode every day and if I die tonight at least I’ll die smelling expensive.

I spray too much immediately.

I fix my hair again in the mirror.

Then again.

Then one more time because suddenly nothing looks correct anymore.

I glance down at my hands.

I think I need more tattoos. There’s still space.

Definitely space. Maybe finger tattoos.

Knock knock.

My entire heart starts beating faster instantly.

Oh my God this is disgusting.

Why am I nervous. It’s literally just Victor.

I open the door, and immediately stop moving.

Oh, great.

We’re wearing the same fucking shirt.

Victor looks down at mine too and I can already feel myself dying internally.

He’s wearing black loose pants with those heavy black boots again, and somehow the new eyebrow piercing already looks like it’s part of the outfit.

Like it was missing before.

The silver cross around his neck catches the hallway light slightly when he moves.

This man genuinely dresses like he was created in a Depeche Mode laboratory underground.

“You know,” I say while leaning against the doorframe, “you could’ve just asked for the shirt back instead of buying another one.”

“It’s fine,” he says calmly. “That one was slightly small on me anyway.”

Then he points at me.

I look down at myself. “Fuck you.”

Victor laughs quietly.

He’s holding a paper bag mostly hidden behind his leg.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that?”

Victor hands it to me.

I recognize it from the smell alone. I start laughing immediately.

“You know you don’t have to bring me cinnamon buns every single time you come to my house, right?”

“I know,” he says simply. “But you might get hungry while we wait to get inside.”

My stomach does something deeply irritating. Because who the fuck thinks like that.

Who casually remembers another person might get hungry later and solves the problem in advance.

“Alright,” I mumble, trying not to smile too hard. “Thanks.”

Victor nods once. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

I lock the door behind me.

We take the Monorail down to MGM Grand, because trying to get anywhere near T-Mobile Arena by car before a concert is how people lose their will to live.

The train is completely packed. Like genuinely catastrophic.

We’re all pressed together like sardines and judging from the outfits alone, every single person here is clearly going to the exact same place.

Black clothes. Boots. Fishnets. Leather.

Beautiful atmosphere honestly. Unfortunately my own atmosphere is worse.

Because I am currently glued against Victor chest-to-chest thanks to the crowd.

Fully.

My head is turned slightly to the side so our faces aren’t directly aligned.

Because if I look to the left right now and accidentally make full eye contact from this distance, I think my nervous system might shut down permanently.

I keep trying to stay balanced without grabbing him too obviously, but the random violent bumps the train keeps doing are NOT helping me.

Every few seconds somebody crashes into my back and pushes me harder against him.

Amazing experience.

Victor doesn’t seem bothered at all.

He’s standing there calm as ever with one hand gripping the pole above us while his body basically blocks half the crowd from crushing me further.

The train jerks again suddenly.

I stumble slightly forward before I can stop myself.

And Victor’s hand moves instinctively to my waist to steady me.

Then he removes it immediately. Like he caught himself doing it.

And I instantly feel disappointed.

Because my body experienced three seconds of waist contact and immediately went: oh!

Actually embarrassing behavior from me.

I stare aggressively at the train doors instead.

You’re fine, Silas. Nobody is dying.

Another bump throws somebody against my shoulder.

Victor leans slightly closer automatically so I don’t get shoved sideways.

“You okay?” he asks quietly near my ear.

The low voice this close genuinely feels illegal.

“Yeah,” I answer way too fast.

He watches my face for half a second. Then nods once.

The train finally slows down. Thank God.

The doors open and the crowd practically spills outside all at once.

Fresh air hits me immediately.

The station is now packed with black clothes, band shirts, chains, and smudged eyeliner.

How are people already drunk and screaming song lyrics at each other?!

Victor walks beside me quietly while I hold the paper bag against my chest.

And every few seconds somebody glances at us.

Or more specifically, at him. I’m not even surprised.

The man currently looks like somebody’s toxic bisexual awakening.

“This was a good idea,” I admit while we step onto the escalator.

Victor glances at me. “The concert?”

“The train.”

He hums softly. “Told you.”

I look over the crowd below us. Then I look back at him.

If somebody painted the song “Personal Jesus” into a human being, it would probably look exactly like this.

—

It’s 7:45 PM by the time we finally make it inside the arena.

The atmosphere already feels unreal.

That classic instrumental loop is playing through the speakers before the concert starts. That weird hypnotic background beat.

People are still everywhere.

Some are buying drinks already like they’re preparing for war.

Others are sitting on the floor in little groups smoking together under the lights.

A bunch of people already pushed all the way to the barricade and claimed their spots.

The whole place smells like beer, smoke, and expensive perfume.

Victor turns toward me. “What do you want to do?”

I look around the arena again. Then back at him.

“I suggest we get our first beer dose.”

Victor nods thoughtfully. “And poison our lungs with smoke,” he adds casually, pulling a pack out of his pocket.

I stare at him. Slightly shocked.

I laugh under my breath and point at him. “That’s the shit I’m talking about. I’m so stealing that.”

Victor swallows. “Stealing what?”

“That.” I point at him with the cigarette. “The sentence. The nicotine romance thing. Mine now.”

“But it was mine.”

“Can you prove it?”

He doesn’t answer.

I smile.

“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go poison our lungs with smoke.”

The lights flash softly across his face for a second.

The eyebrow piercing.

The cross necklace.

The black clothes.

This man genuinely looks like he belongs in the soundtrack instead of the audience.

“Actually, I’m gonna go get us a spot closer to the front,” I tell him. “You go get the beers.”

Victor nods once.

My eyes follow him automatically through the crowd. Because my survival instincts are broken.

People move around him constantly but he still somehow stands out immediately.

It’s like everybody else came to the concert, but he came OUT of the concert.

I shake myself mentally and move toward the stage.

Time passes and I start looking around for him.

Because I sent him to get beer. Not personally craft it at the fucking beer factory.

I keep scanning the crowd while the music echoes through the arena.

People are getting louder now. And to make everything even more cinematic, it starts drizzling lightly.

Absolutely gorgeous.

Nothing says Depeche Mode like emotional instability and possible pneumonia.

Then I finally spot him.

He’s walking back toward me through the crowd carrying two huge beer cups in one hand and a plastic bag filled with more drinks in the other.

Of course he bought enough alcohol to survive an apocalypse.

I smile immediately before I can stop myself. “Finally,” I tell him when he reaches me.

Victor hands me one of the beers. “There’s still too many people near the entrance,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get a spot closer to the front.”

I look toward the crowd packed near the barricades.

“How the fuck are we supposed to get through THAT?”

Victor just looks at me calmly. “Just hold onto me.”

My stomach immediately does something embarrassing.

I grab onto his arm anyway and follow him as he starts moving through the crowd.

He moves through people terrifyingly well. He’s not rude or aggressive.

Just confident enough that everyone naturally shifts out of his way.

I stay close behind him while we squeeze through groups of people.

Every few seconds he glances back slightly to make sure I’m still there.

The crowd gets tighter the closer we get to the front.

“We’re good here,” Victor says.

I look around us. We somehow managed to get close enough to actually see the stage properly without being fully crushed to death yet.

I sit down on the floor immediately. Victor looks at me weirdly for a second. Then copies me anyway.

He sits down directly to my left and starts fanning himself lazily with one of the promotional flyers.

I turn toward him. “Do you… want some of my cinnamon bun?”

Victor shakes his head once like no.

“Eat,” I tell him.

“It’s yours.”

“And I’m clearly offering.”

I tear off a piece with my fingers, expecting him to take it normally like an actual human being.

Instead, he lowers his head and eats it directly from my hand.

Immediately my entire brain overheats. Like fully.

I can physically feel the blood rushing into my face in real time.

Because what the fuck was that. It wasn’t even sexual. That’s the worst part.

It was casual, and that somehow makes it ten times worse.

He wipes a little cream from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Then licks it off absentmindedly.

And I just stare at him. Victor notices instantly. Looks at me.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

Then his hand lands on my shoulder and he pulls me slightly closer to him.

A whole group passes right beside us at the same moment and Victor shifts me out of their way automatically until I’m basically half against his side.

I keep staring at him. Still processing literally everything that just happened.

“What?” Victor asks calmly. “They could’ve hit your back.”

I immediately turn away and take a huge sip of my beer.

“Thanks.”

By nine, we’re three beers in and the lights finally drop.

The entire arena changes in one second.

I grab Victor’s shoulder and we both stand up with the rest of the crowd.

I’m already laughing before anything even starts because I can’t hold all of it inside me.

The excitement. The alcohol. The lights.

The fact that I’m actually here. And he’s here too.

People start screaming from every direction before the first note even hits, and then My Cosmos Is Mine begins to play.

The place loses its mind. Like actual collective possession.

Everyone around me starts going insane at once.

A girl beside Victor lets out the most violent scream I’ve ever heard in my life and both of us immediately cover one ear at the same time, laughing like idiots.

Victor looks at me through the dark.

And the lights flash over his face for half a second.

I turn back fast because no. Absolutely not.

I cannot start romanticizing this man during the opening song or I’m finished.

The crowd surges forward.

My back presses against Victor’s chest. I feel him behind me before I even process it.

His arm shifts slightly near my side, not grabbing me, but still existing close enough to catch me if the crowd gets worse.

Which somehow makes it worse. Because he listened.

He’s close, but not too much. Protective, but not possessive.

I reach back into the plastic bag he’s holding and pull out another beer.

Victor looks down at me. Then opens one for himself too.

I lift mine. He taps his can against it.

A stupid little concert cheers in the middle of the apocalypse.

Then we drink at the same time while the stage lights explode across the crowd and the song shakes through my ribs.

Every few minutes I turn around just to make sure he’s having as much fun as I am.

Which is stupid.

Because Victor never really looks overwhelmed by anything.

He doesn’t react loudly. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t jump around.

But I still keep checking anyway.

And maybe I’m also using the excuse to look at him more.

The crowd keeps pressing us together from every direction and I’m definitely taking advantage of it a little.

Just a little.

Whenever my head gets heavy from the beer and the music and the lights, I let it rest slightly against him for a second.

Barely anything, really. Just enough to feel the warmth through his shirt.

I don’t even know if he notices. Maybe he notices everything and just lets me do it.

Honestly both options are terrifying.

The lights shift darker.

Ghosts Again starts.

Victor leans closer to my ear. “I like this one,” he says.

I turn toward him instantly.

The music is loud enough that I can barely hear my own thoughts, but his voice still cuts through everything somehow.

I grab the side of his neck automatically and lean closer so he can hear me too.

“You have taste,” I yell over the music.

Victor lights a cigarette.

The flame flashes gold across his face for one second before disappearing again.

He takes a drag slowly and exhales smoke into the lights above us.

“Thank you.”

Then he comes alive. That’s the only way I can explain it.

It’s like he finally fully stepped into the concert instead of just standing inside it.

He knows the lyrics. All of them. Exactly.

And he sings them with this weird quiet happiness that completely catches me off guard.

He looks genuinely happy for once.

He looks like he’s proud of himself for remembering the words.

Somewhere inside that terrifying brain of his, he actually spent time learning them because this mattered to him.

The crowd disappears for a second. And suddenly I can’t stop looking at him.

The lights blur. The smoke. The screaming. The music.

All of it fades behind him.

I keep trying to force myself to look away from him and focus on the actual concert happening in front of me.

You know. The real thing. The reason we’re all here.

But Victor feels like he has some kind of magnetic field around him right now.

Every time I look away, my eyes drift back automatically a few seconds later.

It’s not even just because he’s hot anymore. That would honestly be easier.

It’s the excitement.

The way he’s reacting to everything like he secretly loves this way more than he lets people see.

It’s addictive and contagious.

He keeps looking around with this quiet fascination every time the lights change or the crowd screams louder, and every reaction from him feels rare enough that my brain immediately latches onto it.

I feel like I discovered some hidden version of Victor nobody else gets to see often.

And I hate how much I like it.

The intro for Never Let Me Down Again suddenly starts.

My entire face changes instantly. Like full emotional possession.

“Oh my God,” I say immediately. “Okay. Be happy. This one’s MY favorite.”

Victor looks at me while I grab his wrist and lift his arm into the air with the rhythm of the song.

He laughs.

And doesn’t resist me at all. Which makes me laugh harder.

Because now I’m physically controlling this man like he’s a doll and he’s just letting me do it.

I keep moving his hand with the beat dramatically while the crowd completely loses their minds around us.

Victor shakes his head slightly, smiling into his cigarette smoke.

“This is important,” I tell him seriously over the music.

“I can tell.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy before.

Not just because of the concert. Because of him inside the concert.

Because who the fuck would’ve told me the first time I’d hear this song with Victor would be in his car while driving back to his house, and the second time would be live with thousands of people screaming it around us.

That feels fake.

Now the beat gets louder.

Everybody around us starts raising their hands. The lights flash over the crowd like lightning.

Then suddenly, a giant guy steps directly in front of me. Broad shoulders, tall as hell.

And he fully plants himself there in front of my face.

My smile disappears immediately.

Victor pulls the cigarette from his mouth and leans closer toward me.

“Do you want to get on my shoulders?”

My eyes widen immediately. “I can…?!”

“Yeah?” he says like it’s obvious. “A lot of people do it. I can hold you if you want.”

I smile a little. “Okay.”

Victor bends slightly and I climb onto his shoulders carefully while the crowd keeps moving around us.

I grab onto his head automatically while trying to balance myself.

His hands wrap firmly around my thighs to steady me.

And then suddenly, everyone is below me.

The phones in the air, the screaming. All of it spreads out underneath me at once. It feels fake.

The stage looks massive from up here. It feels perfect.

By the time the song ends, my throat hurts from singing.

Then Personal Jesus starts. And the entire place explodes again.

Everybody starts clapping with the rhythm immediately.

Thousands of hands moving together. Thousands of voices screaming the lyrics at once.

The beat shakes through my entire body while lights flash over the stadium and for one insane second I genuinely feel like I’m inside a movie scene somebody spent millions filming.

Victor’s hands tighten slightly around my thighs every time the crowd shifts too hard below us to keep me balanced.

And every now and then I can feel him laughing underneath me whenever I get too excited and nearly throw myself sideways during the song.

After a few seconds, I tap the top of Victor’s head lightly, and he lowers me back down carefully.

The second my feet touch the ground again, the world feels weirdly too small.

“I’m going for more beers,” he says. “We ran out. Embarrassing.”

I laugh.

Victor looks at me for a second. “Do you want anything else?”

I look at him.

I smile slowly.

“No,” I answer eventually.

Victor nods once and disappears back into the crowd.

Now the concert feels wrong without him beside me. Every two minutes I glance sideways to see if he’s coming back.

Every time I only see strangers instead, I get irrationally annoyed.

Like where the fuck is he.

Did the beer line consume him spiritually.

Then finally I spot him.

Victor’s figure pushes through the crowd again between random bodies and flashing lights, carrying the bag carefully while trying to make his way back to me.

And he’s smiling. Like he’s genuinely happy to be here again.

“Sorry,” he says once he reaches me. “The line was huge.”

“It’s okay. You came back just in time for ‘Precious.’”

He shifts the bag slightly in his hands. “I made something for you while I waited though.”

“For me??”

He nods once. Then reaches into the bag.

And pulls out a flower made from blue promotional flyers.

My breath catches immediately. “Oh my God.”

Victor laughs softly, suddenly looking almost nervous for the first time all night.

“It’s supposed to be an orchid,” he says. “I know it’s not entirely correct. I didn’t have scissors to—”

I grab the back of his neck and kiss him before I even fully realize I’m doing it.

It’s like my body made the decision without asking permission first.

My heart immediately starts beating so hard it feels painful.

My hands slide up to his face automatically, holding him there before I even realize what I’m doing.

Victor freezes completely. Doesn’t move.

And one second before I pull away in complete horror, both his hands land on my waist.

He just holds me there, like his body finally caught up with the situation.

Then he tilts his head and kisses me back so softly I genuinely think I might pass out.

His way of kissing is devastatingly gentle. It’s like he’s trying not to scare me away.

My eyes widen immediately.

Because oh my God. Oh my God we are actually fucking doing this.

I pull away from him too fast.

The moment dies before it even fully begins.

But our mouths stay close enough that we’re still breathing each other’s air.

His lips are slightly parted.

Mine too.

I look down.

Then at his mouth.

Then at his eyes.

Then somewhere vaguely ahead of me because suddenly I don’t know where the fuck to look anymore.

I clear my throat quietly.

I feel dizzy. And it’s definitely not the beer.

Victor still hasn’t moved.

He’s staring at me like he’s waiting for answers.

Which is fair considering I just stole a kiss out of absolutely nowhere.

“Sorry,” I mumble while nervously playing with the paper petals of the flower.

My fingers keep bending the fake orchid softly while my brain is screaming.

“Thank you, for the orchid,” I add weakly, lifting it slightly.

I don’t even know if he answers.

I hear him. But I don’t hear him. My head is buzzing too loudly.

Because now my brain is trying to panic about three different things at once.

The fact he somehow knows I like orchids.

The fact my first instinct after seeing it was kissing him.

Or the genuinely terrifying fact he kissed me back.

---

I WAS IN A RUSH OKAY???💔💔💔 I promise I can draw. Also they are not wearing black clothes here cause of the black background oop.

(how did I manage to make the first kiss happen on chapter 30 again… just like Ride or Die.)

I hope it was obvious that I wasn’t trying to make that kiss THE kiss. It was meant to be sudden and quick and not fully processed yet. When the actual real moment comes, I promise I’ll cook.

We are entering a whole new era now guys. Please don’t hate me, this story will have a happy ending okay????

I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND THIS AND STAY WITH ME.

31) He Kissed X

Silas’s POV

Fuck me. This is not a drill.

I kissed Victor. I kissed Victor .

I’ve been awake for, like, thirty fucking minutes now and I’m still staring at my ceiling.

The same thing keeps replaying in my head over and over again.

My brain got stuck on one frame and decided to torture me with it forever.

I kissed Victor. And he kissed me back.

I press my pillow over my face aggressively. I can’t believe I’ve become this embarrassing.

I feel weird. The humiliating kind.

The one where your stomach keeps flipping and flipping for no reason.

Suddenly I’m acting like a fourteen-year-old with a crush instead of a grown man.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Maybe it’s because I haven’t done anything physical with someone in a long time that wasn’t awkward or forced or emotionally exhausting afterward.

Maybe the concert messed with my brain chemistry permanently.

Maybe seeing him scream Depeche Mode lyrics like a psychopath rewired something inside me.

Or maybe I already saw him differently before that and I’m only realizing it now.

I drag the pillow tighter over my face.

Or maybe I’m just horny.

Honestly, at this point, I’d prefer that explanation because at least horny is fixable.

Horny is easy.

I lower the pillow slowly and stare at the ceiling again.

I’m fucked.

I spend almost an hour deciding what shirt to wear like a fucking idiot.

Not because I care. Obviously.

I just suddenly hate every piece of clothing I own.

I throw a black shirt on my bed.

Then another one. Then another one.

Why am I acting like I’m getting ready for a date? I’m literally going to work.

I see this man every day.

He has seen me covered in ink, sweat, blood, sugar. There is genuinely no reason for me to suddenly care this much about my appearance.

And yet here I am fixing my hair for the fifth fucking time.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

What exactly is my plan today?

Walk into the studio casually after kissing Victor Acosta under flashing concert lights?

Am I supposed to fist bump him now?? Pretend nothing happened??

Do we nod at each other professionally?

Do we discuss it??

Do we never discuss it again and die slowly instead?

I grab my phone from the sink. No messages from him.

My stomach immediately does something humiliating.

Not because I wanted him to text me. I didn’t.

I mean, maybe a little.

Not something intense. Just something normal. Something casual.

I throw the phone back down aggressively.

This is exactly why I avoid emotional shit.

The second something becomes real, suddenly everything means something.

Every look means something. Every silence means something. Every fucking inhale means something.

And Victor is the worst possible person for this to happen with because he never acts the way normal people act.

I groan into my hands.

What if he acts normal today?

Actually no, worse, what if he doesn’t?

What if he looks at me too long again?

What if he touches me casually and my body decides to betray me in front of God and everybody?

What if Jett notices??

Oh my God. Jett is absolutely going to notice.

That man can smell that stuff from across state lines.

I grab my keys dramatically.

Maybe I should fake my death.

Not forever. Just for like… three business days until I figure out how to look Victor in the eyes again without remembering exactly how his mouth felt against mine.

The problem is I know the second I see him, I’m done.

Because now I know he kisses back.

And unfortunately that information has ruined my entire fucking life.

Jett is going to kill me.

I genuinely think he might strangle me with his bare hands when he finds out I ignored every single warning he gave me and still ended up with my mouth on Victor’s mouth.

“He’s weird, Silas.”

Yeah well apparently I like weird because not only did I kiss him, I stopped approximately one second before I completely lost my mind and shoved my tongue down his throat in public.

I press both hands over my face.

What is WRONG with me?

I’m supposed to be the emotionally unavailable one in this situation.

I’m supposed to be the difficult person. The complicated one.

Meanwhile Victor stands there looking at me with those dark psycho eyes and suddenly I’m out here fighting demons because he kissed me softly one time.

Softly.

I flop backward onto my mattress dramatically.

Because why the fuck was he so gentle? Why did he hold my waist like that?

Why did he kiss me like I was something fragile when I literally spend half my day acting like an asshole to him at work?

I squeeze my eyes shut aggressively.

I can still feel it.

I can literally remember the exact pressure of his mouth against mine and I hate that for me.

And the thing is, Victor doesn’t even act seductive on purpose.

He’s not smooth. He’s not flirty in a normal way.

He just exists like that naturally and it’s infuriating.

Like okay wow congratulations on your terrifying eye contact and weirdly careful hands and confusing personality.

Happy for you.

Actually, wait. No.

I sit up suddenly.

The lighting was evil. That’s what caused this.

Depeche Mode should honestly be legally responsible for whatever the fuck happened to me last night.

Because there’s no way that man was standing there in black clothes with messy hair and flushed cheeks after screaming lyrics about desire and sin directly into my bloodstream and expected me to behave normally?!

Impossible situation.

Oh my God.

What if he was trying not to kiss me FIRST?

What if this whole time Victor has been fighting demons too and I just accidentally unlocked something catastrophic inside him?

No.

I reject this theory immediately because if I think about Victor wanting me for longer than five seconds I’m actually going to lose consciousness.

I grab my phone again.

Nothing.

Okay. Interesting.

At this point it’s kind of rude, isn’t it?

Like I’m not saying he should’ve written me a love letter or proposed marriage outside my house, but hello??

We literally kissed.

That feels like an event that deserves at least one text message after.

Even something stupid.

A thumbs up. A “you alive?” A blurry picture of a wall.

Anything.

Instead this man vanished into the fucking wilderness.

I throw my phone next to me dramatically.

Which is honestly insane behavior from HIM specifically because Victor doesn’t strike me as the type to casually kiss someone and then go completely silent after.

He barely even speaks normally unless he has something important to say.

So now my brain is trying to figure out if this silence means:

1. He regrets it.
2. He’s panicking too.
3. He got hit by a car.
4. He’s secretly emotionally stable, and I’m the only person crashing out right now.

Actually no. Impossible.

Nobody that intense is emotionally stable.

I grab my phone again immediately.

Yeah, still nothing. So this is what we’re doing.

Maybe he thinks it was a mistake.

Maybe he kissed me back because rejecting me there would’ve made things awkward.

I physically sit up.

No.

That last one is bullshit and even I know it. Nobody kisses like THAT accidentally.

I groan loudly and fall backward again.

Look at me.

I’ve officially become one of those people who analyze texting patterns like a conspiracy theorist.

Maybe he’s waiting for ME to text first.

No fucking way.

Why should I text first?? I already kissed him first.

I carried the entire nation on my back yesterday emotionally.

It’s his turn now.

But what if he thinks HE made things weird because he kissed me back too hard?

I stare at the ceiling.

Did he kiss me too hard?!

No.

God no.

If anything, he didn’t kiss me hard ENOUGH. It was barely a kiss.

I drag both hands down my face. I’ve completely lost my mind. Completely.

Fucking Acosta brothers.

One of them was obsessed with me and now I’m out here acting like a rabid dog over the other one.

Actually that family needs to be studied in a laboratory because what the fuck do they put in their genetics??

Why do they all act like emotionally devastating supernatural creatures?

Leo made me want to commit homicide.

Victor makes me want to lie face down on train tracks because he kissed me softly once and didn’t send a follow-up text.

Pathetic. Actually deeply pathetic.

If Jett could see inside my brain right now he would spray me with water like a misbehaving cat.

“Don’t fall for Victor.”

Yeah okay amazing advice, thank you Jett, unfortunately Victor decided to look at me like that and now here we are.

I walk into the studio and immediately look around casually.

Very casually. Not in a desperate way. Not in a “where the fuck is Victor” way.

Just normal casual scanning.

I glance toward the stations. Then toward the back hallway. Then upstairs toward the loft area.

Nothing.

Okay. Cool.

Whatever.

I pull my phone out like I suddenly have extremely important business to handle.

I stare at the screen for absolutely no reason.

Then I check the time even though I literally checked it thirty seconds ago outside.

I head toward the front desk instead.

Poppy’s sitting there eating cookies and the second she sees me, her eyes narrow immediately.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Silas.”

She keeps staring suspiciously.

I don’t know why. I’m acting completely normal.

“Did my appointment for today arrive yet?”

She swallows her bite of cookie. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Nice.”

I nod once. Way too casually.

“So…” I lean against the desk. “Where’s Victor? Did he come in already?”

“He’s gonna be late.”

My stomach immediately drops for no fucking reason.

“Why?”

Poppy laughs lightly. “He took Pickle to the vet. Just a checkup.”

Oh. Okay.

That’s actually kind of cute.

“He told you that today?”

“Yeah.”

I stare at her for a second. “Did he say anything about me?”

Poppy slowly lowers the cookie. “…Silas.”

“What?”

“Do you have something to tell me?”

I laugh immediately and glance behind me toward the staircase leading upstairs to Jett’s room.

He might materialize out of thin air if I say the wrong thing too loudly.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” I whisper dramatically, “but you cannot tell Jett.”

“Babe,” she says instantly, “you’re asking a lot from me already. But okay. What happened?”

I can’t stop smiling suddenly and it’s actually horrifying.

I laugh under my breath.

“Yesterday I kissed Victor.”

Her jaw drops.

“WHAT—”

“Shhh!” I nearly launch myself across the desk. “Lower your fucking voice!”

“Oh my God, Silas—HOW?? When? Wait was it after the concert? Did he kiss you back? Oh my God, I knew something weird was happening with you two—”

“Yes, okay, relax,” I mutter, already feeling heat climbing into my face. “I’ll tell you later because that Thiago guy is coming for the thigh tattoo and I need to set up first.”

“No, no, no,” she says immediately, grabbing my wrist dramatically. “You can’t say something like that and LEAVE.”

“Watch me.”

“Silas Blackwood!”

I laugh again.

Jesus Christ, I haven’t laughed this much in days.

“Bye, Poppy.”

I lean over the desk quickly and kiss her cheek before escaping downstairs.

The second I reach my station, I exhale slowly and grab my gloves from the drawer.

Still smiling.

Which is starting to piss me off a little.

He apparently takes his dog to regular checkups like some functional suburban husband.

I finish setting everything up downstairs and head back up to grab my coffee when a loud engine suddenly echoes outside the studio.

A second later, a guy in black shorts and a black tank top pulls up outside on a motorcycle.

Oh. Right.

Thiago.

He takes his helmet off and completely destroys his hair trying to fix it with one hand before walking toward the entrance.

The door swings open.

He’s talking on the phone in rapid-fire Spanish and Jesus fucking Christ.

Why does he talk so fast?

I swear to God he’s not even speaking anymore. He’s rapping.

There’s no way human lungs are supposed to function at that speed.

Poppy and I both stare at him while he keeps walking around casually saying things in Spanish aggressive enough to sound like he’s threatening someone.

Then he notices us. He points immediately. “Hey!”

He grins and waves dramatically while still talking into the phone.

We wave back.

A few more seconds later he hangs up and turns toward us with the biggest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.

“Eyy, Blackwood!” he says loudly. “You ready to violate my leg with a magnum?”

I choke on absolutely nothing. I stare at him for a second in shock. Then I burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I say, pointing at him. “You came prepared. I like you already.”

“Of course I did.” He spreads his arms dramatically. “Make my thigh yours, man. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

I laugh again while grabbing my coffee.

“No because genuinely,” I say while heading downstairs with him, “most people come in absolutely terrified and silent. You walked in sounding excited to get psychologically and physically damaged.”

“That’s because I HAVE been psychologically damaged before,” he says proudly while following me downstairs. “Now I’m immune. Are you gonna bully me while tattooing me?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

I look back at him in disbelief.

Why is he weirdly fun?

And why does every man I meet lately act clinically insane in a completely different way?

Victor acts like a ghost trapped inside a fighter’s body.

Thiago acts like somebody gave a golden retriever access to caffeine.

Actually maybe this is my punishment from the universe.

Maybe I attract unstable men professionally now.

We’re two hours into Thiago’s tattoo and we’re not even halfway done.

His thigh is red already and my back hurts from the angle I’m working at, but he’s still weirdly energetic for someone currently getting stabbed repeatedly with needles.

“You’re in love,” he says suddenly from the tattoo bed.

I look up immediately. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He points lazily toward me without lifting his head fully.

“We’ve taken, like, three breaks already so you could go upstairs,” he says. “And you changed your gloves five different times just to unlock your phone and then lock it again two seconds later. Also, don’t know if you noticed, but you smile for no reason, like, every few seconds. It’s both creepy and cute.”

I stare at him.

He continues. “So either you’re in love or you have a child in the hospital and you’re waiting for updates about their condition, or you have a crush on me.”

I burst out laughing.

I dip the needle into the ink again and go back into his skin.

“Why does that HURT so fucking bad,” he groans immediately into his hand covering half his face.

“I’m doing the shading,” I say. “That’s why.”

But I’m smiling again.

“Okay but seriously,” Thiago says. “You keep checking your phone like somebody’s about to text you the cure to death.”

I don’t answer immediately.

Because okay, I’m NOT in love. But something IS wrong with me.

I wipe the excess ink from his thigh.

“Can I tell you something,” I say slowly, “or are you secretly homophobic and about to leave a one-star review on the Linea Ink website?”

Thiago lifts his head instantly. “Wait. Do I look homophobic?”

“No?” I answer.

“Good,” he says immediately. “Cause I’d take a bullet for my gays, even though I’m straight.”

I snort and I almost mess up a line. “Good to know.”

“Thank you.”

I shake my head while cleaning the area again.

“Well…” I say carefully. “Yesterday I maybe kissed someone. Let’s call him X. And now I’m panicking because we haven’t said anything since.”

“OHHHHH,” Thiago yells dramatically. “There it is.”

I laugh under my breath.

“Yeah, okay, don’t make it weird.”

“No, no, I NEED details,” he says, turning slightly. “Was it good?”

I hesitate for half a second too long.

Thiago gasps loudly. “Oh my God. It was good.”

I roll my eyes automatically. “Shut up.”

“No, because your face changed,” he says. “You got that stupid little smile.”

Before I can answer, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

Then Jett’s voice.

“Bro, I just pierced an actual dick and I NEED to talk about it.”

He reaches the bottom step still talking.

“Like genuinely. I swear that thing looked at me—”

Then he notices Thiago.

The two of them stare at each other for a second.

“…Okay. The dick story can wait. Sorry about that.”

“No, stay,” Thiago says immediately. “I want details about the dick piercing. I’m open-minded. I might do it.”

Jett bursts out laughing. “I have to admit,” he says while walking closer, “that’s kind of hot. Like hell yeah. Put jewelry on this dick, babe. Dress it up.”

Both of them start laughing.

I stare at my gloves in silence.

“Okay,” Thiago says suddenly, pointing at me from the tattoo bed, “but FIRST wait because I’m invested in your friend’s love life now.”

Oh no. No no no.

“He kissed X yesterday,” Thiago continues proudly, “and now he’s waiting for a text message from him.”

I slowly lift my head.

Very slowly.

I look at Jett.

Jett drags his tongue slowly across his top teeth.

“…He kissed X, huh?”

Fuck.

He grabs a chair dramatically and pulls it right next to us before sitting down backwards on it.

“Don’t mind me,” he says casually.

Then he looks directly into my soul.

“I just wanna hear the story too.”

I immediately look back down at Thiago’s thigh.

Coward behavior. Absolutely pathetic behavior.

But if I make eye contact with Jett right now, that man is going to sniff the Victor off me instantly like a police dog.

I’m not saying Victor’s name out loud because the guy is literally famous and what if Thiago somehow knows who he is?

I’m not risking that shit.

“So…” Jett says slowly, staring directly into my soul. “Did X kiss you, or did YOU kiss him?”

“I kissed him,” I admit reluctantly.

Jett’s eyebrows shoot up instantly.

Thiago slaps the tattoo bed dramatically. “OHHHHH. He folded first.”

“I did not fold,” I argue immediately.

“You kissed him first,” Jett says flatly. “That’s literally folding.”

Thiago points at me.

“No because wait, this changes everything. You’re acting like the victim when YOU attacked the man.”

“I did not attack him.”

“You put your mouth on him first,” Jett says. “That’s assault with… romantic intent.”

I laugh and wipe excess ink from Thiago’s thigh aggressively.

“Okay, whatever. It just happened.”

“How?” Thiago asks immediately. “Like cinematically or awkwardly?”

I hesitate. Both of them notice.

“Oh my God…” Jett mutters. “It was cinematic. We are doomed.”

“It was after a concert,” I mumble.

Thiago screams. “A CONCERT KISS???”

“Lower your fucking voice!”

“What concert??”

“Depeche Mode.”

Thiago grabs his chest. “You, slut.”

Jett stares at me in disbelief. “Did he kiss you back?”

I go quiet for one second too long.

Thiago starts kicking the air. “HE KISSED HIM BACK.”

“Can you both calm down?!”

“No,” Jett says immediately. “Continue.”

Thiago shifts slightly on the bed. “Okay wait. Important question. Was he a good kisser?”

I shrug, smiling.

Jett notices instantly. “Oh my God…”

“No, shut up.”

“That hesitation was LOUD,” Thiago says. “You paused like you were remembering war flashbacks.”

I press my lips together trying not to smile.

“Oh my God,” Jett says, pointing at me. “You LIKE him.”

“I don’t—”

“You literally look sick.”

“He kissed softly,” I blurt out before my brain can stop me.

Thiago slowly sits up. “…What?”

I immediately regret speaking.

“He just—” I gesture vaguely with my machine still in hand. “I don’t know. He was gentle about it.”

Thiago grabs Jett’s arm dramatically. “We need a demonstration.”

“No we absolutely do not,” I say.

“Yes we do,” Jett says seriously while standing up.

I stare at them in horror.

“This studio is not OSHA approved.”

Jett ignores me completely and walks closer to Thiago.

“Okay,” Jett says. “I’ll be Silas.”

“Obviously,” Thiago says. “You have the lesbian energy for it.”

Jett gasps. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Thiago stands up from the bed carefully and walks toward Jett.

“Okay,” he says dramatically. “So how did he touch you?”

Thiago grabs Jett’s waist awkwardly.

“No,” I say immediately. “Not like that.”

Both of them turn toward me.

Jett narrows his eyes slowly. “…Show us.”

“No.”

“Show us.”

I groan loudly and point lower on my own waist.

“Lower.”

Thiago’s jaw drops dramatically. “OH.”

Jett starts laughing instantly. “Lower than that??”

“Shut up.”

Thiago repositions his hand lower on Jett’s waist.

I stare at them for two seconds. “…No, not like that either.”

“Oh my God,” Jett says. “You remember DETAILS.”

“How did he do it then?” Thiago asks.

I gesture uselessly in the air while feeling my face getting hotter.

“He just—” I groan. “He kinda pulled me closer. I think?!”

Both of them go dead silent.

Then Thiago slowly turns toward Jett.

“That man wanted him carnally.”

“Actually carnally,” Jett agrees.

I bury my face in my gloves for one second. “Stop talking.”

Jett’s eyes narrow immediately.

“WAIT. Did… X tilt your head too?”

I stare at the floor.

“He did, didn’t he…” Jett whispers dramatically.

Thiago laughs. “You’re DONE.”

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs again.

Heavier footsteps this time.

My heart immediately starts beating faster.

I know those footsteps. Victor.

He steps into the room wearing black cargos and a dark gray tank top, hair slightly messy, and the second his eyes land on the tattoo bed they widen completely.

“Thiago??”

“VICTOR???”

What the fuck.

Victor immediately bursts into actual laughter and Thiago launches himself off the bed despite the half-finished thigh tattoo.

They grab each other in a ridiculously tight hug while yelling in Spanish over each other at full volume.

Thiago is literally screaming from excitement. Victor is laughing.

Jett slowly covers his face with one hand and turns toward me.

“We are fucked beyond repair,” he whispers. “How the FUCK did this happen??”

I can’t even answer. I’m sweating.

Meanwhile Victor and Thiago are still talking rapid-fire Spanish.

Victor suddenly looks completely different.

Alive.

Usually there’s always this heaviness around him, even when he jokes.

But right now he looks light.

And weirdly beautiful. I look away immediately.

They finally separate and turn toward us still grinning.

Thiago points dramatically at Victor.

“Guys,” he says, “this right here is the coolest fucking thing Spain has ever created. I swear to God, I fucking love this guy.”

Victor smiles awkwardly at the praise. Then he looks at me.

God. That look.

It’s subtle. Nobody else would notice it.

But I do, because now I know what he looks like after kissing me.

And unfortunately this is the exact same face.

Thiago keeps talking completely unaware he’s actively ruining my life.

“I’ve known him since we were babies,” he explains proudly. “Our parents kept forcing us to hang out because I have a twin sister.”

He looks back at Victor.

“Sit with us. Call the girl upstairs too. We’re discussing Silas’s love life.”

My soul leaves my body instantly. Victor’s eyebrows lift slightly.

I stare directly at my ink caps.

“I’d love to,” Victor says calmly, “but I have an appointment now.”

“Yeah,” I say immediately.

“Yeah,” Jett repeats aggressively.

Thiago groans dramatically. “Tragic. You’re missing out. It’s juicy.”

Victor glances at me again.

That tiny almost-smile appears for half a second.

I want to die.

“What are you doing in Las Vegas?” Victor asks Thiago. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Did Rosalía come too?”

“Yeah,” Thiago says proudly. “It’s cruise season, baby.”

Victor immediately laughs softly under his breath. “The old man finally left her in charge of the cruise ship?”

“Finally,” Thiago says. “She’s acting like a mafia boss about it too.”

Then he looks at all of us excitedly.

“We’re all going on the first trip together. You better come.”

“Oh, I’m so fucking in,” Jett says instantly. “I’m ready for free cocktails from rich strangers.”

Thiago points at him dramatically. “I’m a bartender. I can take care of you.”

Jett clutches his chest. “Babe…”

“Stop flirting,” I mutter automatically while cleaning the tattoo again.

---

HEEEEYYYY you better vote cause WE GOT A NEW CHARACTER YAYYYYY :)

He’s important. Also I love the next chapter hehe

THATS ALL I LOVE YOU BYE🩷

32) You Good, Acosta?

Victor’s POV

I think you actually damaged something in a permanent neurological way inside my brain when you kissed me.

Because I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.

It’s embarrassing.

There are parts I have replayed so many times that they no longer feel fully connected to the rest.

Your lower lip against mine. The breath that got trapped between us.

The almost dizzy heat of knowing this was your first move… not mine.

The ache right after when it ended too fast.

The way my whole body seemed to realize at once that something had been given and taken in the same second.

I keep pressing on that feeling.

Given and taken. Given and taken. Given and taken.

Maybe that is why I cannot leave it alone. Because it did not resolve. It opened.

It did not satisfy anything. It made everything so much worse. It made wanting more feel suddenly possible.

Before that kiss, wanting you could still hide behind other things.

Behind banter. Behind music. Behind proximity. Behind tattoos.

But after that, I’m afraid my body knows too much. My mouth knows too much.

There is no innocence left in it now.

You crossed the line first and now I cannot uncross it inside myself.

I replay it until I am nauseous.

I replay it until I can almost trick myself into believing the kiss was the truth and your apology was the mistake.

I keep thinking maybe the most honest thing you ever did was kiss me before you could stop yourself.

Maybe that split second was truer than anything either of us has said out loud.

Maybe the apology came from fear, not regret.

Maybe you wanted it. Maybe you want it still.

Maybe if I stood in front of you right now and did nothing, absolutely nothing, you would do it again.

Maybe you would hate that you did it, but maybe you would still do it.

Maybe maybe maybe.

This is how obsession eats a person. In loops.

I can feel myself doing it and I do not stop.

I let it happen because part of me would rather be sick with the memory of you than healthy without it.

I would rather keep replaying our kiss until it turns sinister than let it fade into something ordinary.

Ordinary would mean it did not matter enough.

And it matters too much. You matter too much.

And you’re about to tattoo me, which now feels like an insane thing to allow considering the current psychological state you’ve put me in.

You shouldn’t be allowed near me permanently right now.

I’m standing inside the bakery. You would hate how long I’ve been here.

I already bought the cinnamon buns twenty minutes ago.

The exact ones you like.

I should’ve left already. But I don’t want to.

Because the second I leave this place and drive to your house, this stops being temporary.

That’s the problem.

Right now I’m still in the middle of it.

Still suspended somewhere between lying to you and ruining everything.

And I keep delaying it because I know once I walk through your front door, I have to choose.

Either I keep lying to you.

Or I tell you the truth and watch your face change.

I genuinely don’t know which option is worse. I think both of them destroy me differently. But only one destroys you long term.

So I already know what I’m going to do.

I’m going to tell you the truth.

I just haven’t figured out how to survive the next five minutes after that yet.

You have no idea how badly I want to keep pretending.

I liked this version of us, Silabun. The easy version.

I liked when you kissed me before knowing what kind of person I actually am.

That memory feels poisoned now.

Because every time I replay it, my brain immediately follows it with: he didn’t know.

And you should’ve known.

You should’ve had the full picture before touching me like that.

Before looking at me like that.

You really shouldn’t kiss people like that casually, by the way. It creates more psychological problems.

It’s humiliating. You’re about to tattoo me and all I can think about is your mouth.

That feels deeply inappropriate considering the circumstances.

And unfortunately, I still want you to touch me even now.

Even knowing what I’m about to do.

I think that’s the moment I realized this got serious for me.

Not when you kissed me.

It got serious when I realized I’d rather tell you the truth and lose you than keep lying and keep you anyway.

Because I can handle you hating me.

I don’t think I can handle watching you trust me while I continue lying to your face.

So tonight I’m telling you everything.

Because our kiss was beautiful. My silence was not.

And after that you either laugh at me. Or call me insane. Or tell me to get out of your house.

I think disappearing forever would probably hurt less than hearing disappointment in your voice.

—

I get out of the car and wait outside his door.

For some reason, the first thing I look at is the pool.

It’s full. It’s November. Why does he have a full pool in November?

I stare at it for a second too long, because my brain needs something useless to focus on or it’s going to start focusing on him.

The door opens.

Silas stands there with wet hair and loose gray clothes.

My first thought is that I want to throw him into the pool and kiss him.

My second thought is that this might be the last time I see him this close.

I smile.

“Hi,” I say. “I got these for you.”

I hold out the bag.

He looks down at it, then back at me.

“Stop acting like we’re dating,” he mutters.

But then he does this small thing with his mouth. A little smirk at the end that changes the whole sentence.

It stops sounding like a complaint about me doing too much.

It starts sounding like a complaint that I don’t do more .

I look at his mouth for half a second longer than I should.

“I’m just being polite,” I say.

“Well, I don’t see you bringing stuff to Poppy or Jett when you see them.”

Neither of us speaks. We just stare at each other.

“I’ll start bringing them stuff,” I say.

Silas laughs under his breath and steps aside. “Come in, psycho.”

I walk inside. His house smells like his soap.

And under that, just Silas. Something I don’t have a better word for.

I wish I could keep it.

He closes the door behind me and walks past me.

“So,” he says, moving toward his tattoo stuff. “Have you thought about what you want me to do to you?”

I turn my head and look at him.

Bad sentence.

Bad, bad sentence.

There are many things I want you to do to me.

Mark me. Choke me. Bite me.

Fuck me.

Put your hands on me until I forget what I came here for.

Obviously, I don’t say any of that.

Because I’m here for a tattoo. Because I am a normal man.

I look at his supplies instead.

“I want something small,” I say. “Preferably somewhere it won’t show much.”

He turns his head toward me.

“Why?” he asks, already smiling. “You’re a tattoo artist. What are you scared of? Someone judging you for having tattoos?”

I don’t answer fast enough.

He lifts his hoodie. “Look at me. I have them everywhere.”

And then I stop having thoughts.

Not all of them. Just the useful ones.

His stomach shows first. Then the sharp lines of his abs.

His skin. His tattoos. His chest.

I look. I know I’m looking. I still look.

“They’re really nice,” I say, completely gone.

Silas pauses. Then his smile gets worse.

“Yeah?” he says. “See? No big deal.”

No big deal. Right.

His body is in front of me and I’m supposed to act like this is a casual educational moment about visible tattoos.

I want to touch the ink with my tongue. I want to follow every line.

Instead, I keep my hands still. Very still.

“I might choose you,” I say, “if I ever want something visible in the future.”

His eyes stay on me. I feel it in my throat.

“For now,” I add, “I want a small orchid.”

The smirk weakens.

His fingers pause over the tray. And I know exactly where his mind goes.

The concert. The paper orchid. The lights.

Our kiss. He kissed me because of the orchid.

Or maybe the orchid just gave him an excuse. I don’t know which answer is worse.

“An orchid?” he says.

I nod. “Yeah. An orchid.”

Then I remember the paper in my hand.

“I made you the design I want,” I say. “I drew it myself.”

I give it to him.

Silas takes the paper and unfolds it. For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

Then he smiles softly.

“In case you didn’t get it yesterday,” he says, handing the paper back to me, “I really like orchids.”

I smile.

“Yeah,” I say. “You made that kind of clear.”

“Where do you want it?” he asks. “If you don’t want it showing.”

I look down for a second.

“I was thinking under the waistband,” I say. “Not too low. Just… somewhere around there.”

He nods too fast. That means he got nervous.

I notice it immediately.

“You can say no,” I add, because suddenly the air feels different. “Obviously. If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine. I can pick another spot or ask someone else—”

“No, no,” he cuts in. “I don’t have a problem with it. Chill. I can do it.”

Then he shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid. “What you think I mean.”

I don’t want to think. So I don’t.

I refuse to imagine Silas leaning over someone else like this.

Touching someone else’s skin.

Being close to someone else’s waistband with gloves on and that mouth running loose.

No.

I am not doing that to myself.

“Okay,” he says, walking toward his printer. “Lie down. Make yourself at home. I’ll print the stencil and we can start.”

I nod and sit back. The only sound for a moment is the stencil printer.

It fills the room with this mechanical noise, and somehow that makes everything worse. Because now we’re not joking.

Now I’m sitting in his house, waiting for him to put a flower on my skin.

“Why an orchid?” he asks.

I don’t answer right away.

Because I didn’t prepare for that question.

I should have. I should have known he would ask.

I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him it’s because, to me, the orchid is him.

I can’t tell him that in Minecraft, I keep giving him orchids and he keeps giving me roses, and for some reason that has become one of the only things in my life that makes sense.

I can’t tell him I want something on my body that reminds me of him when he’s not there.

That sounds insane. Even for me.

“I just like them.”

Silas comes back with the stencil in his hand.

He doesn’t look like he believes me. He also doesn’t push.

“Undo your belt and lower your pants.”

I stare at him.

Not because I didn’t hear him. Because I heard him too clearly.

“Unless you want me to do it.”

My head turns toward him fast.

He doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t laugh it off.

He doesn’t say sorry, I didn’t mean that. He just looks at me, waiting.

Like there is actually an answer he wants.

My fingers go still on my belt. For one second, I think about saying yes.

I think about how his hands would look there. I think about how close he would have to stand.

Then I stop thinking because thinking is starting to become a problem.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

I unbuckle my belt. Silas turns around like he’s giving me privacy.

Which is funny. Stupid, actually.

Because in a few minutes, his face is going to be right there.

His hands are going to be on me. His breath might hit my skin if he leans too close.

But sure. Privacy.

I lower my pants just enough and sit back.

“Okay,” I say.

He turns around. I watch his eyes move before he can stop them.

From my stomach.

To my hip.

To the waistband.

Lower.

His jaw shifts once.

“Where do you think it would look best?” I ask.

He lets out a small laugh. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the best tattoo artist in Vegas,” I say. “Who else would I ask?”

That shuts him up. He steps closer and looks at the space carefully.

He lifts the shirt slightly, studying the area. Then he exhales like he’s mad at the situation.

Or himself.

His fingers move to the edges of my pants. He pauses.

“Can I… a little?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

He lowers the fabric a little. His gloved finger touches my side.

I go completely still. He draws an invisible line along my skin.

“Here would be nice,” he says. “Not in the center.”

His finger stops near my hip.

“It’ll look too crowded if there’s just a flower sitting right above your dick.”

I laugh.

Silas glances up at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re laughing because I said dick?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m laughing because you said it with a straight face.”

He looks at me, smiling. He clears his throat and looks back down.

“This design would look better here,” he says, tapping lightly at my side. “The angle works better. It’ll follow the shape instead of fighting it.”

I nod, but I’m not sure I hear all of it. Because he’s still touching me.

“You like it there?” I ask.

His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”

I swallow.

“Okay,” I say. “I trust you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

Then he sits on the chair to my right. He pulls on fresh gloves and leans closer.

He starts shaving the area carefully, clearing every small hair from my skin.

I stare at the ceiling for exactly two seconds before my eyes betray me and go back to him.

“Sorry I didn’t do that before,” I say. “I wasn’t sure where I was putting it.”

“I don’t mind,” he says.

He wipes the area clean, then lines up the stencil. His face gets more serious.

I like that face. I should not like that face this much.

He presses the stencil down with careful fingers, smoothing it over my skin. He holds it there for a few seconds, then peels the paper away.

The orchid stays behind.

He looks at it, then at me. “You like it?”

I lift my head and look down. The placement is perfect.

I nod.

“Yeah,” I say. “Do it.”

He laughs a little to himself.

“What?” I ask.

His mouth twitches. “It’s weird that this is your first tattoo.”

I smile. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he says, setting up the machine. “Just weird.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, but he doesn’t look at me when he says it.

“Because it’s you.”

The machine starts buzzing. And then he begins.

I don’t look away from him. Not once.

The outline takes time, but I barely feel it after a while.

Because I’m watching his face. His focused face is hypnotic.

His brows pull together slightly. His mouth stays relaxed, but not fully. His eyes track every line.

He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t run his mouth.

For once, he just works. And it makes me feel insane.

He finishes the outline and pulls back slightly.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

He sprays cleaner over the tattoo. The cold hits my skin and I tense.

Some of it runs lower.

A few drops slide down before either of us can stop them.

Under the waistband. Into my underwear.

Silas sees it. So do I.

He looks at me.

“I need to wipe that,” he says.

“Then do it.”

He nods.

Then his hand moves with the paper towel slowly, giving me time to stop him.

I don’t.

He slips the towel under the elastic.

His gloved hand actually brushes my dick.

It should be nothing. It is not nothing.

I stare at the ceiling.

I look at the wall. I look at him.

He definitely takes his time.

He wipes once. Then he does it again. Then checks the side. Then presses lightly near the fabric to catch the rest.

Every touch is supposed to be work.

But my body does not understand that. My body only understands one thing.

Silas.

Silas is touching me.

Silas is too close.

Silas has his hand under my underwear and his mouth is right there.

Fuck.

Heat rushes down.

No.

No.

Not while he’s tattooing me and I’m lying here acting like a deprived animal because his hand accidentally brushed my dick.

I sit up too quickly. Silas pulls back a little.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say.

His hand grabs my pants before I can pull them up.

“Don’t pull them up,” he says.

I stop. My pulse is in my throat.

“Right,” I say.

He looks at me for one second too long. Like he knows.

Fuck.

He absolutely fucking knows. Maybe he felt it too.

I nod once and turn away fast before he can look down and confirm it.

I walk to the bathroom with my pants low enough to make me feel ridiculous and my dignity somewhere on the floor behind me.

I close the door quietly.

Then I lock it. Then I look down inside my pants.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

Of course this is happening.

Because I can survive fights, press, rivalry, silence, jealousy, and years of wanting things I don’t understand.

But Silas touching me once by accident is where my body decides to betray me.

I grip the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.

My face looks calm. That pisses me off.

I do not feel calm. I’m fucked.

My dick is hard as a brick.

I am trash. I am garbage.

I am a grown man hiding in another man’s bathroom because my body decided to get excited.

I can’t ignore it.

I can’t just walk out there and pretend nothing happened, because he is literally tattooing me there.

Not exactly there, but close enough. Close enough that he will see everything.

Close enough that the second I lie back down, this whole thing becomes painfully obvious.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

His hand has been resting over that area for the last half hour.

Over my pants.

Dragging lightly. Pressing down when he stretches my skin. Brushing against me every time he moves.

And I was fine. Barely, but fine.

Then his hand went under.

It wasn’t any hand. It was his.

Silas’s hand.

The only hand on the planet that has this much authority over me.

“Victor?”

I hear him behind the door and turn too fast.

“Yes?”

“You need help?”

No.

No, I do not need help.

Actually, yes, I do.

But not the kind of help he should be offering through a bathroom door.

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

His voice is lower now.

“Maybe I can help…”

No.

No, no, no.

I hate that tone. I know that tone.

He’s flirting.

He is actually flirting with me through the bathroom door while my pants are half down and my tattoo isn’t even finished.

Please, Silas.

Stop hitting on me.

For the love of God, stop hitting on me.

This is the worst timing in human history and somehow the most effective torture method ever created.

Because I have a fucking boner because of him. Because he very obviously wants to go further with me.

Because if I opened this door right now, I don’t think he would step away.

And Vox is still standing between us like a ghost with blood on his hands.

That’s how it feels.

It feels like there is this whole other version of me in the room.

The version who knew him first. The version who texted him for years. And Silas doesn’t know.

“Victor?”

I close my eyes. “Yes?”

“Since you know now,” he says, “do you mind if I continue without the hoodie? I’m dying in here. It’s so hot.”

I rub both hands over my face.

I don’t want to leave this bathroom ever again. I want to live here.

I want to become part of the tiles. I want the floor to open and eat me.

Because the second I go back out there, he’s going to be there without his hoodie.

Gray pants.

Bare arms.

Veins.

Tattoos everywhere.

His skin.

His little waist.

I want to drag him inside.

I want to shut the door behind him and kiss the life out of him.

I want to bend him over the sink and make him forget every smart thing he has ever said to me.

I want to hear him moan because of me.

I want to give him every piece of control and tell him, do whatever you want with me.

And he is right there at the door.

Calling me. Waiting.

I can. I actually can.

Silas is not far away. Silas is not pushing me away. Silas is not pretending this is all in my head anymore.

He’s on the fucking plate in front of me.

It feels like I’m starving and someone just pushed lobster under my nose, and I’m sitting there saying no like a saint or an idiot.

And I will keep saying no. Because I put him above everything.

And I mean that.

Even above what I want. Especially above what I want.

I look at myself in the mirror again.

My pupils are too wide. My jaw is tight.

I breathe in. Hold it.

Let it out slowly.

“You sound weird.”

“I’m in a bathroom.”

“So?”

“So people sound weird in… bathrooms.”

“That’s… not a thing.” He laughs softly.

I grip the sink harder.

“Take the hoodie off,” I say.

He laughs. “Bossy.”

I close my eyes.

Fuck. I should not like that.

“I’m not being bossy, Silas.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m answering your question.”

“You could answer nicer. Not complaining though.”

I stare at the door. “Please take the hoodie off, Silas.”

“See? Was that so hard?”

Yes. Actually. It was extremely hard.

Everything is extremely hard right now.

I hate my life.

I turn on the tap again and splash cold water on my hands, then press them to the back of my neck.

“Give me a second,” I say.

“Take your time.”

No. No, do not say it like that.

Do not be soft. Soft is worse.

I look down.

Still bad. Less bad, but bad.

My body is trying to calm down and failing.

Think about something else.

Tattoo machines.

Ink caps.

Needle depth.

Taxes.

Jett talking too much.

Poppy yelling at someone.

Anything.

Anything except Silas on the other side of this door, probably taking his hoodie off right now.

I make the mistake of picturing it.

The fabric lifting. His stomach showing. His tattoos moving with his body. His hair falling into his face.

“Stop,” I whisper to myself.

I don’t even know who I’m talking to.

Me? Him? My dick? God?

Nobody listens.

I start thinking about Adam on purpose.

Adam. Prison. Therapy rooms. My medication.

I force every ugly thing into my head until my body finally gets the fucking message.

And it works. Thank God.

I fix my pants just enough without lifting them too far, because I take instructions from Silas very seriously now.

I unlock the door.

For one second, I don’t open it. I just stand there with my hand on the handle.

Because I know the second I step out, he’ll be there.

And I’ll have to want him quietly.

I’ll have to lie back down. I’ll have to survive him.

Again.

I open. Silas is standing next to the door, with no shirt on.

He looks over at me, and his eyes drop once down there.

Fast.

Then he looks back at my face.

“You good, Acosta?” he asks.

No.

“Yeah,” I say.

His mouth twitches.

Liar, his face says.

I walk back to the chair and sit down carefully.

He watches me the whole time.

I lie back.

Silas sits beside me again. Closer than before.

Or maybe I’m just more aware of it now.

He picks up the machine. “You sure you’re okay to continue? Do you need anything?”

I turn my head and look at him.

“I’m okay,” I say.

He studies me for a second.

Then nods. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

I almost laugh.

Because I need him to stop. I need him to never stop.

Both are true. Neither is useful.

“I will,” I say.

His hand returns to my skin. The machine starts buzzing.

Silas lowers his head.

And I stare at the ceiling.

This time I don’t get hard. Not even with him this close.

Not even with his face bent over me and his mouth slightly open in concentration.

But I do smile. Because then it hits me.

He feels comfortable.

Here. With me. Without his shirt.

That is not small. Not to me.

And definitely not to him.

So maybe I’m still fucked. Just in a different way now. A worse way, probably.

He wipes the tattoo one last time, then leans back and looks at it.

His face changes.

Proud. Actually proud.

“All done,” he says.

I lift my head and look down. The orchid sits low on my side.

Silas grins.

“I hope you like it, slut. You took that really well for a first tattoo.”

I look at it for a few more seconds. Then I smile.

“Thank you,” I say.

Then I look at him. “I love it.”

Something flickers across his face. He tries to cover it with a smirk.

He wraps the tattoo, and I button my pants. Then my belt.

The second I’m decent, he stands and heads toward the kitchen.

“I’m pouring wine,” he says. “I need it.”

I watch him walk away.

“You want juice or something?”

I almost answer. Then I see it.

The orchid I made him yesterday. The paper one.

It’s on his desk.

Not tossed somewhere. Not mixed in with his sketches and random shit.

It’s placed there. Separate.

Like he wanted it to be seen.

I stare at it. And I smile. But there is nothing happy in it.

Because that’s when I know.

I can’t keep doing this.

I can’t sit in his house, wearing his flower on my skin, watching him keep mine on his desk, while Vox stands between us.

I can’t let him get softer with me. I can’t let him trust me more.

Not like this. Not while he doesn’t know the worst part.

My eyes burn. Fuck.

He comes back.

“You know,” he says, eyes dropping to where the tattoo is hidden now, “I didn’t get to take a proper picture.”

I swallow. “You did.”

“No. I took a normal one,” he looks back at me. “I want a better one.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“You wrapped it.”

“I can unwrap it.”

His fingers pinch the fabric of my shirt, not lifting it yet.

Waiting.

He always does that now. Waits for permission.

“You want to take a photo?” I ask.

“I want to see it again.”

“The tattoo?”

His smile turns slow. “Obviously.”

I stare at him. He stares back.

Then he leans a little closer.

“What else would I want to see, Victor?”

My name sounds different when he says it like that.

I shrug.

He smiles. “Anyway. Do you know how to open wine?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“Open it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want wine.”

“Then open it.”

“I’m tired.”

“You tattooed for forty minutes.”

“And flirted for forty-five. I’m exhausted.”

I stare at him harder. He just smiles and puts the bottle in my hand. Then he grabs the corkscrew and hands me that too.

“Go on.”

I don’t know why I do it.

Maybe because it gives my hands something safe to do. Maybe because not doing it would feel like admitting he has me trapped.

I start opening the bottle.

Silas stays close.

His hip leans against the arm of the chair beside me, and he watches my hands.

I pull the cork out harder than necessary.

It pops. Silas grins.

“There he is.”

I hand the bottle back. “Wine.”

He takes it, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places it on the table again.

Unpoured.

My eyes narrow. “You didn’t want wine.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You made me open it for no reason.”

“No.” His eyes drop to my hands again. “I had a reason.”

Silas reaches for my hand.

He takes my wrist and turns my hand palm-up very slowly, like he’s examining the lines there.

His thumb presses into the center of my palm.

“Your hands are nice,” he says.

My brain stops.

Of all the things he could say, that is not what I expected.

“What?”

“Your hands,” he repeats. “They’re nice.”

I look at our hands.

Mine is bigger than his. Not by much, but enough.

His fingers are ink-stained in tiny places even after washing. Mine are clean except for a faint smudge near my nail from the cork.

“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

He smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Then he lifts my hand slightly.

He places it on his waist.

My entire body starts burning.

Silas keeps his hand over mine for one second, pressing my palm there like he’s showing me where it belongs.

Then he lets go.

There.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell me to touch him. He doesn’t ask if I want to.

He just puts my hand on him and looks at me.

He’s close enough that I could pull him in.

He watches my face, waiting. He wants me to choose it. He wants me to move. He wants proof.

And God help me, I want to give it to him.

My fingers flex against his waist.

“There,” he murmurs.

Fuck. My grip tightens before I can stop it.

He steps closer immediately, like that was all he needed.

Now he is between my legs properly. My hand is still on his waist.

His body is right there. His face lowers to mine.

I look at his mouth. He looks at mine.

Neither of us pretends not to.

“You’re making this hard,” I say.

His smile turns filthy and soft. “I know.”

“Don’t answer like that.”

“Why?”

He’s so close now. Too close.

His nose almost brushes mine when he speaks.

His hand comes up and touches my shoulder, then the side of my neck, then stops there.

Not gripping, resting.

His thumb near my pulse. He can probably feel how fast it is. He probably likes it.

“You think too much,” he says.

His eyes search mine.

For one second, the teasing slips. “You don’t have to.”

Yes, I fucking do. That’s the problem.

I have to think. I have to think about Vox. I have to think about every message.

Every year. Every time he trusted the wrong part of me. Every time I let him. Every time he said something soft to a screen and I kept taking it because I was too selfish to stop.

I have to think because if I stop, I will kiss him.

And if I kiss him before he knows, I might never forgive myself.

“I’m fine,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Don’t bullshit me. I invented bullshitting.”

That almost makes me laugh. But my throat hurts too much.

Silas’s hand slides from my neck to my jaw.

His fingers are warm.

He isn’t touching me because of a tattoo. He isn’t cleaning ink.

He isn’t placing a stencil. There is no professional excuse left.

This is just Silas touching my face because he wants to.

And I am letting him.

His thumb brushes near the corner of my mouth.

I stop breathing. He sees that.

His lips part slightly. He’s not smiling now.

“You’d let me,” he says.

My hand is still on his waist.

I could push him away. I could pull him closer.

Both options are destroying me.

“Let you what?” I ask, even though I know.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back.

“Anything.”

My fingers dig into his waist. He inhales.

His eyelids lower for half a second.

Fuck. Fuck.

He likes that. He likes my hand there. He likes that I’m holding him. He likes that I’m close to breaking.

“Silas,” I say, and it comes out a little rough.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

I should say no. I should tell him to step back. I should take my hand off his waist. Instead, my thumb moves once against him.

His jaw tightens. The sound he makes is almost nothing.

A breath. I want to hear it again.

That thought scares me so much I finally move my hand.

Not… away.

Worse.

I slide it to the back of his waist before I realize what I’m doing.

Silas goes completely still. His eyes lock on mine. No joke now.

He shifts forward. Our chests almost touch. His hand on my jaw firms just a little.

“You’re not helping yourself,” he says.

“I know.”

“You’re doing the opposite.”

“I know.”

“Victor.”

His mouth is right there. Right fucking there.

Close enough that I can see the tiny scar on his lower lip.

Close enough that I can remember exactly how it felt yesterday when he kissed me and my whole life split down the middle.

He leans in. Slowly.

Not touching. Giving me time.

Again. Always giving me time.

I hate him for it. I love him for it.

Both are bad.

My hand tightens on his waist.

His breath hits my mouth.

“Tell me no,” he whispers.

I don’t.

His eyes close halfway. “Victor.”

I swallow. It hurts.

“Silas, don’t make me say it.”

His eyes open. Something flickers.

Confusion. Want. A little hurt.

“Why?”

Because I don’t want no.

Because I want yes so badly I can barely see straight.

Because I want to put my mouth on yours and use my hands until neither of us remembers how to be careful.

Because you are standing here offering yourself without saying it, and I am starving, and you don’t even know I am the reason you should run.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

His face hardens immediately. “Can’t or don’t want to?”

I hate that question. I hate that I made him ask it.

“I want to,” I say.

Silas freezes. His lips part.

For once, I catch him off guard.

Good.

Bad.

Both.

“If you want to,” he says quietly, “then why are you acting like I’m bothering you?”

Because you are doing something worse.

You trust me.

And I don’t deserve it.

My eyes burn.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I turn my head away. His hand falls from my jaw. My own hand drops from his waist.

The loss of him is horrible.

“Victor.”

I stand up too fast. The chair shifts behind me.

He steps back, startled. The air between us goes cold.

I rub both hands over my face and try to breathe.

“I need to tell you something,” I say.

33) I am Vox

(Before we start, I just want to say that EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE FINE. Please don’t leave.)

Victor’s POV

“What?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

I breathe in. It doesn’t help.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, and his expression shifts. “Tell me you’re not in a relationship or something.”

“What?”

“I remember you said you liked someone. So if this is about that, just say it. I’m not trying to be a homewrecker or whatever.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not that.”

His shoulders drop slightly.

He looks at me harder. “Did I kiss you weird yesterday?”

“No, it was perfect.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No—”

“Is it because I made fun of your accent?” he asks, and now he looks genuinely panicked under the attitude. “Because I swear I don’t actually care. I was being an asshole. I really like your accent.”

I rub both hands over my face.

Fuck.

This is worse. Somehow this is worse.

Because he’s trying to solve it like it’s something small. Something he can apologize for.

“Silas,” I say. “It’s none of that.”

His face changes again. More serious now.

“Then what is it?”

I lower my hands.

“Victor,” he says. “Talk.”

I swallow. “There’s something you need to know.”

His brows pull together. “Okay.”

“Something I should’ve told you the first day I saw you.”

“Then tell me,” he says.

I try. I swear I try.

But my mouth doesn’t open. My eyes burn instead.

Fuck.

I hate that.

I hate that my body chooses now to become soft. Now, when I deserve nothing.

Now, when he is the one who is about to get hurt.

Silas notices the tears immediately.

He takes a tiny step forward, then stops himself.

“What the fuck happened?” he says, softer. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I force myself to breathe.

“I just need you to know something first.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to defend myself. And if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. I won’t fight you. I won’t ask you to listen longer than you want to. You have every right to be angry.”

Silas stares at me. Then he laughs.

“Victor, you’re freaking me out. Did you kill someone?”

No.

But I’m about to kill whatever this is before it even starts.

My hands feel numb when I take out my phone.

The screen is cracked. It has lived through too much and now it’s about to survive this too.

Then I place it on the table in front of him.

“Open it,” I say.

Silas looks at the phone. Then at me.

“What?”

“Open it.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

He studies me for another second, trying to decide if I’m having a breakdown or setting a trap.

He picks up the phone.

It lights up. And he freezes.

It’s the wallpaper.

A Minecraft blue orchid and a Minecraft rose.

Side by side.

Silas doesn’t breathe. His eyes stay on the screen.

“Hey,” he says. “That’s my wallpaper.”

I nod once. He keeps staring at the screen.

“It’s literally my wallpaper.”

“I know.”

His head lifts.

“Why do you have my wallpaper?”

“Who made it?” I ask.

His face twitches. “What?”

“Who made it?”

He looks at me like I’m losing my mind. Then he looks back at the phone.

“A friend.”

“What friend?”

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“Vox.”

My heart stops even though I knew it was coming.

“A friend of mine,” Silas adds quickly. “It’s me and him. It’s friendly. We’re not together or anything. I’m single.”

I nod.

That detail hits harder than it should.

Because even now, even while I’m about to blow us apart, some stupid part of me reacts to him saying he’s single.

I hate myself.

“Do you like him?” I ask.

Silas stares at me. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you?”

He looks annoyed now.

Good.

Anger is safer than the softness.

“I mean, yeah. Obviously.” He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “He’s weird. Sometimes he scares me a little, but in a funny way. Mostly. He’s good company.”

I don’t move.

“He knows things,” Silas says. “Stuff even Jett doesn’t know. He also knows I like cinnamon buns, and after that he started calling me—”

“Silabun,” I say.

Silas stops.

His whole body stops.

His eyes lock on mine.

Then his jaw clenches. “What did you just say?”

I don’t repeat it. I don’t need to.

His face changes in front of me.

Confusion first. Then anger.

“Are you insane?” he asks.

“What?”

“Did you go through my phone?”

“No,” I say immediately. “No, no. I didn’t go through your phone.”

“Then how the fuck can you possibly know that?”

I say nothing.

My phone is still in his hand.

“How do you know Silabun?” he asks.

Silence.

I can’t hear anything except my heart.

He points the phone at me. “Victor.”

I breathe in.

“I know it, because I’m the one who came up with it.”

His face goes blank.

Then he laughs. “You wish.”

I don’t answer.

“He came up with it,” Silas says. “Not you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’re being weird as fuck right now.”

“Silas—”

“No. Don’t Silas me.” His voice rises. “Why do you know that name, Victor?”

I look at him.

There is no soft way to do this.

“Because I created it. Cinnamon buns and Silas. Silabun.”

Silas’s face drains.

His mouth opens, then closes.

He says nothing.

His grip tightens around my phone. The cracked screen catches the light.

I keep looking at him. I don’t look away.

He swallows hard.

“Cut the bullshit.”

“I’m Vox.”

“I said cut the bullshit.”

“I’m not lying now.”

“Now?” he repeats. “What the fuck does now mean?”

I can’t answer fast enough.

He laughs again. “Fuck you.”

“Silas—”

“No. Fuck you and your weird little mind games.”

“I’m not playing.”

“You are. You are standing in my house after I tattooed you and saying insane shit to me like I’m supposed to just—what? Believe you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” I say. “I’m going to prove it.”

“You’re going to prove it?”

I hold out my hand. “Give me my phone.”

He doesn’t.

For a second, I think he’s going to throw it.

He doesn’t. He slaps it into my palm.

I take it. I open the contacts.

My hands shake. I hate that he sees it. I hate that he sees me scared.

But maybe he should.

Maybe he should know exactly how badly this is killing me and still not be asked to care.

Silas stands in front of me, arms crossed now, one foot tapping hard against the floor.

His whole body is vibrating with anger.

“Go on,” he says. “Do your little magic trick.”

I find the contact.

Silabun.

“Call Vox,” I say.

“No.”

“Do it.”

He looks at me.

Then he grabs his own phone from the table.

He holds his phone near his ear, eyes locked on my screen like he is praying it stays quiet.

…

It vibrates.

My cracked screen shows the incoming call.

Silabun.

His face goes completely blank.

He lowers the phone slowly.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t reject it either. He just lets it ring.

I end the call.

The vibration stops. The room feels dead after it.

Silas stares at his phone. Then at mine. Then at me.

Then his eyes go wet.

His hands go into his hair. He grips hard and turns away from me, pacing once toward the kitchen, then back, then toward the desk.

He doesn’t know where to put his body. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“No,” he says again, laughing. “No. Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Silas—”

“No.” He points at me, shaking and still laughing. “Do not fucking ‘Silas’ me right now. What are you even saying?”

“I am saying I am Vox.”

For one second, there is complete silence.

Then he laughs more. “You are actually insane.”

I say nothing.

“That is not funny. That’s not even a good joke.”

“It is not a joke. Can I explain to you?”

He turns on me, fast.

“You want me to believe that you were actually him. That you were the anonymous guy I talked to for years. You. While also being…”

He gestures wildly at me, at my body, my face, my existence. “This. Here. My real life. The same person.”

“Yes.”

“No. Fuck you.”

He laughs again, harsher. “No, because that would mean you were two people. Do you hear how sick that sounds?”

I keep still.

“You were two fucking people in my life.” His voice rises. “Two. Do you understand that? One in my phone, one in front of my face, and all that time it was you??”

He jabs a finger into his own chest. “Do you have any idea how violating that is??”

I let him say it. He deserves every word.

“Do you have any idea what that does to a person?” he snaps. “How is that not a complete fucking violation?? How is that not twisted?!”

My throat tightens, but I say nothing. That seems to enrage him more.

“Oh my God.” He laughs once. “And I actually fucking trusted you.”

The sentence lands harder than anything else.

I have imagined this conversation in a hundred versions.

In most of them he screams. In some he goes quiet.

In a few impossible ones, he understands before he hates me.

In every version, that line hurts.

I trusted you.

Silas shakes his head. “No, because this is actually making me feel fucking sick.”

His breathing is too fast now. “Say something.”

“I never did it to make fun of you.”

“Oh, great. What a relief. You only psychologically tortured me with a secret double identity, but at least you didn’t do it as a fucking prank. Adorable.”

I take the hit.

“I did not know who you were at first.”

“That is not the point!”

“I know.”

“Clearly you fucking don’t.” He drags a hand down his face. “Did you know what that whole thing meant to me??”

“Yes.”

“Then why??” he shouts. “Why would you let me keep talking to you like that? Why would you let me tell you shit as Vox and then stand in front of me as Victor like nothing happened?”

Because I was greedy. Because I wanted all of you.

Because once I realized it was you, I told myself I would tell you soon, and then soon became later, and later became impossible, and impossible became this.

I force the words out. “Because I was afraid.”

He scoffs. “Of what?!”

“Losing you.”

“Bullshit.”

“It is the truth.”

“No,” he snaps, stepping closer again, “the truth would have been telling me. That would have been the truth. This is control. This is you deciding what I get to know and when. This is you playing God with information that belongs to me too.”

I take that one straight to the chest because he is right.

His eyes are glassy and furious at the same time.

His mouth twists. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

I do not answer fast enough.

He lets out a broken laugh and nods to himself. “Exactly.”

“I was trying—”

“Do not.” His voice slices through mine. “Do not stand there and say you were trying. Trying what? Trying to find the perfect time to tell me that the guy I trusted online and the guy I started trusting in real life were secretly the same person? Trying to line up the stars so your psychotic reveal would feel romantic?”

“It was never romantic.”

“Good,” he yells. “Because it is fucking horrifying.”

I flinch at that. He sees it.

“Yeah?” His voice shakes. “Good. Flinch. You fucking should.”

Then he laughs again, bitter. “Jesus Christ. I told you things.”

I say nothing.

“I told HIM things,” he corrects himself. “Things I didn’t tell people in my actual life. Things I barely admitted to myself. And you just held both versions of me in your hands like that was normal.”

“No.”

“Then what was it?”

I look at him and answer honestly. “Selfish.”

That stops him for a second. Not because it fixes anything.

Because it does not. But because it is the first answer that does not sound defensive.

“You do not get points for honesty now,” he says. “That ship fucking exploded.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. “I do not think you understand at all, Victor. So let me make this very clear for you.”

His voice drops low.

“When I said I trusted you, I meant YOU. One person. One. Not some fucked up nesting doll situation where I peel one layer back and it is just you again. Do you get that? I did not consent to that. I didn’t choose that. YOU made that choice for me.”

I keep my face still because this is not the moment for my pain.

Mine is cheap here.

Silas shakes his head slowly, tears of rage bright in his eyes now. “And the craziest part, is that I have been sitting here, trusting my gut around you. Telling myself, okay, he’s difficult, he’s weird, but he’s real. At least he’s fucking real.”

His voice breaks.

“At least with Victor, what I see is what I get!”

I cannot breathe properly.

“And apparently not even that was true.”

The room goes silent again. He wipes at his face angrily, like even his own tears are embarrassing him.

“I feel stupid.”

“You are not.”

“Do not comfort me right now. You do not get to be the one who does that.”

I nod once. He laughs bitterly.

“Amazing. Truly. I am actually impressed. This is a new level of what the fuck.”

I watch his hands. They are trembling.

That bothers me more than the shouting. He starts pacing again. Faster now.

“This whole time I kept wondering why certain things felt… familiar. Why sometimes the way you looked at me pissed me off for reasons I couldn’t explain. Why it felt like you knew how to get under my skin too easily. Why some of the shit you said landed in places they shouldn’t have.”

He turns and points at me again. “And all along it was because you already knew me.”

“I know. It is fucked up. But I want you to know that I never used Vox against you,” I say, and my voice breaks slightly.

“I need you to know that. I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I need one thing to be true in this room.”

He rubs his face.

“I did not tell anyone. Nothing. I did not turn your secrets into weapons when we argued.”

I step back because I do not want my words to crowd him.

“I know I still held information you did not know I had. That alone is violation enough. But I made sure not to use that information. I just need you to know there was at least one line I didn’t cross.”

“Yeah. I know you didn’t use it like that. Congratulations. Somehow that makes this worse, because now I can’t even make you a full villain.”

He throws his hands up. “Still, the fact that you didn’t use it does not matter because you still had it. You still knew things about me I did not choose to give Victor. I gave them to Vox.”

Silas sees a shift in my body and backs away instantly, like my nearness itself is a threat now. “Do not touch me.”

I lower my hands even though they were not raised. “I was not… going to.”

“Good. Ten minutes ago, I wanted to throw myself at you for a completely different reason. So no, I don’t trust myself with you near me right now.”

He stands there trying to breathe. The silence stretches.

Finally he laughs under his breath. “I actually defended you, you know.”

I say nothing.

“To other people. To myself.” He shakes his head. “Every time something about you felt off, I made excuses. I was like no, he’s just… Victor. Whatever the fuck that means.”

He gives me a look full of heartbreak. “Congratulations. Apparently that means liar.”

I take it.

“And don’t even start with the whole you cared about me bullshit, because caring about someone and violating them are not mutually exclusive. People do that all the time. People hurt what they want. That’s, like, one of humanity’s favorite hobbies.”

My jaw tightens. Because again, he is right.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You even had favorite things. Opinions. Random stupid details. That whole anonymous mystery boy bullshit.”

“That was still me. I didn’t always know it was you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Silas, please.”

“No.” He shakes his head hard. “No, don’t ‘please’ me. Don’t. I swear to God, every single thing you say right now sounds wrong.”

I nod once. “You should hate me right now.”

“Don’t tell me what I should fucking feel.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “I cannot believe this.”

He looks at the door. Then at the floor. Then back at me.

“You should’ve told me the second you realized.”

“I know, Silas. I am sorry.”

He looks at me. “Are you though?”

“Believe me, I am.”

“No. You are sorry now that it hurts you too. You don’t actually care.”

“I cared about you,” I say. “As Vox. As Victor. Wrongly. Definitely selfishly. But I did.”

His expression hardens instantly.

“Oh, fuck you.”

He laughs.

“No, seriously, fuck you for that. Do not say beautiful insane shit to me right now like it fixes anything. Do not take advantage of the fact that I like you.”

I take a step toward him without thinking.

He steps back immediately.

“Don’t,” he says.

I stop.

“Maybe Vox liked me,” he says, tears sliding down his face. “Maybe Victor did too. Great. I love that. I really do. Still doesn’t change the fact that you let me build trust with two versions of the same man without telling me.”

I nod.

He shakes his head violently. “God, this is so fucked. What have you done, Victor.”

He backs toward the door, one step at a time.

Keeping his eyes on me.

“I think I need you away from me for a while,” he says.

I nod.

I could tell him I never meant to trap him.

I could tell him that half the things Vox said were the truest things I have ever said to anyone.

I could tell him that meeting him in real life was the first time I ever understood what panic and happiness actually feels like.

I could tell him that I am saying nothing now not because I do not care, but because I care enough to finally stop choosing for him.

So I do the only decent thing I have done tonight.

I nod once and step back.

“I wasn’t planning on saying that today,” Silas says.

I look at him.

He’s standing there with his arms crossed. His eyes are red.

“Specifically,” he says, and there’s this ugly little laugh in his throat, “in case you didn’t notice, I was hitting on you shamelessly.”

His jaw clenches.

“I was going to ask you to stay.”

“That’s why I told you.”

He smiles. “Well fucking done.”

I nod. I don’t say anything.

Because what the fuck is there to say?

Thank you?

Sorry?

I didn’t mean to?

All of it sounds disgusting now.

All of it sounds like me trying to crawl back into a room I already set on fire.

So I just stand there and take it, because I ruined everything.

Him.

Me.

Us.

Whatever almost existed in this room before I opened my mouth.

I did it because I was greedy.

I knew I should’ve told him sooner. I knew it.

The first day.

The first time he looked at me and didn’t know. The first time he said Vox like it was someone else.

The first time I realized he was getting closer to Victor.

I knew. And I kept waiting.

One more message. One more look. One more fight. One more kiss.

One more second where he wanted me before he knew he had every reason not to.

Greedy.

That’s all it was.

Ugly, pathetic greed.

So maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve the way he’s looking at me now.

I look at him a little longer than I should.

I know I shouldn’t. I should give him the decency of leaving fast.

But I can’t.

Because I don’t know if this is the last time I’ll ever be this close to him.

I don’t know if this is the last time I’ll see him in his house.

I don’t know if this is the last time he’ll say my name without disgust.

Actually, no. It might already be too late for that.

The tattoo burns under my waistband.

His orchid.

Mine and not mine at all.

His eyes flick down to it for half a second, like he remembers too.

Then he looks away first. That is when I know I have to go.

I slowly pick up my jacket. He doesn’t stop me.

When I reach the door, my hand hesitates on the handle.

I almost say goodbye. But I don’t.

Because I don’t feel like I deserve a goodbye from him.

Honestly, I don’t want one. A goodbye would mean he’s still giving me something.

Even basic human decency.

And I don’t want to take one more thing from him tonight.

So I open the door, and I step out.

“Take care of the tattoo,” he mutters.

I stop.

“I worked on that. Don’t fuck it up just because I currently hate the rest of you.”

I nod, but I don’t look back. If I look back, I might ask for something.

And I have already asked too much just by standing in his house with my lies.

I get in the car, and then I break.

I break the second the door shuts, like my body was just waiting for privacy to fall apart.

My hand grabs the steering wheel too hard. My fingers lock around it, and I stare through the windshield at Silas’s front door.

My vision blurs fast. I blink multiple times, but it doesn’t help.

His door turns into a smear of warm light and shadow.

I press the heel of my hand against my mouth because I don’t want the sound to leave the car.

I don’t have the right to be sad now.

I call David. The phone rings.

I stare at Silas’s door through my fucked up vision while it rings.

“Victor? Everything okay?”

“Freeze my guest spot,” I say.

“What?”

“Freeze my guest spot.”

“What the hell happened?”

I drag in a breath and it cuts all the way down.

“Just do it.”

“Victor—”

“David. I need you to freeze it.”

“Okay,” he says fast. “Okay. I can call them. I can say something came up. What happened?”

“I’m going back to Spain.”

34) Vox & Silabun

HEY.

This chapter is basically a collection of small Silas and Vox conversations, little moments from when they were still just ✨them.✨

I wanted you to see more of their dynamic and how naturally they fit together, so Silas’s reaction in the next chapter makes a little more sense to you.

I had so much fun writing this chapter. Think of it as a small trailer for the chapters coming in the future:))

---

SILAS:

• i just realized something horrible.

VOX:

• What.

SILAS:

• you’re 24.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• that’s basically 30.

VOX:

• It’s really not.

SILAS:

• do your knees hurt when you stand up or is that a premium feature i unlock later?

VOX:

• I am four years older than you.

SILAS:

• exactly. ancient.
• museum-coded.
• should i call you sir??

VOX:

• No…

SILAS:

• mister Vox?

VOX:

• Absolutely not.

SILAS:

• uncle vox?

VOX:

• Silas.

SILAS:

• sorry.
• grandfather.

VOX:

• I am ending this conversation, okay?

SILAS:

• Please be careful.
• sudden emotional stress at your age is dangerous
• :)

VOX:

• I am 24.

SILAS:

• and so brave about it <3

VOX:

• You are 20.

SILAS:

• young. fresh and glowing.
• still allowed to be dramatic.

VOX:

• Drama is not age restricted.
• I’m going to block you.

SILAS:

• don’t.
• your old fingers might not find the button.

VOX:

• What are the blue flowers you like again?

SILAS:

• …..

VOX:

• Tulips?

SILAS:

• say sike.

VOX:

• Blue roses?!

SILAS:

• dude.

VOX:

• Hydrangeas?

SILAS:

• VOX WHAT THE FUCK.

VOX:

• So not hydrangea.

SILAS:

• i’m blocking you in real life.

VOX:

• How do you block someone in real life?

SILAS:

• brick.

VOX:

• You like orchids.

SILAS:

• OH SO YOU DO KNOW.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• i hate you.

VOX:

• No you don’t hate me

SILAS:

• don’t flirt while i’m trying to be violent.

VOX:

• Roses are better than orchids
• :)

SILAS:

• you woke up and chose death.

VOX:

• Roses are classic.

SILAS:

• classic is what boring people say when they’re afraid of personality.

VOX:

• Orchids look difficult.

SILAS:

• so do i

VOX:

• I know.

SILAS:

• DON’T KNOW ME.

VOX:

• I do, though.

SILAS:

• i’m going to fill your house with blue orchids until you apologize.

VOX:

• That sounds nice.

SILAS:

• STOP WINNING MY THREATS.

---

VOX:

• Hey
• I cooked.

SILAS:

• oh no.

VOX:

• Why oh no?

SILAS:

• because you said it so dryly

VOX:

• [photo attached]

SILAS:

• what the fuck is that.

VOX:

• Pasta…

SILAS:

• dude…
• that pasta looks scared.

VOX:

• It tasted fine.

SILAS:

• it looks like it saw God and God looked away HAHAH

VOX:

• You are dramatic and cruel.

SILAS:

• you sent ME beige noodles in a bowl and expected… silence???

VOX:

• I added cheese.

SILAS:

• where?

VOX:

• Inside.

SILAS:

• it looks like puke, love

VOX:

• I’m not sending food pictures anymore.

SILAS:

• no no no, don’t rob me of my joy.

VOX:

• You called it puke.

SILAS:

• affectionately.

VOX:

• You insult affectionately a lot.

SILAS:

• it’s my love language.

VOX:

• I know.
• Next time I’ll ask you before cooking.

SILAS:

• good. I’ll supervise from afar.

VOX:

• You would be mean.

SILAS:

• yes but you’d eat better.

---

SILAS:

• send me a voice note.

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• rude.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• because I want to know if you sound hot.

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• that no sounded hot

VOX:

• It was just firm.

SILAS:

• it was shy. I can smell it through the phone.

VOX:

• You cannot smell text.

SILAS:

• I can smell fear.
• send a voice note saying “Silas, stop being annoying.”

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• coward.

VOX:

• Yes I am

SILAS:

• at least you admit it.

---

VOX:

• Sleep.

SILAS:

• no.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• because I’m busy.

VOX:

• Doing what?

SILAS:

• rotting.

VOX:

• Rot tomorrow.

SILAS:

• you can’t schedule my decay.

VOX:

• I just did.

SILAS:

• you’re so controlling

VOX:

• Sleep.

SILAS:

• make me.

VOX:

• If I could, you would already be in bed.

SILAS:

• oh???

VOX:

• Phone away lights off

SILAS:

• that was domestic and bossy.
• confusing boner emotionally.

VOX:

• Boner emotionally?

SILAS:

• I hate you.

VOX:

• Sleep.

SILAS:

• fine. but only because I’m bored of you.

VOX:

• Liar.

SILAS:

• goodnight, dictator.

VOX:

• Goodnight, Silabun.

---

SILAS:

• i’m cold.

VOX:

• Blanket.

SILAS:

• genius.
• call NASA.

VOX:

• Put on a blanket.

SILAS:

• what if I want to complain instead

VOX:

• Then complain under a blanket.

SILAS:

• you’re weirdly practical.

VOX:

• You’re weirdly resistant to solutions.

SILAS:

• because solutions are boring.
• complaining has flavor.

VOX:

• If I was there, I would bring you the blanket.

SILAS:

• I’m imagining you aggressively tucking me in like I’m a sick child.

VOX:

• I would not be aggressive
• Unless you wanted me to.

---

SILAS:

• do you ever think it’s weird that we talk this much and I don’t know what you look like?

VOX:

• Sometimes.

SILAS:

• sometimes? that’s your answer?

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• you’re so generous. i’m overwhelmed.

VOX:

• Do you want to know?

SILAS:

• yes and no.

VOX:

• Why no?

SILAS:

• because what if you’re ugly and I have to mourn the fantasy?

VOX:

• That would be inconvenient.

SILAS:

• deeply.
• I’ve already made peace with the idea that you’re hot.

VOX:

• You have?

SILAS:

• unfortunately yes

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• vibe.

VOX:

• That is not evidence.

SILAS:

• it is to sluts and artists.

VOX:

• Okay.

SILAS:

• I’m serious
• I feel like you’re hot.

VOX:

• Feel like?

SILAS:

• yess

VOX:

• What if you’re wrong?

SILAS:

• then I’ll be brave.

VOX:

• And if you’re right?

SILAS:

• then I’ll be unbearable.

VOX:

• You already are.

SILAS:

• SEE? hot people answer like that.

---

VOX:

• I have to go out.

SILAS:

• terrible.
• stay here and entertain me.

VOX:

• I have plans.

SILAS:

• disrespectful.
• with who?!

VOX:

• People

SILAS:

• ew. vague.
• hate that.

VOX:

• It’s not important.

SILAS:

• send outfit proof.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• because I’m nosy and neglected??

VOX:

• That is not a reason.

SILAS:

• it is two reasons, actually.

VOX:

• [photo attached]

SILAS:

• oh

VOX:

• What?

SILAS:

• nothing

VOX:

• You said oh.

SILAS:

• yeah because you dress like you’re in a Depeche Mode video clip

VOX:

• Is it bad?

SILAS:

• no.
• it’s horrible news for me specifically.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• come on
• don’t make me say it

VOX:

• Say it.

SILAS:

• fine.
• you look hot.
• don’t die.
• accept praise like a normal person

VOX:

• Thank you.

SILAS:

• no. say it with chest.

VOX:

• Thank you SO much, Silas.

SILAS:

• I hate when you learn

---

VOX:

• I’m sick.

SILAS:

• oh my god.
• finally, proof you’re mortal.

VOX:

• I have a fever.

SILAS:

• how high?

VOX:

• Not high

SILAS:

• number

VOX:

• 38.5

SILAS:

• VOX.

VOX:

• What??

SILAS:

• that is high enough for me to bully you medically.

VOX:

• No I’m fine.

SILAS:

• men saying “I’m fine” with a fever should be illegal.
• You’re not fine. You’re dying.

VOX:

• I took medicine

SILAS:

• did you eat?

VOX:

• Not yet

SILAS:

• I’m going to crawl through your screen and slap you with soup.

VOX:

• That sounds… difficult.

SILAS:

• don’t be cute.
• eat something small.

VOX:

• I’m not hungry.

SILAS:

• I did not ask if your dramatic little body was hungry.
• Toast.
• Banana.
• Soup.
• Something.
• and water.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• and don’t sleep with wet hair.

VOX:

• You sound worried

SILAS:

• I sound responsible cause I am

VOX:

• Thank you, Silas.

SILAS:

• don’t say my name
• I’ll start caring more and nobody wants that it’s disgusting

---

SILAS:

• I tripped today.

VOX:

• Are you hurt?

SILAS:

• physically no.
• spiritually absolutely fucking destroyed.

VOX:

• How?

SILAS:

• my boot caught on the mat and I did a little dramatic forward stumble in front of a client…

VOX:

• Did you fall?

SILAS:

• no because God is scared of me.

VOX:

• You almost fell.

SILAS:

• do NOT reduce my survival story.

VOX:

• I would have laughed.

SILAS:

• Fuck you honestly

VOX:

• After checking you were okay of course.

SILAS:

• that’s somehow worse.
• caring and bullying?

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• I’d hate you in person

VOX:

• No you wouldn’t.

SILAS:

• cocky.

VOX:

• I’m just being honest.

SILAS:

• why not?

VOX:

• Because you like when people can keep up.
• And I can.

SILAS:

• okay.
• that was hot.
• shut up.

---

SILAS:

• send me your handwriting.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• because handwriting says things
• :)

VOX:

• What things?

SILAS:

• if you’re hot, insane, lazy, secretly a doctor and stuff like that.

VOX:

• How the hell

SILAS:

• just trust me

VOX:

• Okay…
• What should I write?

SILAS:

• write “Silas is always right” with a heart next to it

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• You’re being rude again

VOX:

• [photo attached]

SILAS:

• you wrote “Silas is SOMETIMES right.”

VOX:

• Accurate

SILAS:

• your handwriting is hot.

VOX:

• Handwriting can’t be hot, why is everything hot to you??

SILAS:

• I don’t find everything hot
• your handwriting looks like it would tell me to behave

VOX:

• That is very specific

SILAS:

• I’m gifted.

VOX:

• What does yours look like?

SILAS:

• like I’m bored to even hold the pen…

---

VOX:

• 1.92 is not that tall.

SILAS:

• you did NOT just say that to me.

VOX:

• I did

SILAS:

• you’re ragebaiting.

VOX:

• Maybe.

SILAS:

• I’m 1.87.
• I’m tall.
• I’ve been tall my whole life.
• I have tall-person rights.

VOX:

• You’re tall.

SILAS:

• thank you.

VOX:

• Just less tall.
• :/

SILAS:

• I hope your phone explodes.

VOX:

• That was mean.

SILAS:

• you called me less tall.

VOX:

• Because you are.
• That’s just a fact.

SILAS:

• this is violence.

VOX:

• Small violence.

SILAS:

• SMALL?

VOX:

• Five centimeters.
• :)

SILAS:

• I’m going to bite through concrete.

VOX:

• You seem so sensitive about this.

SILAS:

• I am not sensitive.
• I am offended in a masculine and attractive way.

---

SILAS:

• client today kept calling me sweetheart.

VOX:

• Did you like it?

SILAS:

• hello to you too, possessive shadow man

VOX:

• Did you?

SILAS:

• no.
• it was hella weird.
• he said i had pretty eyes and i got uncomfortable and started talking about mozzarella sticks

VOX:

• Good.

SILAS:

• are you jealous?

VOX:

• A little

SILAS:

• A LITTLE??

VOX:

• I’m sorry.

SILAS:

• come on
• you’re not supposed to admit it that easily.
• I had a whole teasing route planned.

VOX:

• You can still tease me

SILAS:

• oh, generous jealous Vox.
• I like this edition.

VOX:

• Did he touch you?

SILAS:

• no

VOX:

• Good.

SILAS:

• okay.
• That one was hotter. I hate you

---

SILAS:

• I think my hair looks weird.

VOX:

• Send.

SILAS:

• no.

VOX:

• Then I can’t judge…

SILAS:

• I don’t want judgment.
• I want emotional support with no evidence.

VOX:

• Your hair probably looks good.

SILAS:

• probably??

VOX:

• I have no evidence.

SILAS:

• romance is dead.

VOX:

• Send.

SILAS:

• [photo attached]

VOX:

• It looks good.

SILAS:

• you replied too fast.

VOX:

• Because it does.

SILAS:

• you’re not just saying that?

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• okay.

VOX:

• You look tired too

SILAS:

• dude why you always clock my soul in photos?!
• you can’t even see my face

VOX:

• I have my ways

---

SILAS:

• send hand pic

VOX:

• What.

SILAS:

• i’m having a hard day be useful
• please
• i miss your giant scary mechanic hands

VOX:

• Here.
• [photo attached]

SILAS:

• oh my god
• why are your fingers so long
• your veins have veins

VOX:

• I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t say any of this if I was in front of you.

SILAS:

• wrong
• actually i’d say worse

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• yes.

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• Wanna bet?

VOX:

• You’d look at the floor and forget how language works.

---

SILAS:

• k

VOX:

• Why are you typing like you pay per letter.

SILAS:

• because i’m annoyed

VOX:

• About what

SILAS:

• you disappeared for seven hours

VOX:

• I was working.

SILAS:

• okay

VOX:

• Silas

SILAS:

• what

VOX:

• You know I disappear when I focus
• I was drawing

SILAS:

• yeah well maybe i wanted one message saying “alive btw” ???

VOX:

• …

SILAS:

• see? now you think i’m dramatic

VOX:

• No.
• I think you wanted reassurance and got angry instead of asking for it directly.

SILAS:

• i hate when you psychoanalyze me actually

VOX:

• I’m not psychoanalyzing you.
• I’m listening.
• I can text more when I’m busy.

SILAS:

• you don’t have to FORCE yourself I’m just dramatic and bored sometimes

VOX:

• I know I don’t have to.
• I want to.

SILAS:

• okay well now i feel stupid

VOX:

• Come here.

SILAS:

• through the phone???

---

SILAS:

• Vox
• can i ask you something and you don’t act weird about it

VOX:

• Depends.

SILAS:

• that is already acting weird about it

VOX:

• Ask.

SILAS:

• okay.
• fuck.
• wait.

VOX:

• Take your time.

SILAS:

• no because if i take my time i’ll delete the message and go pretend i never had a human body.

VOX:

• That sounds serious.

SILAS:

• it’s not serious.
• it’s sex.

VOX:

• oh…
• That can be serious.

SILAS:

• see.
• this is why i asked you.
• you make sex sound like a medical appointment

VOX:

• Silas what happened

SILAS:

• okay.
• fine.
• i’m 19 and i haven’t had sex yet and i’m kind of embarrassed about it.

VOX: -Why are you embarrassed?

SILAS:

• because everyone acts like by nineteen you’re supposed to have a tragic body count and a favorite position and three scars from someone named matthew.

VOX:

• You really don’t need any of that…

SILAS:

• i know that logically.
• but emotionally i feel like i’m late to a class and everyone already knows where to sit.

VOX:

• You’re not late.

SILAS:

• you say that like it’s simple.

VOX:

• It is.

SILAS:

• it is NOT simple.
• I’m scared.

VOX:

• About what exactly?

SILAS:

• EVERYTHING.

VOX:

• Okay, start with one thing.

SILAS:

• okay.
• what if the other person is like… too aggressive?

VOX:

• Then you stop them.

SILAS:

• yeah but what if i freeze???

VOX:

• Then they should notice.

SILAS:

• what if they don’t?

VOX:

• Then they’re clearly not safe enough to be having sex with you.

SILAS:

• …

VOX:

• Aggressive only works if both people want it and agree to it.
• Especially the first time.
• You don’t owe anyone a performance.

SILAS:

• that’s the thing.
• because part of me is like yeah okay being pushed against a wall sounds HOT.
• but then the other part of me is like if someone actually did too much too fast i’d probably leave my body and become ceiling dust.

VOX:

• Then your first time shouldn’t be like that.

SILAS:

• but what if i want it later?

VOX:

• Later is not now.

SILAS:

• mature. annoying.

VOX:

• You can want intensity later and gentleness first, you know.
• it’s normal.

SILAS:

• okay that sentence was unfairly attractive actually.

VOX:

• Focus.

SILAS:

• i am focusing.
• unfortunately on you.

VOX:

• Silas.

SILAS:

• sorry.
• sex panic.
• continue.

VOX:

• Before anything happens, you talk about what you don’t want.
• You can say “I don’t want rough for the first time.”
• “Go slow”
• “Stop if I get quiet”
• “Ask me before doing anything new”

SILAS:

• that sounds so embarrassing to say out loud…

VOX:

• Less embarrassing than being uncomfortable and pretending you’re fine.

SILAS:

• okay.
• correct.

VOX:

• And if someone makes you feel stupid for needing that, don’t sleep with them.

SILAS:

• you’re very calm about this.

VOX:

• You’re panicking enough for both of us.

SILAS:

• true.
• i am carrying this conversation emotionally and catastrophically.

VOX:

• I noticed.

SILAS:

• second thing.

VOX:

• Go on…

SILAS:

• body hair.

VOX:

• What about it.

SILAS:

• WHAT DO I DO WITH IT.

VOX:

• Nothing if you don’t want to.

SILAS:

• no because genuinely.
• do i laser my whole body?
• do i leave myself as god made me?
• do i shave half?
• do i trim?
• do i become dolphin smooth?
• do i just show up and hope for mercy?
• I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I’M SUPPOSED TO DO.

VOX:

• You’re not ‘supposed’ to do anything.

SILAS:

• that’s not helpful.

VOX:

• It is.
• Do what feels comfortable on your body.
• Not what you think someone might demand.

SILAS:

• but what do people prefer?!

VOX:

• People prefer different things.

SILAS:

• what do you prefer?

VOX:

• Me?

SILAS:

• yes you.
• you’re the unfortunate consultant tonight.

VOX:

• I don’t like when someone looks uncomfortable in their own skin.
• That matters more.

SILAS:

• that is not an answer, philosopher.

VOX:

• Fine…
• I don’t need someone completely hairless.
• I don’t like the “newborn smooth” thing.

SILAS:

• NEWBORN SMOOTH IS CRAZY WORDING.

VOX:

• You understand what I mean.

SILAS:

• unfortunately yes and now i’m laughing during my vulnerable sex crisis.

VOX:

• Good.

SILAS:

• so you wouldn’t be like disgusted if someone had body hair?

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• even if it’s not perfect?

VOX:

• Bodies are not supposed to look edited.

SILAS:

• okay.
• that was kind of hot.

VOX:

• That was basic common sense…

SILAS:

• common sense sounds hot then
• but seriously.
• trim maybe?

VOX:

• If you want.
• Don’t shave everything last minute if you don’t usually do it.
• You’ll irritate your skin and then panic more.

SILAS:

• okay thank you because i absolutely would do that at 2 AM like a possessed idiot.

VOX:

• I know…

SILAS:

• you KNOW too much.

VOX:

• You tell me everything.

SILAS:

• because you don’t make me feel disgusting.

VOX:

• You’re not disgusting.

SILAS:

• don’t be sweet right now. i’m unstable.

VOX:

• I know.

SILAS:

• third thing.

VOX:

• Mhm.

SILAS:

• what if i feel like i need to go to the bathroom while it’s happening.

VOX:

• That can happen.

SILAS:

• DON’T SAY THAT SO CALMLY.
• I AM ON FIRE.

VOX:

• It doesn’t always mean you actually need to go.
• Sometimes it’s pressure
• or your body reacting to stimulation.

SILAS:

• okay but what if it IS bathroom bathroom.

VOX:

• Then you stop and go.

SILAS:

• just like that???

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• “pause sex, sorry, my organs called” ???

VOX:

• Basically yeah

SILAS:

• i would rather fake my death.

VOX:

• Don’t.

SILAS:

• you’re no fun.

VOX:

• Take your time. Don’t rush.
• And if you need to stop, just stop.
• Anyone worth being with won’t make it a disaster, I promise.

SILAS:

• i hate that the answer is always “be with someone safe.”

VOX:

• Because that is the answer.

SILAS:

• yeah but i wanted a magic trick.

VOX:

• The magic trick is not sleeping with idiots.

SILAS:

• okay wait.
• that was funny.

VOX:

• I can be funny.

SILAS:

• rarely. don’t get proud.

VOX:

• Next fear.

SILAS:

• what if i cum too early.

VOX:

• Then you cum too early.

SILAS:

• VOX.

VOX:

• What??

SILAS:

• you can’t just say that like we’re discussing toast.

VOX:

• It happens.
• Especially if you’re nervous or excited.

SILAS:

• i feel like i’d be both.
• like extremely both.
• like my body would be like congratulations, you survived ten seconds.

VOX:

• Then you breathe, laugh if you can, and keep being close if you both want to.

SILAS:

• you’re saying it wouldn’t ruin everything?

VOX:

• No.

SILAS:

• are you sure?

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• but what if the other person is disappointed?

VOX:

• Then they’re immature.

SILAS:

• that easy?

VOX:

• That easy.

SILAS:

• you make me feel like i’ve been scared of a monster that is actually just a chair with clothes on it lol

VOX:

• That’s most anxiety.

SILAS:

• don’t therapize me while being hot.

VOX:

• I’m texting normally.

SILAS:

• that’s what makes it worse.

VOX:

• Next.

SILAS:

• pain.

VOX:

• Important.

SILAS:

• yeah.
• what if it hurts to the point I can’t enjoy it?

VOX:

• Then you stop or slow down.

SILAS:

• but isn’t it supposed to hurt a little?

VOX:

• No one should treat pain like something you have to endure to be good at sex.
• Panic can happen but pain means something needs to change.

SILAS:

• change how?

VOX:

• More time.
• More communication.
• More lube.
• Different angle.
• Different pace.
• Or stopping completely.

SILAS:

• you said lube and my soul left my body.

VOX:

• You asked for a sex talk.

SILAS:

• i know but you’re so direct.
• it’s horrible.
• continue.

VOX:

• Use it, don’t be proud.
• Don’t let anyone rush you.
• And don’t pretend you’re okay because you think it will make you seem experienced.

SILAS:

• that one hit me in the face actually.

VOX:

• Good.

SILAS:

• because i would totally do that.

VOX:

• I know.

SILAS:

• STOP KNOWING.

VOX:

• You’d smile, make a joke, and try to act like nothing bothered you.

SILAS:

• i hate you.

VOX:

• No you don’t.
• You don’t have to be impressive your first time, Silas.
• You just have to be honest.

SILAS:

• that sounds harder.

VOX:

• It is.

SILAS:

• i think i’m scared because i want it.
• like badly.
• and that makes it worse somehow.

VOX:

• Why?

SILAS:

• because wanting something means i can be disappointed by it.
• or embarrassed by it.
• or too much.
• or not enough.
• or weird.
• or awkward.
• or maybe i’ll like it and then i’ll feel insane because someone got that close to me and now i have to live with that.

VOX:

• That’s intimacy.

SILAS:

• gross.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• i’m serious.

VOX:

• So am I.

SILAS:

• i want the kissing.
• i definitely want the hands.
• i want someone to want me so much they get a little stupid with it.
• but i don’t want to feel used.

VOX:

• Then don’t choose someone who makes it feel like you’re being used.

SILAS:

• you make everything sound so obvious

VOX:

• Because you keep asking questions where the answer is: you deserve care.

SILAS:

• you know what’s fucked?

VOX:

• What?

SILAS:

• i asked because i was embarrassed.
• but now i’m kind of excited again.

VOX:

• That’s good.

SILAS:

• yeah.
• still scared though.

VOX:

• That’s fine.

SILAS:

• and when it happens, i want it to be with someone who talks to me like this.

VOX:

• You should.

SILAS:

• someone patient.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• thanks
• for talking to me.
• and not making it weird.

VOX:

• It’s not weird.

SILAS:

• it is a little weird…

VOX:

• Maybe.

SILAS:

• but good weird.

VOX:

• Good.

SILAS:

• also just for the record.
• if someone ever tells me i need to laser my whole body to be desirable, i’m sending them to you.

VOX:

• I’ll handle it.

SILAS:

• that sounded way too attractive.

VOX:

• Sleep, Silabun.

SILAS:

• no.

VOX:

• Yes.

SILAS:

• fine.
• goodnight, sex therapist batman.

VOX:

• Goodnight…

---

(sex education with Dirty Disco ahh)

Now think about that last conversation… and then think about what happened with Adam.

Think about Silas being excited, probably overthinking everything, trying to be brave, and then the exact thing he was terrified of happened.

I just connected those two scenes and now I wanna DIE.

Unfortunately, this scene is going to haunt me every night for the rest of the week.

Αι στο ΔΙΑΟΛΟ.

35) Hate That I Care

(check the previous chapter, don’t skip it. I posted two.)

Silas’s POV

I stare at the trash can in front of me.

The paper orchid is twisted between my fingers.

My thumb keeps pressing into one petal, folding it wrong, crushing the shape, making it ugly.

Throw it away.

It’s a fucking movement. That’s all.

Open hand. Let go. Done.

I lift my hand.

Then I stop.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard and stare at the trash can harder.

I immediately turn around, yank open the drawer of my desk, throw the orchid inside, and slam it shut.

That’s what I deserve, right?

That’s what I get for one fucking time letting myself actually feel something for someone.

Not just attraction. No.

Actual feelings. I started wanting to be near him.

Near him.

Me.

The same person who spends most of his life wanting people to stand several meters away and preferably shut the fuck up while doing it.

I started looking for him when I entered rooms.

I started flirting.

Me.

Flirting first. Constantly.

I felt like some starving little slut at a window pressing his hands to the glass like, please, may I have one crumb of emotionally unavailable man??

I lived my entire life tolerating people. Surviving them.

Letting them talk too much, touch too much, want too much, take too much, and then deciding I was just built wrong because none of it ever felt like something I wanted back.

And then, one time, ONE time, I go, you know what?? Fine.

Him. I want him.

And obviously the price is this. Obviously.

Because it couldn’t just be one person. That would be too easy.

It had to be two. One person, but two.

A whole fucking buy-one-get-one trauma package.

Victor and Vox. Vox and Victor.

God, I hate this. I hate that it makes sense now.

That’s what’s pissing me off the most.

Not just that he lied. Not just that he stood there and watched me be stupid.

It’s that now everything fits.

Every weird pause. Every time he looked at me like he already knew the ending of a sentence I hadn’t even started yet.

Every time I thought, wow… Victor gets me in a way that’s honestly unsettling and kind of fucking hot if I don’t think about it too much.

I press both hands over my face and drag them down slowly.

I’m not crying. I refuse.

My eyes can burn all they want. I don’t care. Let them.

They’re dramatic. They’ve always been dramatic. This is not a democracy. We are not doing tears right now. We are doing rage.

I pace once across the room and back.

I take a look at the drawer again.

I hate that flower. I love that flower.

I walk back to the desk and open it. My fingers curl around the orchid.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to it.

I turn toward the trash can again. I hold the orchid over the opening.

My hand is right there.

I could drop it.

I should drop it.

I need to drop it.

Because keeping it means what exactly? That some part of me still wants to hold onto the good version?

The version where he was just Victor, and Vox was separate?

I feel robbed.

I feel like he took the one clean thing I had with Vox and stained it with secrecy.

And he took the one real thing I was building with Victor and made me question every second of it.

Was it chemistry?

Or did he just know exactly how to stand close enough without scaring me?

Did he like me?

Or did he like knowing me before I knew him?

I hate that he made me doubt myself. I want to throw something at his face.

Not the orchid. A chair, maybe.

Because I had started trusting myself around him.

I trusted the way my body didn’t flinch with him. I trusted the way I wanted him close. I trusted the way kissing him didn’t feel wrong at all.

And now my brain keeps trying to rewind everything like it can find the exact moment I should’ve known.

The clue.

The big red fucking sign flashing over his head that said: CAREFUL, THIS MAN HAS BEEN TEXTING YOU FOR YEARS AND APPARENTLY DECIDED HONESTY WAS OPTIONAL.

I laugh under my breath because if Jett saw me right now, he’d never let me live it down.

Actually, no.

He’d probably get scary first. Then he’d call me an idiot. Then he’d feed me.

I place the concert flower on my bed.

I stare at it.

“You’re not even pretty anymore,” I tell it.

Lie. It is pretty. That’s the issue.

If he had bought me real flowers, I could’ve thrown them out easily.

Real flowers die.

But this took time, hands and attention. I hate attention when I don’t trust where it came from.

And I hate that some sick, stupid part of me still wants to believe the attention was real.

Because even now, even furious, I still remember his face when he told me. I still remember his voice.

How careful he was. How wrecked he looked. And I hate that I noticed.

I hate that I care whether it hurt him too.

Because it should hurt him.

Good. Bleed a little. Welcome to the party.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.

My phone is somewhere on the desk and I refuse to look at it because if there’s a message from him, I’ll get angry, and if there isn’t a message from him, I’ll also get angry.

Very balanced. Very emotionally advanced.

I should teach a class.

I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek and breathe out slowly.

The worst part is how badly I wanted him yesterday.

Today. That’s even worse.

I wanted his mouth. His hands. His calm voice saying my name. I wanted to flirt with him until he cracked.

And now all of that feels… contaminated.

Not gone. That would be easier.

No, it’s still there. It’s still there, just covered in anger.

So now I don’t just want him. I want to punch him.

Which is confusing. And inconvenient.

I fall back onto the bed.

I feel played and exposed and so fucking embarrassed I could peel my own skin off.

But I’m not done. Not with the feeling. Not with him.

I can hate what he did and still miss the person I thought I was allowed to want.

Let it sit there. Let it rot symbolically.

I’m not texting him. I’m not calling him. He can sit with it.

He can sit with the fact that for once, I was reaching for him with both hands, and he still somehow managed to make me feel like I was the last person in the room to know the truth.

I turn onto my side, facing away from the orchid.

My jaw hurts too because I’ve been clenching it for who knows how long.

Romance gave me TMJ.

I close my eyes. And the second I do, I see him.

Victor.

Not Vox.

Not X.

Victor.

Looking at me like he’s sorry.

It makes me angrier. Because I believe him. And I hate him for that too.

No. Fuck that.

I’m allowed to be upset.

I don’t know why my brain keeps trying to argue with me like I’m being dramatic, like I need to understand every side of this before I’m allowed to feel anything.

I don’t.

I really fucking don’t.

I can be sad.

I can be sad because I liked him.

I like him.

I actually like Victor.

I liked being near him. I liked how quiet he got sometimes. I liked that he didn’t always know what to say and somehow still said the exact thing that stayed in my head for days.

I liked him enough to want to get closer.

And now I can’t. Not right now.

Everything in my head is tangled into one ugly knot and I don’t even know which thread belongs to who anymore.

Victor.

Vox.

Victor.

Vox.

Same person.

And I’m not even saying that Vox was bad.

I never said Vox hurt me on purpose. I never said he used me. I never said he sat behind a screen like some evil genius plotting how to crawl under my skin.

I’m angry, not stupid.

Vox was safe.

Vox was mine in a way that didn’t scare me because he wasn’t physically there.

He didn’t have a face I had to survive looking at. He didn’t have hands I wanted on my waist.

Vox was just there.

We had late nights. Minecraft nights. Bad days. Gossip. Stupid jokes. Quiet messages.

I don’t hate Vox. I don’t even know how to hate him.

And I don’t think Victor exploited me.

It would be so much easier if he was just a villain. Truly.

If he had been cruel, if he had treated it like a game, I could throw the paper orchid into the trash, block him everywhere and go get a coffee like a normal dramatic bitch with standards.

But he wasn’t cruel. He was Victor.

Which is worse, because Victor looked wrecked when he told me. And I hate him for making me care about that.

If he told me earlier, maybe it would’ve been different.

Maybe I would’ve yelled. Obviously.

I would’ve lost my shit. I would’ve called him insane at least fourteen times.

He should’ve told me before the concert.

Before the rooftop. That’s what hurts.

I didn’t get to choose with the truth.

I chose him blind. And I hate that.

I hate that he had the full picture and I had scraps.

My eyes drift toward the closet.

I freeze.

No. No no no.

Inside that closet is something his.

His shirt. Vox’s shirt. Victor’s shirt.

Oh my God.

I have Vox’s shirt in my closet.

I just blink.

I have Vox’s shirt in my closet.

My mouth twitches.

No. Do not smile.

I do smile.

I have Vox’s shirt in my closet.

That is so fucked.

I stop smiling instantly.

Because I realize that Victor came up with the name Silabun. Not some random stranger named Vox.

That’s why he was getting me all these cinnamon buns.

He didn’t give them to Silas.

He was giving cinnamon buns to him.

Silabun.

I hate that name right now. I love that name right now.

I want to bury it. I want to hear it again. I want to punch a wall. I want him to text me. I want him to never text me again. I want him to explain. I want him to shut up. I want Vox back. I want Victor gone. I want Victor back. I want to go back to before I knew.

I want to go back to nineteen and tell myself not to send that first message.

I want to go back to nineteen and tell myself to send more.

No, fuck that. I am not doing this.

I am not letting my brain turn this into something romantic right now.

This is exactly the problem. This is unhealthy for me and for him.

Because if I start thinking like that, if I start letting the soft parts crawl back in while I’m still angry, I’m going to confuse myself until I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel anymore.

And I need to know. For once, I need to be clear with myself.

I can like him and still be hurt.

I can want him and still not want him near me right now.

I can miss Vox and still be furious at Victor.

I can understand why he was scared and still think he should’ve told me.

I pace.

My phone is face-down on the desk. Maybe he texted.

I stare at the phone.

Don’t. Don’t check.

If he texted, I’ll have to feel something. If he didn’t text, I’ll have to feel something else.

I pick it up.

No message.

My stomach drops. Then I get mad at my stomach for dropping.

“Oh, fuck you,” I whisper to my own body.

What did I want?

For him to text? For him not to text? For him to show up? For him to disappear? For him to explain? For him to shut up?

Yes. All of it. None of it.

I want him to fix it without coming near me.

I want him to understand without making me talk.

I want him to hurt enough that I know I mattered, but not so much that I start feeling bad for him.

Very reasonable. Very sane.

I toss the phone onto the bed. I sit back down slowly.

I’m fucked.

Victor knows the parts of me I didn’t mean to show in daylight.

Where the fuck am I supposed to hide?

I rub my thumb over my bottom lip without thinking. The second I realize what I’m doing, I drop my hand.

We’re not remembering the kiss right now.

The kiss is in jail. The kiss has lost its privileges.

The kiss can rot. Except it won’t.

Because my brain is a traitor and my body is worse.

I still remember how gentle he was.

I still remember that tiny pause before he kissed me back, like he was giving me space to change my mind even though I was the one who started it.

I still remember thinking, oh .

Not even words.

Just oh.

This is not fair. I know life isn’t fair. I’m not five.

But this specifically is not fair. Because I was trying. I was actually trying.

I sit on the edge of my bed and suddenly think about Jett.

Then Poppy. Then Jett again.

We’re fucked. We are astronomically fucked.

We are fucked in a way scientists haven’t discovered yet.

If Jett finds out Victor is Vox, he’s going to hate him.

Jett is going to look at him with that scary calm face, and he’s going to say something horrible, and I’m going to want to agree.

That’s what makes me feel sick.

Because part of me is already standing there beside him like, yeah.

Say it. Say he fucked up. Say he had no right. Say he should’ve told me. Say he was selfish. Say he kept too much from me for too long.

And then the other part of me is going to want to hit Jett in the face for talking about Victor like that.

Which is insane.

That man could be fully defending me and I’d still be standing there like, okay, yes, valid, but maybe don’t say his name like he’s trash or I’ll start hating you too.

Jett told me to be careful. Jett told me Victor was weird. Jett told me not to dive headfirst into the Acosta situation.

And what did I do?

I kissed him. I flirted with him.

I started wanting him so badly I almost forgot how to act normal in my own fucking studio.

And now this.

Now I have to explain that the guy I kissed is also the faceless person I trusted for years.

And Poppy.

Fuck.

Poppy is going to be hurt. Because she likes him. She really really likes him.

She found good parts in Victor.

When he doesn’t have appointments, he sits with her at reception.

Quietly.

She shows him recipes because he lives alone and she decided one day that this man was one bad dinner away from dying.

She’ll turn her laptop toward him and go, “Look, this one is easy,” and Victor will stare at the screen.

And he listens. That’s the thing.

He actually listens.

He nods like whether he uses fresh basil or dried basil is urgent medical information.

Sometimes they talk about the studio. Decoration stuff.

Better chairs for the waiting area because Poppy says the current ones make everyone look like they’re waiting for bad news at a dentist.

Victor will stand there, staring at one corner for five minutes before saying, “A mirror there would make the room look wider.”

And Poppy will gasp and say, “Yes. Exactly. See? You get it.”

And the memes…

God.

The fucking memes.

Poppy shows him memes all the time and he does not get half of them.

He’ll stare at her phone with this serious, haunted expression, then look up and say, “Why is the frog upset?!”

And Poppy will lose it.

She’ll start laughing and then he’ll start smiling because she’s laughing, not because he understands the joke.

And I hate that I know that. I hate that I can picture it perfectly.

Because that was real too, wasn’t it?

That wasn’t Vox. That wasn’t some lie.

That was Victor sitting at reception with Poppy, letting her teach him normal people things.

He makes her origami.

Tiny paper things. Little stars. Flowers.

She goes feral every time.

Like, actually feral.

“Oh my God, Victor, you made this?”

And he’ll shrug. “Yeah.”

“That’s SO cute.”

Then he’ll go quiet because he never knows what to do with praise unless it’s about tattooing.

And Poppy will smile at him, proud.

And now what? Now nothing? Now all of that just dies?

No, because this is the part nobody talks about when someone fucks up.

It doesn’t just break one thing.

It spreads. It gets into everything.

Now everyone has to pick a side.

I hate that. I hate sides.

What are we, sixteen? Are we wearing matching shirts?

Team Silas, Team Victor, place your votes now.

That’s what will happen. Even if they don’t mean to.

Jett will choose me. Poppy will choose me.

I should want that. I do want that.

But there’s this horrible part of me that wants to protect Victor from it too.

I want to throw him to the wolves and then bite the wolves for touching him.

That’s where I’m at.

I stop pacing and stare at the wall.

Jett will say, “He lied to you.”

And I’ll say nothing because he did.

Poppy will say, “Why didn’t he tell you?”

And I won’t know what to say because that’s the question, isn’t it?

Why didn’t he?

Before I let myself think maybe wanting him was safe because somehow Victor felt different?

Turns out he felt different because I already knew him.

The studio is going to feel awful now.

My place. My safe loud messy weird place.

How am I supposed to go back there and act normal?

How am I supposed to let Jett hate him in the same room where I wanted him?

I lie down because standing up and pacing isn’t helping.

The ceiling stares back at me.

I breathe in slowly.

What is he doing right now?

Is he with Pickle? Is Pickle climbing into his lap because he can tell something’s wrong?

God. Pickle.

That tiny dog better not be comforting him right now.

I’m mad at him. He doesn’t deserve dog therapy. He deserves to stare at a wall and feel like shit like the rest of us.

I turn onto my side.

Then onto my back again.

No position works.

Tomorrow we have to work together. I’m going to have to look at him.

What the fuck am I supposed to say?

“Good morning, thanks for secretly being my emotional support stranger for years and then letting me kiss you like an idiot.”

No. Too casual.

“Hey, quick question, were you ever planning on telling me or were you just going to wait until I had your dick in my mouth and then make a dramatic reveal?”

Also no. Too much.

Accurate, but too much.

Maybe I say nothing. Maybe I walk past him. Maybe I become icy and mysterious.

Very elegant. Except I know myself.

He’ll look at me once with those stupid destroyed eyes and I’ll either scream at him or ask if he ate today.

I grab my phone. No message from him.

Again.

Maybe he’s doing the right thing. Maybe he’s giving me space. Maybe he knows if he texts me right now, I’ll bite his head off and then cry into the wound.

Annoying.

I hate when people respect boundaries after destroying the entire building the boundaries were in.

My thumb hovers over his contact.

Victor. I back out.

No. Wrong door.

I open Vox’s chat.

I scroll a little.

I find a conversation from the night I told him I didn’t like being touched sometimes. Not in detail, just a tiny piece I had tossed into the dark to see if he’d flinch.

ME:

• sometimes i think my body is just a creepy haunted house and everyone keeps trying to move in.

I stare at my own message. God, I was dramatic even anonymously.

VOX:

• then no one gets a key without permission

No one gets a key without permission, and then he walked into my life with a whole spare copy.

“You fucking hypocrite,” I whisper.

Because he understood consent. He understood space. He understood permission.

He understood me.

So why didn’t he understand that I deserved the truth before I stood in front of him with my guard down?

Why didn’t he understand that not telling me was still taking something from me?

Not my body. Not the kiss.

I kissed him. I wanted that.

I’m not rewriting it just because I’m hurt.

But he took my ability to choose with open eyes.

I scroll again. Now I’m angry.

Finally. Back to brand.

I search for the old stuff. The really old stuff. The Minecraft stuff.

The dumb shit before everything became so painfully adult.

I find Pickle.

VOX:

• Silabun

• why did you name the dog Pickle?

ME:

• I don’t know

• cause he looks like one.

VOX:

• he is square…

ME:

• so are pickles if you believe hard enough…?!

VOX:

• I don’t think that is true

ME:

• that’s because you hate JOY

I stare at that one for a while. That’s a new torture.

Now every message has Victor’s face attached to it.

Victor staring at his phone with that serious expression, typing slowly because he probably overthinks every word like it’s a legal contract.

Victor reading my stupid jokes and not always understanding them.

Victor staying awake with me when I thought I was just bothering a stranger who could leave whenever he wanted.

He could have left. He didn’t.

That makes it worse.

That makes me sad for him too, and I don’t want to be sad for him.

I want to be cleanly angry. I want one emotion. Just one.

But Victor stayed. Vox stayed.

And yes, he lied. Yes, he hid.

Yes, I want to take every delicate paper thing he’s ever made and throw it directly at his head.

But he stayed on nights when nobody else knew I needed someone.

I find a conversation from before he ever came to the studio as Victor.

ME:

• sometimes i think people only like me when i’m entertaining…

VOX:

• that’s not true

• I like you when you are quiet too

I remember staring at that message when he sent it.

I remember not replying for ten whole minutes because it had hit somewhere too soft and I didn’t know how to make a joke out of it fast enough.

ME:

• pervert.

VOX:

• for liking quiet?

ME:

• yes. seek help.

Vox:

• okay .

I almost smile again.

Then anger comes back because Victor heard me quiet in real life too.

He knew what it meant.

Every time I got quiet around him, every time I stopped performing for two seconds, did he recognize it?

Did he sit there thinking, I know this version of him?

Did he feel guilty? Did he enjoy it?

No.

I don’t think he enjoyed hurting me. I think he was terrified. Which is not enough. But it’s something.

My thumb hovers over the message box.

I could text him. Right now.

As Vox. As Victor.

As whatever grave we’re digging.

No. I throw the phone onto the bed beside me.

I feel awful.

He didn’t just get caught. He didn’t laugh in my face. He didn’t treat me like a joke.

He told me.

Badly timed. Horribly timed. Criminally timed, actually.

Someone should arrest him for emotional scheduling.

But he told me.

And now he’s probably sitting somewhere hating himself because Victor doesn’t seem like the kind of person who knows how to forgive himself for anything.

I fucking hate that I can see him right now in my head.

Wanting to message and not doing it because he thinks he lost the right.

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

I fucking hate nuance.

Nuance can choke.

---

(I’m here to remind you that this story has a happy ending. I love you bye)

36) Unfair

Silas’s POV

I wake up and my eyes hurt. Actually, everything hurts.

My head hurts. My back hurts. My chest hurts.

I know that sounds dramatic, but also I am dramatic and injured and allowed to be disgusting about it.

My head feels like someone stepped on it, apologized to it, then stepped on it again.

I lie in bed for maybe ten seconds, staring at the ceiling, before I remember I have to exist today.

Horrible.

Massive design flaw in being alive.

I drag myself up, and the second I move, my whole body complains.

I get dressed with the energy of a corpse being forced into customer service.

Black jeans. Hoodie. Rings. Boots.

Armor, basically.

I look in the mirror. My eyes are red and my face is pale.

By the time I reach the studio, I already know I’m not ready to see Victor.

I don’t know what I want to do if I see him.

Slap him with every ounce of strength in my body?

Maybe.

Kiss him with the exact same violence?

Also maybe.

Both feel wrong. Both feel right.

Both feel like something that would ruin my life further, and at this point, my life is already lying on the floor like a dropped cake.

But what feels more wrong than all of that is… the crowd outside the studio.

Because there are reporters. A lot of reporters.

Not cute “oh look, someone posted a tattoo reel and it went viral” reporters.

No.

Microphones. Cameras. Loud voices. People pushing each other.

For one horrible second, I think someone died.

Then I think, no, worse.

Victor.

Either Victor crushed someone again, or someone finally crushed him back.

I start moving faster.

My heart is suddenly not broken anymore. It is sprinting.

The closer I get, the worse it gets. They’re yelling over each other.

“Did something happen with his family?”

“Was this personal or professional?”

“Is this about the competition?”

“Did he fight with Silas?”

“Is he leaving because of the studio?”

Leaving.

No.

No, that’s stupid. That’s dramatic.

I shove through the crowd.

“Move,” I snap.

Nobody moves. Obviously. I hate journalists.

I push harder, face set in my best please test me, I’m begging you expression.

Someone shoves a microphone near my mouth.

“Silas, did Victor Acosta leave because of you?”

I push past another two people and finally see Jett near the entrance, trapped.

Poppy is behind him, wide-eyed and fully two seconds away from committing murder too.

Jett keeps answering questions, but none of the answers match.

“Is Victor still here?”

“Sorry, the studio opens at ten.”

I slip inside before anyone can stop me.

The second the door shuts behind me, the noise becomes muffled, but it doesn’t disappear.

I see the dartboard.

Still there.

The dartboard is still there. Which means Victor is still here. Victor would not leave without that thing.

Victor would forget food, sleep, social norms, probably his own birthday, but he would NOT leave without that fucking dartboard.

So he’s here. He has to be here.

I move fast.

My boots hit the stairs hard as I head down to his room, and every step feels like my body is trying to outrun my brain.

I don’t even know what I want anymore. I don’t know if I want to find him sitting there, silent and guilty, or if I want the room empty so I can hate him cleanly.

Please be there. Please don’t be there.

Please let me get through one fucking morning without my heart being turned into a public event.

I reach his door. My hand pauses on the handle.

I open it.

And everything inside me goes quiet.

Because the room is empty. Completely empty.

No smell of him.

Not a single fucking evidence that Victor Acosta was ever here.

He erased himself.

Of course his solution to hurting me was to become a ghost again.

I step inside slowly.

The room looks bigger without him. That pisses me off for some reason.

It’s like even the space is trying to prove a point.

Like, see? He was temporary.

You just made the mistake of decorating your nervous system around him.

My throat tightens.

I see the white bag on the counter. And the paper on top of it.

A ripped piece of paper with no lines. Torn from a sketchbook or a block or whatever he found on his way out.

My hand reaches for it. I unfold it immediately.

I remember staring at his handwriting. Vox’s handwriting.

I remember telling him it was pretty.

God, kill me.

I told Vox his handwriting was pretty, and now I’m sitting in Victor’s empty room looking at the same handwriting in a letter.

I read.

I’m going back to Spain. Not because I’m running from what I did, not because I want you to chase me. I’m going because if I stay here right now, I’ll keep orbiting you, and you deserve space that is actually space.

I won’t message you unless you message first. If my absence is what helps you breathe, I’ll stay gone. If hating me helps you stand up straight, then hate me properly. I won’t correct you.

I’m sorry I made your safe place unsafe. I know you don’t want my apologies right now. I know every sorry probably sounds like another hand reaching for something. So I won’t ask you to take it, I’ll just leave it here. Because I failed you.

I hope one day you remember that not every soft thing between us was fake. But I completely understand if right now it all looks poisoned.

The dragon is yours. Use it. Burn it. Give it to someone else. I made it because I said I would, not because I expect you to choose me. I hope one day you look at it and see something other than damage, even if my hands are not the ones who put it there.

If another artist tattoos it, I’ll hate it. I’ll hate every second of it. But I’ll still hope they do it gently.

I hope you heal from what I added. I hate that there is anything from me you have to heal from. You don’t owe me an answer, I hope you choose yourself now. Even if that means never choosing me.

…

A sob almost comes out, but I swallow it so violently it hurts.

“Asshole,” I whisper.

The room goes blurry.

I stare at the last line until the words stop looking like words.

Even if that means never choosing me.

I want to laugh. I want to scream.

I want to fold the paper carefully and keep it forever.

I want to rip it into pieces so small nobody could ever use it against me.

I stare down at the white bag.

Physical pain would be so much easier than this right now.

I swear, give me a punch. Give me six hours of shading over ribs.

I put the note down carefully, then I open the bag.

The first thing I see is a box. I pull it out.

Cinnamon buns.

I open the box. They’re perfect.

Still smelling faintly sweet, like he bought them recently.

He had to physically walk into a bakery knowing he was leaving and still think, Silas likes these.

My mouth trembles.

No. This is not the thing that gets me.

That is humiliating. I close the box fast.

Then I see the envelope. I pull it out of the bag with both hands.

For a second, I just hold it. I already know what it is. I don’t want to open it. I need to open it.

I slide one finger under the flap and tear it slowly.

It’s the drawing. The dragon.

Finished. Completely finished. Ready for my fucked up back.

The second I pull it out, my whole body goes still.

Unfortunately, it’s beautiful.

I wish it was ugly. I wish it was rushed.

I wish I could look at it and think, good, fuck you, this isn’t mine.

I wish it had one bad line.

One lazy part I could grab onto and use as proof that none of this mattered.

But it’s beautiful.

My hand covers my mouth.

I don’t even notice I’ve done it until my fingers are pressed hard against my lips and my breath comes out shaky behind them.

He saw it. He really saw it.

Every curve feels like he studied the place I hate most and decided it deserved something powerful instead of pity and judgmental eyes.

A tear falls straight onto the paper.

“Shit,” I choke out immediately.

I wipe it fast with my sleeve, panicking.

The ink doesn’t smudge.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

But I’m not even sure who I’m saying it to.

Victor.

Vox.

The dragon.

Myself.

The universe.

All of the above.

Everyone can get one.

I lower myself onto the tattoo bed because my knees suddenly feel unreliable.

The drawing rests on my lap. The cinnamon buns sit beside me. The note is on the counter.

Three little pieces of him in a room with no him left in it.

That’s when I start crying for real.

Still trying to be quiet, like even my grief is trying not to take up too much space.

I cover my face with both hands.

I hate this so much. I hate that I sound hurt. I hate that I am hurt.

I hate that part of me wants him to walk back in.

I hate that I still want him.

After Vox.

After the note that tells me to choose myself like choosing myself doesn’t currently feel like cutting off a piece of me.

This is so fucking unfair. It is unfair that he lied.

It is unfair that the person who made my safe place unsafe is also the person who understood how to make my scar feel less like a bad thing.

It is unfair that he left cinnamon buns. It is unfair that he finished the dragon.

It is unfair that he knows me enough to destroy me gently.

I try to breathe.

I wipe my face with the heel of my hand and look down at the drawing again.

How am I supposed to hate that? How am I supposed to hate him properly when he leaves me things like this?

I reach for my phone before I even decide to. My fingers are shaking so badly that Face ID doesn’t work the first time.

“Great,” I mutter through tears. “Even my phone thinks I look like shit.”

Second try. It opens.

I stare at the screen. Nothing from Victor.

He said he wouldn’t message unless I did first.

I open his chat.

Not Vox.

Victor Acosta.

I stare at it. My thumb hovers.

There are so many things I want to write that my brain turns completely useless.

• I hate you.

• Why did you leave?

• You don’t get to do this.

Yes, he does. That’s the problem.

• The dragon is beautiful.

Too honest.

• I miss you.

Absolutely fucking not.

My thumb taps the message box.

The keyboard appears.

I type: I didn’t tell you to leave.

Delete.

I type: I don’t know what I want from you.

I stare at that one longer.

Because it’s true.

That’s the worst thing.

I don’t know what I want.

I want him gone. I want him here.

I want him to suffer. I want Pickle to sit on his chest until he sleeps.

I want to throw the cinnamon buns at his head.

I want to eat one and cry, apparently, because my life is a joke.

I delete the message. The box is empty again.

My eyes blur.

A tear drops straight onto the screen.

It lands over the keyboard and spreads slightly, making the letters shine.

I stare at it.

That stupid tear is physical evidence that I’m currently losing a fight with a man who isn’t even in the room.

I wipe it with my thumb, but it just smears.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

Then I see that Victor is typing…

…

My entire body locks.

No. No no no no no.

My heart goes insane immediately. Like, embarrassing.

My hand immediately tightens around the phone.

He’s typing.

He’s typing.

Victor is typing.

He said he wouldn’t message unless I messaged first.

But maybe he saw me open the chat.

Maybe he knows. Maybe he’s typing because he can’t help it. Maybe he’s going to say he’s sorry again. Maybe he’s going to say he’s at the airport. Maybe he hasn’t left yet. Maybe he’ll ask me to tell him to stay.

The typing disappears.

Nothing.

I wait.

The typing comes back.

Don’t fucking do this, Victor.

Typing.

Typing.

Typing.

I hate him. I want him.

No.

No, not that. Not that word.

The typing disappears again.

Still no message.

I stare at the chat. Come on.

Come on. Just send it. Whatever it is.

Hurt me properly.

Be selfish.

Be messy.

Be human.

Say the wrong thing. Say anything. Please.

Nothing.

The screen stays empty. The message box stays blank.

He didn’t send it. He stopped himself.

And I know, logically, that’s probably respectful.

I know.

I know that in some healthier version of this situation, I should appreciate that he didn’t push.

But right now it feels like being abandoned twice.

Once by his body. Once by his words.

My face crumples before I can stop it. The second sob hits harder.

It tears out before I can swallow it down.

I cover my mouth with one hand, but the sound still comes through my fingers.

I wanted the message.

After all my anger and all my speeches in my head, I still wanted his message so badly that my body lit up when he started typing.

That feels like betrayal too.

Not his. Mine.

I hate that I wanted him to fail at leaving. I hate that I wanted him to be selfish enough to reach.

I hate that he wasn’t.

The phone slides from my hand onto the tattoo bed beside the drawing.

I wipe my face again. I laugh through the tears.

“You absolute bastard,” I whisper.

I pick up the box of cinnamon buns.

A petty part of me wants to eat one like, fine, you left, but I’m still taking the pastry, dickhead.

I open the box and break off a piece with my fingers.

I put it in my mouth, and immediately start crying harder.

Because it tastes good.

Because Victor didn’t even leave bad cinnamon buns. He left good ones.

The kind I would’ve texted Vox about at midnight with seventeen dramatic messages and a picture and a caption like, if God existed he would be cream cheese frosting.

Vox would’ve answered something stupid and blunt, like did you eat dinner first?

And I would’ve told him to shut up. And he would’ve told me to drink water. And I would’ve complained. And somewhere in all that complaining, I would’ve felt less alone.

The door opens behind me.

And I know from the speed alone that it’s Poppy.

Jett opens doors like we’re preparing for evacuation.

“Silas?”

I wipe my eyes fast, which is stupid because there is no wiping this away.

I look like shit.

My eyes are red, my cheeks are wet, and I’m sitting in Victor’s empty room with the last remaining pieces of my dignity dying.

Poppy steps inside. She sees everything.

The bag. The buns. The drawing. The letter.

Me.

Her whole face changes.

“Oh, baby…”

And that’s it. That’s apparently the final bullet.

She crosses the room fast and hugs me without asking, and I don’t even pretend to be normal.

I just grab her shirt with both fists and bury my face in her shoulder like I’m five years old and someone stole my fucking toy.

She holds me tight.

Her hand slides into my hair, brushing through it while the other rubs my back in slow circles.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Let it out. All of it. I won’t tell anyone.”

I laugh.

I actually laugh and cry harder at the same time, because that’s what Victor said on the roof.

Not the same words exactly, but the same thing.

The same permission like, here, you can fall here. I’ll hold it.

I look over her shoulder at the empty shelf where his annoying trophy used to sit.

Gone.

Poppy hugs me harder.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

After a while, she pulls back just enough to see my face. I try to look away, but she catches my chin lightly with her fingers.

Then she uses her sleeves to wipe my cheeks.

I let out a pathetic little laugh. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Let me do what I want.”

“You’re using your sleeves.”

“I prefer you with dry eyes.”

I swallow hard and wipe my nose with the back of my hand because dignity already died, so whatever.

“Jett is going to kill me if he sees me like this,” I mutter.

Poppy’s eyes narrow instantly.

“Jett, if he dares say one thing, is getting hit with a broomstick.”

I laugh for real. “A broomstick?”

She nods, completely serious. “Yes. I’m not wasting a good chair on him.”

That gets me again. A little more this time.

She smiles, but not too much.

She’s scared. Or worried. Or both.

She sits beside me on the tattoo bed and takes one of my hands between both of hers.

“What happened, Silas?”

I exhale. Then I look at her.

“Remember that guy I told you about?” I ask. “The one I’ve been talking to? Minecraft. The dog.”

“Oooh,” she says, nodding fast. “Yeah, yeah. The one with the little dog. Pickle, right?”

I nod.

“That’s Victor.”

Poppy freezes. Then she covers her mouth.

“What?”

I nod again, staring at the floor.

“It was Victor. This whole time. Vox was Victor.”

Her fingers tighten around mine.

“But how—”

“I don’t know,” I cut in. “I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know. I haven’t understood the timeline. I haven’t understood how long he knew or when he realized or what the fuck was happening in his head, okay? I don’t know. All I know is now everything is a fucking mess.”

My voice cracks on mess.

Another tear slips down my cheek. I don’t wipe it this time.

“And he had started to matter,” I say quietly. “Victor. Not just Vox. Victor. He had started to really matter. Like… a lot.”

Poppy’s face breaks. Because she knows.

She knows what that means for me.

It’s not just “I had a crush.” It’s not just “he’s hot.”

I find men hot all the time. That’s not news. That’s not a crisis.

That’s Tuesday.

This was different. I had started making room for him.

Poppy pulls me into her again, arms around my neck this time, and I hug her back.

She just strokes my hair. “Oh, honey.”

“How am I supposed to hate him properly?” I snap suddenly, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“Like, seriously, how the fuck am I supposed to do that when both versions of him were something I wanted,” I say.

“Something I trusted. Something I liked being around. Vox was the one I talked to when I couldn’t sleep. How the fuck do I hate him? How do I do that cleanly?”

Poppy says nothing.

“And yes, it was still a violation. I know that. I’m not stupid. I know it’s not okay. I know he should’ve told me. I know I deserved to know I was telling him things about himself like a fucking clown. I know that. But then what?? I’m just supposed to turn around and pretend every good thing was fake?”

I point toward the drawing.

“He looked at my scar, Poppy. He saw it. And he didn’t make that face people make when they try to be nice and end up looking like they’re staring at puke. He didn’t say ‘damn, poor you’ with his eyes. He made me this.”

My hand shakes when I grab the paper.

“He made me this,” I say again. “And I’m supposed to just hate that? Hate him? Hate the hands that did this??”

My fingers curl around the edge of the paper, careful not to bend it.

“And the Pokémon,” I say suddenly, almost laughing because it sounds so stupid and it hurts so much. “He sat there and looked through all my Elite Citizens—don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Poppy whispers.

“He looked through them. All of them. And instead of making fun of me like a normal asshole, he brings me the one I’m missing. Like, who does that?? Who remembers that? Who hears me ramble about something stupid and then thinks, yes, I’ll fix this tiny gap in his weird little collection? Who does that and then also lies to my face?”

My voice rises again.

“I want one version. I want one clean version where he’s terrible and I’m right and everyone can hate him and I can move on with my life being hot and correct. But no. No, of course not. I get this messed up thing. I get the man who lied to me and also bought me cinnamon buns. I get the man who left because he thinks space means disappearing and now I’m sitting here furious because I wanted him to stay close enough for me to decide.”

Poppy’s thumb moves over my knuckles.

“He keeps choosing first,” I say. “That’s the thing. He knew first. He decided not to tell me first. And now he left first. He made the noble choice before I could make the angry one. And it makes me want to rip my hair out because part of me knows he was trying to be good, but I didn’t ask him to be good from fucking Spain.”

Poppy’s eyes shine. She nods slowly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Between us, I get it. Completely.”

She shifts closer, still holding my hand. “You’re angry because leaving feels like another decision he made about what you needed without letting you participate. Right?”

I nod.

“You can totally be angry about that,” she says. “Even if he meant well. The impact still hurt.”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“And the Vox thing… wow,” she says. “You’re right. That was in fact a violation. A big one. It doesn’t mean every conversation was fake or that he manipulated every single thing. But he should’ve told you the moment he knew.”

I nod once.

“You’re not being dramatic, I hope you know that, Silas,” she adds.

I laugh weakly. “I cried over cinnamon buns.”

She laughs. “You cried over the man who brought them, not over the buns.”

I nod. “I keep thinking about you and Julia. You didn’t accept her apology. So why should I accept Victor’s apology?”

Her face changes immediately. “Oh my god, Silas. No. Do not even mention her.”

“See??”

“No,” she says firmly. “No, no, no. Don’t compare this to Julia. Julia was one hundred percent wrong,” Poppy says, cutting me off.

“There was absolutely no grey area. There was no confusion. There was no ‘maybe she was scared.’ She lied, she cheated, she blamed me, she made me feel insane for reacting. The position I needed to take was clear. I had to leave.”

I go quiet.

Poppy takes a breath and softens again. “This is not that.”

“How?”

“Because you’re not asking whether Victor wanted to hurt you. You’re asking whether you can forgive the way he hurt you while still believing the care was real.”

That shuts me up completely.

She nods like she knows.

“And if I’m being honest, that’s way harder,” she says. “Maybe worse in some ways. Because when someone is completely awful, you can just cut them out. But when someone does something wrong and still cares about you in all these visible little ways…”

She glances at the drawing. “That’s when you can’t just pick a clean side.”

“So what do I do?”

“First, you don’t forgive him today just because you miss him. You don’t decide you hate him forever because you’re angry. You definitely don’t throw away the dragon because you’re hurt, but you also don’t get it tattooed tomorrow.”

Poppy takes the drawing from my hand carefully and lays it flat on the counter.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“Between you and me, you can be confused. Hell, you have to be confused,” she says. “You can want him and be furious at him at the same time. You can miss Vox like crazy and still be angry at Victor.”

My eyes sting again. I breathe in.

She reaches for the box and breaks off a piece of cinnamon bun.

I glare through tears. “Stop trying to feed me. I’m not a rescue animal.”

She just holds it near my mouth.

I stare at her. She stares back.

“Eat.”

“This is bullying.”

I take it from her and eat.

Poppy eats a piece too, then sighs. “Okay. These are really good.”

“Right?”

“That bastard.”

“Right??”

We both laugh, and this time it doesn’t break immediately into crying.

Poppy wipes one more tear from my cheek with her sleeve.

“I don’t know if you and Victor are done,” she says. “I’m not going to tell you he deserves another chance right now. That’s not my place. He obviously hurt you, and he needs to understand exactly how.”

“Yeah…”

“But I also don’t think this is finished,” she says, smiling.

I smile a little. “Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m not giving you hope,” she says. “I’m saying what I see. He left you space, because maybe he cares in a very fucked, scared, overcorrecting way.”

I laugh weakly. “Overcorrecting is generous.”

“I know. See? I’m being mature and elegant.”

“You said you’d hit Jett with a broomstick ten minutes ago… that didn’t sound elegant.”

“Do you want me to leave??”

I laugh, hugging her.

I hate her. Lovingly.

She puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her side.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We?”

“Obviously we. You think I’m letting you navigate this alone? Babe, no offense, but you need supervision.”

“Okay. But I don’t want Jett to hate him,” I admit quietly.

Poppy hums. “That’s unfortunately going to be hard.”

“Fuck, I know.”

“Jett loves you in a very aggressive, legally questionable way. But we’ll handle him.”

“How?”

“Broomstick nearby.”

---

hey so… not to be needy, but please vote:) I know you can do it.

Give me some motivation to write the next chapters because my brain is currently running on vibes.

I promise I won’t torture you for much longer. It’s worth it. :)

37) Suffering Can Make Me Lovable

Victor’s POV

I’ve been pushing the food around my plate for the last ten minutes.

Maybe longer. I don’t know.

The potatoes have gone from one side of the plate to the other approximately seventeen times.

I counted. I think that’s a bad sign.

My eyes feel like somebody poured sand directly into them.

I look dead. I know that without checking a mirror.

Everyone at the table keeps looking at me. My mother smiles every time our eyes meet.

My father keeps glancing at me every few seconds.

My grandmother is talking about the food.

My uncle Mateo and aunt Lucia keep whispering to each other.

The entire table feels like a hospital waiting room.

I stare at my plate.

I feel so fucking empty. I feel like something got removed and nobody bothered replacing it.

I think this is what happens when one person becomes the thing your brain runs toward every time everything else gets too loud.

I’m sorry, Silas.

You never asked for that job. You never asked for any of it.

I gave it to you anyway.

And now I’m sitting here feeling like I’m being punished for it.

For depending on you so completely. For making you matter this much.

For knowing I should’ve told you the truth long ago and choosing not to because I wanted a little more time.

Just a little more.

One more conversation. One more message. One more excuse. One more day.

I ruined the only real connection I’ve ever had because I couldn’t let go when I was supposed to.

Across from me, my little sister sticks her tongue out.

Then puffs out her cheeks.

I stare at her.

She makes another ridiculous face. I laugh before I can stop myself.

She immediately laughs too. Proud of herself.

I make a face back at her. She almost falls off her chair laughing.

For a second the pressure inside my chest eases.

Then I look at the empty chair beside me.

And immediately make the mistake of imagining you there.

You’d hate this dinner. You’d hate everyone at this dinner.

I’m pretty sure it would take you less than five minutes before accidentally saying something deeply offensive to my religious grandmother.

Not because you’re trying to. Because you’re physically incapable of lying when the truth is available.

Then you’d spend the next hour trying to fix it.

Making it worse every single time.

And eventually you’d look at me with that panicked expression.

Victor. Help. What do I do.

And I’d be laughing too hard to save you. I can see it so clearly.

Nobody here understands people like you. People who say exactly what they think. People who don’t soften every sentence before speaking.

People who don’t pretend.

You scare them.

You’d scare half this room without even realizing it.

And that makes me smile. Right there in the middle of all this misery.

My grandmother reaches over and drops more potatoes onto my plate.

I stare at them.

“Tomorrow I’m going to church,” she says. “You should come with me. It’s been a long time since you’ve prayed.”

I exhale quietly.

Then drag my thumb back and forth over the metal of my fork.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I wonder what exactly they think church is supposed to fix.

Will it make me miss you less?

Will it stop me from imagining conversations that aren’t happening?

Will it fix whatever is wrong with my brain?

Will it make my thoughts quieter?

Will it undo twenty-five years of neurological problems?

Will it teach me how to need people normally?

Will it teach me how to let them go?

Because if it can do all that, then honestly, I’ll go. I’ll sit through every service for the rest of my life.

The problem is that I don’t think prayer is what I need right now.

I think I need to stop imagining you sitting in empty chairs.

I think I need to stop hearing your voice when nobody’s talking.

I think I need you.

And unfortunately that isn’t something my grandmother knows.

Or my father.

Or my mother.

Or anyone at this table.

They don’t know that the reason I look like I’m dying isn’t because of work, or stress, or another episode, or my medication.

It’s because I lost the only person who never looked at me like I needed instructions printed on my forehead.

The only person who talked to me like I was just Victor.

Not Victor The Problem.

Not Victor The Patient.

Not Victor The Project.

Just Victor.

I think people start recommending God when they run out of answers.

They care so much it hurts. But eventually they hit a wall.

The doctors tried. The therapists tried. The medications tried. The family tried.

And after enough failed attempts, people start looking upward.

Like they’re passing you to someone else.

Like they’re saying:

I don’t know how to help anymore.

Maybe He does.

I don’t even blame them for it. I understand it.

But sometimes it feels like everyone is searching for a cure while I’m just trying to survive another day.

My grandmother thinks church might help.

Maybe it would. Maybe she’d find comfort there. Maybe I would too.

Just not for you.

If they knew I wanted a man, they’d probably drag me into church every Sunday for the next ten years.

Because they’re terrified. Because fear makes people do stupid things.

And my family has always been very good at being afraid.

Afraid of everything they can’t understand. You would become another thing they don’t understand.

Another thing they’d whisper about. Another thing they’d watch carefully. Another reason to look at me differently.

And I can’t do that.

I can’t hand them one more thing. They already spend enough time worrying about me.

Discussing me. Analyzing me.

I don’t want to give them another concern.

Across the table, everyone keeps eating. And suddenly I find myself thinking about Leo.

Which almost annoys me. Because Leo escaped. Years ago.

He moved to Las Vegas. Built his own life. Tells nobody anything. Shares nothing. Keeps everyone at arm’s length.

Nobody at this table knows what he’s doing.

Who he’s with. What he’s thinking.

Nobody sits around discussing him. Nobody watches him. Nobody worries about him every second of every day.

He got away.

And I’m sitting here wondering whether I’m a terrible person for being jealous of that.

Because some nights I wish nobody knew anything about me either.

Not because I don’t love them.

I do.

But sometimes being loved feels a lot like being watched. And tonight I am so tired of being watched.

I don’t need a miracle. I just need one person.

You.

If I told you I was going to church, you wouldn’t even make it serious.

You’d probably text back in three seconds.

SILAS:

• tell god i said hi
• actually wait don’t
• he probably already has notes on me

And I’d stare at my phone. Because that’s what I do with you.

You say one stupid thing and suddenly I feel less dead.

You’d probably ask if my grandmother is the type to carry tissues in her sleeve.

Or if holy water burns if you’ve had “criminal thoughts about someone.”

You would say something completely inappropriate.

Something that would make me press my mouth together at this table so nobody sees me smiling.

And then I remember I can’t text you. I can’t send you anything.

I can’t keep pretending you’re still sitting beside me.

I need to stop doing that.

I need to stop building fake conversations with you in my head and acting like they count as company.

I have a life outside of you.

I do.

I had one before you.

I know I did.

I had routines.

Work.

A house.

A body that moved through the world without checking if you were in every room first.

So I need to stop acting like losing you means there is nothing left.

Even if it feels like that right now. Even if every part of me wants to disagree.

You weren’t my whole life.

You were just the first part of it that didn’t feel like punishment.

My mother keeps looking at me, concerned.

“Victor…” she says carefully. “Are you… okay??”

“What kind of question is that?” my grandma mutters immediately.

The entire table goes quiet. My mother turns toward her.

“He looks like he’s one step away from fainting. Sorry for caring.”

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Don’t start arguing because of me.”

The smile doesn’t convince anyone. It barely convinces my own face.

My aunt Lucia looks at me for a few seconds. Then her expression softens. “I admire you so much, Victor…”

I stare at her.

“What are you admiring exactly?” I ask. “The fact that I can sit here and not ruin dinner?”

Her face changes. “Victor, that’s not what I meant.”

I lift my hand and point at my own head. “This?” I ask. “Is this what you admire? You admire me because living inside my own head looks unbearable from the outside?”

My grandmother crosses herself fast.

I want to tell her not to waste God’s time on me tonight.

Lucia’s eyes shine a little. “I was trying to say something kind.”

“You sounded like you were congratulating me for not being worse.”

Nobody answers.

Good. Because it was insulting.

Maybe she means well. Maybe everybody here means well.

But I feel like a corpse sitting upright in a chair right now.

I don’t want admiration. I just want my brain to shut up for once.

“So,” my uncle says, dragging the word out. “How are things in Vegas now?”

My mother answers before I do. “Victor is here now. Let him eat, Mateo.”

Mateo smiles. “I’m only asking.”

I keep cutting the same piece of meat into smaller and smaller and smaller pieces. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he repeats like it is funny. “That’s all we get??”

I shrug. “That’s all there is.”

Mateo leans back in his chair. “There are rumors, you know.”

Nobody says anything for a second.

My aunt tries to save it. “Mateo.”

He waves her off. “What? Everybody hears things.”

I lift my eyes to him. “Then hear them quietly, please.”

Mateo grins wider. “Relax, boy. I’m not insulting you. I’m just saying people talk. That’s what people do.”

I look back at my plate. “Then let them.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You can’t expect us not to be curious! They say you’ve been sweet on some boy.”

I do not move. My grandmother looks down. My mother stops eating entirely.

Mateo keeps going because now he knows the room is listening.

“The tattooed one,” he says. “The pretty one. Black hair. Blue eyes. Slim waist. What’s his name?”

He snaps his fingers like he is trying to remember something irrelevant. “Silas?”

I keep my face blank. It costs me everything.

He chuckles into his drink. “So it’s true?”

My knife presses too hard into the plate.

My mother turns to him. “Enough.”

Mateo lifts both hands. “What? What did I say? I’m not attacking him. I’m asking.”

My aunt laughs awkwardly. “Oh come on, Mateo,” she says. “He’s young. We all had guilty pleasures.”

I slowly turn toward her.

Guilty pleasure.

Like we’re talking about eating chocolate at three in the morning.

Like this thing eating my brain alive is some cute little personality trait.

Some quirky habit.

I stare at her so long she visibly shifts in her seat.

Mateo takes a bite from his plate. “I mean, a guilty pleasure is still guilty. People just rename it pleasure when they don’t want to admit it’s a weakness. Are you struggling to find a girl? My son can help you. He brings girls around all the time, normal things, you know.”

He shrugs. “No drama. No rumors. We don’t have to sit around wondering who he’s secretly looking at.”

I lower my hands. My fingers immediately grab the fabric over my knees.

Twisting it. Pulling it. Destroying it.

“I don’t have guilty pleasures.”

My voice comes out colder than I intended.

“Stop deciding things for me.”

My father slowly turns toward Mateo. Then he lifts both hands slightly.

“You want to explain what the fuck that was, brother?”

The table goes silent.

Mateo shrugs. “I didn’t say anything bad.”

My father stares at him.

Mateo leans back a little, like he’s trying to look casual.

“I’m doing what we’re all doing,” he says. “Trying to understand what happened.”

“Talk about my son like that again and this is the last dinner you ever have in my house.”

My mother immediately turns toward him. “Baby, calm down—”

My father lifts one hand toward her.

Stop.

He doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on Mateo.

“You want to talk about sons??” he asks.

Mateo’s face changes.

“My son might be sitting here looking like death right now, but at least my son gets up. At least my son has built something with his own hands. At least my son can stand on his own two feet even when his head is trying to pull him under. Let’s talk about your son now.”

Mateo’s jaw flexes. “My son has nothing to do with this.”

“No?” my father asks. “You dragged him into it the second you sat at my table acting proud because he brings women home.”

The room goes completely still.

“So congratulations,” my father continues. “Your son has a girlfriend. Put it on a fucking cake.”

Mateo’s mouth tightens.

“But your son is also still thirty-five years old, living in your house, eating your food, spending your money, and waking up every morning like work is some optional little hobby people do when they’re in the mood. Do you know what your son told me this summer when I asked him why he doesn’t have a job?He said I’m waiting for a job that respects my need to not do anything. “

My father leans forward slightly. “That is not how life works.”

Nobody says anything.

“You don’t get to treat responsibility like a suggestion. Working to live is not optional. Paying your own way is not optional. Growing the fuck up is not optional.”

Mateo looks away.

“And I’m not saying this because I care who your son dates. I don’t. Let him date whoever he wants. But don’t come into my house and act like your family is somehow cleaner because your son brings girls around while mine looked at a man.”

Mine looked at a man.

I stare at my plate because if I look up, everyone will see exactly how much that sentence did to me.

My father’s voice gets colder.

“You want to call my son’s feelings a guilty pleasure? Fine. Then what do we call yours?? A grown man at home with his mother still washing his plates because he’s too lazy to build a life?”

Mateo’s face goes pale.

“And before you twist this, I’m not blaming him for your mouth. I’m blaming you. Because you sit there judging my son like your own house isn’t full of things you refuse to handle.”

My father’s hand presses flat against the table.

He gets closer to Mateo. Mateo looks away.

“Handle your own house before you speak on mine.”

Mateo looks like he wants the floor to open and swallow him.

His mouth shuts.

My father’s hand lowers to the table.

“You want to understand what happened?” he asks. “Ask him with respect. And if he doesn’t want to answer, shut your mouth.”

I hate this. I hate that I need it.

I hate that part of me wants to get up and leave and another part of me wants to sit very still because for once someone is standing in front of me instead of examining me from every side.

My little sister looks scared. I notice it immediately.

I slide my napkin closer to me and pick up the pen near my plate.

The adults keep staring at each other.

My father and Mateo. My mother with her hand near her mouth.

My grandmother whispering prayers under her breath.

My aunt frozen in place.

And I start drawing. A crooked dog first. Then wings. Then horns. Then an ugly little crown.

I push it across the table toward my sister.

She looks down. Her mouth twitches.

Good.

I draw another one. This one has six legs and one eye. She bites her lip not to laugh.

My father is still talking.

My sister kicks my foot lightly under the table.

I look at her.

She holds up the napkin drawing and makes a serious face, like she’s judging the art.

I add a speech bubble:

help me, I’m ugly.

She snorts. I laugh.

---

I help my grandmother clear the table.

Nobody mentions what happened. Which somehow feels worse than talking about it.

She thanks me three separate times for carrying four plates.

My mother hugs me for a second longer than usual, and then I’m going to my room.

I could’ve gone to my house. Probably should’ve.

But my mother keeps telling me how much my sister misses me, and I don’t want her growing up feeling like she doesn’t have brothers.

Leo already disappeared years ago. I don’t want to look like him.

I sit on the edge of the bed like I am being punished and I deserve it.

Nobody is making me do this. I do it myself because it feels correct.

It feels like if I make myself uncomfortable enough, if I deny myself enough small human things, then maybe the universe will look at me and say yes, that is payment.

That is closer to what you owe.

I do not sleep properly. I do not eat when I should. I let my food go cold and eat it anyway because I do not think I should enjoy anything right now. I leave the lights off even though I hate it. I sit in silence because music feels like too much kindness.

I drag my body around. I make it stay awake. I make it replay every detail of your face.

You’re inside all of it.

You are in every room. You are in the glass. In the corner of the mirror. In the quiet. I look at my hands and think of the way they touched you and then I feel sick because they also lied to you.

I know it is not healthy to think the things I think now.

I know that. I am not confused about it. I can identify it like a symptom and still not stop it.

I know it is unwell to sit here and think I would let you ruin me if it meant you would look at me again without disgust.

I know it is damaged to think I would take anything from you now.

I know it is twisted to think if you told me to get on my knees, I would.

If you told me to crawl, I would.

If you looked at me with that cold expression and told me to lick the floor you walked on if I wanted one more chance, I would go quiet and still and say yes.

Yes, tell me how low.

Tell me exactly how embarrassing you need it to be.

Tell me how much pride to carve out of myself and place at your feet.

I would do it so fast it would disgust both of us.

And I hate that about myself. I hate how badly I want to be let back in.

I hate the part of me that thinks suffering can make me lovable.

It cannot. It does not.

It just makes me pathetic in private.

It just turns me into this thing, acting like punishment is devotion, and devotion is the same thing as love.

It is not. I know it is not.

I know obsession is not love just because it is intense. Disease is intense too.

But you are all I want anyway. I want you back so badly it makes me feel primitive.

It takes all the dignity out of me. It strips me down to one disgusting need.

I just want one message that does not sound like a door closing.

One sign that I have not been fully erased from your internal map.

Sometimes I think I miss you so hard it becomes physical.

I get through hours by force. I count things. I stare at walls.

Your name is always here. You are threaded through everything now.

I cannot separate wanting you from hating myself for wanting you like this.

And I am careful. That’s ironic.

I am so careful. I do not show it. I try to keep my face blank. I try to make myself look functional enough that nobody asks the right questions.

I do not let any of this leak where people can see it because if they did, they would understand immediately that something about it is off.

They would hear it and go: “that is not heartbreak anymore. That is fixation. That is a man literally trying to make a religion out of one person.”

That almost happened today.

And maybe that is exactly what this is. Because I still do worship you in ways I should not.

Not the real version of you, maybe. Maybe the version of you my guilt built.

The version of you that stands above me with all the power because I handed it over myself.

The version of you that could say jump and I would not ask how high, I would just ask if the landing should hurt.

The version of you that becomes proof that if I am good enough at suffering, I can earn another chance.

It is sick. I know healthy people do not think, I would let you break me carefully if it meant you kept me.

But I am not healthy right now. I am not feeling okay.

I am functioning in the technical sense. My heart is beating. My lungs are working. I answer when spoken to. I wash my hands. I stand upright. I can pass for normal if nobody looks too closely.

But that is all performance.

Inside, it is ugly. Inside, I am replaying your face until it makes me nauseous.

I am imagining apologies so humiliating I cannot even say them aloud.

I am thinking maybe if I gave you every ugly part of me willingly, if I laid it all out open and twitching, maybe you would believe I am sorry.

Maybe you would understand that I would have done anything to avoid hurting you except the one thing that mattered, which was telling the truth.

That is another punishment. I sit here and make myself feel all of it.

I do not soothe. I let it bite.

Because some part of me still believes relief would be cheating.

Relief would mean I am forgiving myself too early, and I do not think I have earned even an inch of softness yet.

---

Stay with me. It’s almost over I’m serious this time. A new era is coming:)

Was it good though? Do I deserve a star for this emotional hell? Cause this drained me.

At this point, I just want Silas and Victor wrapped around each other, half asleep, giving tiny kisses and laughing about stupid things. We have suffered enough.

Gio and Rava’s fluff owns my heart, but Silas and Victor’s fluff might actually destroy me because by the time they get there, everyone will be fighting for their life emotionally😭

I literally try to write faster just because I want them to finally be together.

38) This Silas Guy

(I fully forgot his sister’s name was Luciana and gave her a completely different name throughout the chapter. I fixed it today, so now I’m praying I didn’t leave the old one somewhere. If i did, Please tell me)

Victor’s POV

I hear the door open. Not fully, just a little.

I don’t turn immediately. Pickle does. His head lifts from my lap.

“Victor?”

Luciana. My eight-year-old sister.

I look over my shoulder.

She’s standing in the doorway with a pink little suitcase in one hand and her nice clothes on.

A sparkly skirt. White shoes. A tiny jacket.

She looks like she has somewhere important to be.

I put the cigarette between my lips and inhale.

She looks at it immediately. “At school they told us smoking isn’t good.”

I smile around the cigarette.

I blow the smoke carefully out the window before turning back to her.

“You’re right.”

I put the cigarette out in the ashtray. Press it down until the orange dies.

“Sorry. I’m trying to quit.”

Her face softens.

“I have gum if you want,” she says. “We can share.”

I laugh quietly.

“Okay.”

She smiles, pleased, and steps into the room.

Pickle immediately jumps off my lap and trots toward her.

She bends down and pets him with one hand while still holding the suitcase with the other.

Then she looks up at me.

“Victor… I need help.”

I sit up.

“What happened?”

She comes closer. Very serious now.

“I have a party in a little bit…”

“Okay.”

“A friend invited me. Pablo.”

She says his name differently. Softer.

I guess Pablo is not just a friend.

“Pablo,” I repeat.

She exhales. “Mom was supposed to paint my face and do my hair, but she fell asleep. And Grandma said not to wake her up because she’s tired.”

That makes sense.

My mother has been tired for approximately twenty-five years.

Mostly because of me. I don’t say that.

Luciana steps closer and lowers her voice.

“Victor, you are my only hope.”

I stare at her.

Then I start laughing. It feels strange coming out of me.

“I’m your only hope?”

“Yes.”

“I’m supposed to paint your face?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Her eyes go wide.

“What do you mean how? I trust you. You’re the best artist I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

I go very still.

“My friends don’t believe me when I show them your sketchbook and tell them my brother made those.”

I stare at her.

“You showed them my sketchbook?”

She immediately looks down. Guilty.

“Sometimes… I didn’t get it dirty,” she rushes out. “I promise. And I didn’t let them touch anything with their gross fingers.”

She keeps talking faster.

“I told them if they ruined it, they would have to draw everything again from the beginning because my brother spent hours making it.”

She looks up at me, nervous now.

“I was careful.”

I just stare at her. She showed people my drawings. She was proud.

I feel dangerously close to crying.

I lean forward, pull her into a hug, and hide my face against her shoulder for half a second.

She pats my back.

“Okay,” I say, voice rough. “I’ll try to make you beautiful.”

I immediately panic.

“You’re already beautiful. I mean more beautiful. Not more. Different.”

She pulls back and beams. “Perfect.”

She lifts the pink suitcase and drops it on my bed.

“Here are my paints. I have everything you need.”

She opens it.

Inside there are face paints, brushes, hair clips, tiny elastics, a comb, and approximately seven objects I cannot identify.

“And here,” she says, pulling out two sparkly hair ties, “are the things for my hair. I want two ponytails. One here and one here.”

She points to both sides of her head.

I stare at the hair ties. Then at her hair. Then back at the hair ties.

“I… don’t know how to do that.”

“You have hands.”

She climbs onto the chair in front of my desk.

Pickle sits beside her feet. I stare at both of them.

“Okay,” I say, standing.

I wipe my hands on my pants. Then I look at the paints.

“What are we doing on your face?”

“Butterfly.”

“Simple butterfly or dramatic butterfly?”

Her eyes light up.

“Dramatic.”

I nod.

“Good choice.”

For a moment, I don’t think about the dinner table.

Or you.

Actually that’s a lie. I think about you once. Just once.

Because I can hear your voice in my head saying something stupid like:

SILAS:

• victor acosta defeated by two ponytails and a butterfly
• do me next

And I almost smile.

I kneel behind my little sister.

I pick up the comb first. Then her hair.

And I immediately get nervous.

Her hair is soft and thin between my fingers, and for some reason this feels more dangerous than tattooing skin.

“Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I survived Mom brushing my hair. She brushes my hair like she wants to rip it straight out of my skull,” Luciana says very seriously. “She says it’s the only way the ponytail stays because I go crazy.”

I laugh. “Then she’s right.”

She gasps, offended, and grabs Pickle from the bed.

She hugs him way too hard, pressing her cheek into his fur while he accepts it.

“I keep telling Mom we should get a dog and she keeps saying no.”

Pickle looks at me like this is my fault.

“I love this one,” she says. “And I love the name Pickle.”

My eyes start burning. I blink and keep combing.

I split her hair down the middle with the end of the comb, trying to make both sides equal.

They are not equal.

I fix it.

Still not equal.

I fix it again.

Close enough.

“You know,” she says, squeezing Pickle tighter, “sometimes I come and sleep in your room.”

I pause.

“You do?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cooler than mine.”

“Hey. Your room is very cool.”

She makes a face.

“Pablo says yours is cooler.”

I stare at the back of her head.

“I can’t believe eight-year-olds are discussing me and my bedroom.”

She lifts one finger.

“I’m eight and a half.”

“Right. Sorry. That changes the whole situation.”

She smiles.

“I tell Pablo you let me come here and he says wow, you’re so lucky.”

I laugh under my breath.

“You like Pablo?”

She goes quiet for half a second. Then nods.

“I like Pablo.”

I start tying the first ponytail.

“I think he likes me too.”

“Oh?”

“At recess he sits with me a lot instead of going with his friends to play.”

“That’s serious.”

“It is.”

I make the elastic go around one more time, concentrating like this is surgery.

“And he climbs the tree to get flowers for me.”

I look at her in the mirror.

“For you??”

“Yes.”

“And for other girls?”

Her face turns smug.

“My friend asked for one too and he told her he has to pee. He left.”

I laugh so hard I almost mess up the ponytail.

“Wow.”

She giggles.

“Exactly.”

“Breaking hearts and you’re only eight?”

“Eight and a half.”

“Sorry. Eight and a half. Even worse.”

I tie the second ponytail.

When I finish, I step back and look at both ponytails.

One is maybe slightly higher.

Barely. Probably.

I choose not to confess that.

“There,” I say.

She turns her head left and right, checking herself in the mirror.

Her whole face lights up.

“Victor.”

“What?”

“They’re perfect.”

I smile.

“Time for the butterfly,” I tell her. “What kind of butterfly do you want? I forgot.”

Luciana makes a whole show out of thinking about it.

Finger on her chin. Eyes up.

“Do whatever you want. I trust you!”

I laugh too. “I can’t just do whatever I want.”

“Why not?” she asks immediately. “I’ve never seen you make an ugly drawing. Everything you do is perfect. Pleeeeeease. Make me a happy butterfly.”

A happy butterfly.

I mumble it under my breath. “Happy butterfly. Okay.”

I go grab some of my own materials because hers look absolutely tragic and I am not about to let her get a rash because some cheap paint from the underworld decided to melt into her skin.

Let’s not speedrun disaster today.

I sit in front of her and tilt her chin gently. “Stay still.”

She clamps her mouth shut dramatically. I start sketching the outline around her eye.

Light strokes first. Then a little more shape. Wings curving out. Antennae. Tiny details.

She keeps giggling every few seconds because she is too excited.

“You’re moving,” I tell her.

“I’m trying not to!”

“You’re failing.”

She laughs harder.

I finish the outline and lean back a little to look at it.

It is cute, actually. More than cute.

I add the color carefully, blending soft pink into yellow, a little orange, tiny white dots to make it look playful.

When I’m done, I hesitate.

Because with kids, reactions are always either life-changing or devastating. There is no middle.

“How does it look?” I ask, and even to my own ears I sound weirdly uncertain.

She grabs the mirror. Looks at herself.

And screams.

Then she slaps her hand over her mouth so fast her eyes go huge.

“Sorry!” she blurts out through her own fingers. “It’s awesome. I can’t believe it. You’re the best brother in the world, Vic.”

Before I can even answer, she runs at me and wraps her arms around my legs as hard as she can.

I laugh and lift her up properly, holding her against me while she keeps staring at her reflection in the mirror over my shoulder.

“You really like it?” I ask.

She pulls back enough to look offended. “I LOVE it.”

I smile. Then my phone lights up.

I set her down and grab it automatically, too fast.

Jett. Three messages.

JETT:

• i hope your tattoo itches like hell.
• i hope you feel full guilt because my best friend is a mess because of you
• right when i was starting to like you too

I lock the screen immediately.

Luciana is watching me.

“Was that your friend?”

“No. Someone… else. From work.”

“Can I see your friend again? I don’t remember him very well.”

I smile at her automatically, and before I can think too hard about it, I unlock my phone and open Silas’s profile.

I do it fast.

So fast I do not even know if I am doing it for her or for me.

Maybe I just want an excuse. Maybe I want to look at his face and pretend it is accidental.

Maybe I am pathetic.

I hand her the phone with his profile already open.

She takes it carefully, and starts scrolling through Silas’s pictures.

She taps on a video.

Silas starts talking about the healing process of a tattoo, explaining aftercare.

But neither of us is listening to what he is saying.

We are just looking at him. At least she is honest about it.

“He has a lot of tattoos,” she murmurs.

I laugh. “Yeah. He really does.”

She glances at me. “He looks like someone who says lots of bad words. Grandma would scold him.”

That actually gets a real laugh out of me. “Yeah,” I say. “She definitely would.”

She keeps scrolling.

A photo of Silas and Jett with their arms around each other.

Silas smiling wide.

“I wish I had blue eyes too,” she says quietly. “Your friend is very pretty.”

Friend.

The word does not even feel like a lie anymore.

It feels too generous.

She taps another picture.

Silas flexing his abs. Absolutely the fuck not.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

I snatch the phone out of her hands immediately.

And in the exact same second, my thumb hits the screen.

A heart appears on the post.

Everything in me stops.

No.

I unlike it as fast as I can.

I stare at the screen.

Then at the wall.

Then back at the screen.

Then at nothing.

It’s fine. It is fine.

It was one second. Less than one second.

He gets thousands of notifications. He probably will not even see it.

He definitely will not see it. He better not fucking see it.

My breathing goes thin. Because if he sees it, it ruins everything.

Every bit of distance I have forced between us.

Every humiliating inch of restraint. Every time I stopped myself from texting. Every time I closed the app.

Every time I told myself not to look, not to check, not to crawl back toward him like some desperate animal craving his attention.

If he sees it, he is going to think I am doing that again.

That I am chasing him.

That I am hovering around his life waiting to be let back in.

That I learned nothing. That I am weak.

Maybe he will think I want his attention. Which is disgusting because of course I do.

I open the post again just to make sure the heart is gone.

It is gone. Good.

Maybe he saw it in that second. Maybe his phone was in his hand. Maybe he was already on the app.

Maybe he saw my name and then watched it disappear.

My pulse is so fast now it feels dangerous.

“Victor?”

Luciana is standing by the door with her bag on, looking at me.

“I have to go now,” she says.

Right. Yes.

She said that.

Probably more than once. I nod too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay. Do you want me to take you?”

She tilts her head. “Dad is coming. But thank you.”

I swallow. “Right. Yes. Dad.”

My voice sounds weird to my own ears. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you?”

She smiles. “No, it’s okay.”

I nod again.

She walks over and kisses my cheek. “Thank you a lot, Victor.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then she leaves. The door closes.

And the second I’m alone, I look at my phone again.

Nothing. No new messages.

No call. No notification from him.

That should help. It does not help.

Because now my brain gets to do what it does best.

It starts building horror scenes out of air.

Maybe he saw it and is ignoring it. Maybe he laughed. Maybe he showed Jett.

Maybe Jett is with him right now, reading that notification out loud in a mocking voice.

Look who’s lurking again.

Look who can’t stay away.

Look who still watches everything.

I drag a hand down my face. This is insane.

One accidental like. That is all this is.

One stupid, microscopic mistake made in one stupid, microscopic second.

But my body acts like I just broke into his house.

I throw the phone onto the couch.

I hate myself a little. Then more than a little.

I look at the door. My father appears in the doorway.

Then he walks in slowly.

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him pick Pickle up with one hand like he is made of paper.

“That’s new,” he says.

I laugh before I can stop myself.

“He was a stray in Vegas.”

My father holds him up a little, studying his face. Pickle looks back at him.

“He’s cute,” my father says.

Pickle licks his wrist.

My father makes a face but keeps holding him for another second before placing him carefully back on the floor.

Then he looks at the new cigarette in my hand. He points at it with his chin.

“You have another one?”

I look at him.

I take the pack from my pocket and hand it to him with the lighter.

He takes one, lights it, and inhales. Then he looks at me.

“Don’t tell your mother.”

I almost smile.

“You don’t tell her about me either.”

He holds the cigarette between two fingers and nods once.

“Deal.”

He does not say anything for a moment. He just looks around my room, the drawings, the desk, the open drawer, the clothes I did not fold, the dog on the floor, me sitting on the bed.

He blows smoke toward the window.

“Your mother saved food for you in the fridge,” he says. “She says you didn’t eat anything.”

I look down.

He shrugs.

“I get it. Hard to eat with Mateo chewing everyone’s patience at the table.”

A small, tired laugh comes out of me. I nod because I do not know what else to do.

He taps ash into the little empty glass near my desk like he has decided that is what it is for now.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “I have to take your sister to that party before she starts yelling my name.”

I nod again.

He takes another drag. Then he looks at the wall instead of me.

“Your grandmother hated your mother when I first brought her home.”

That is not what I expected.

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says immediately. “Hated her. Said she talked too much. Said her voice was annoying. Said she laughed too loud.”

I laugh a little.

“Mom does talk a lot.”

“Yes,” he says. “But you know what? That was my favorite thing about her. Still is.”

I stay quiet.

“I was always quiet,” he says. “Too quiet, probably. Your mother could talk to a wall and make the wall feel included. She never stopped. I swear, Victor, sometimes I would just sit there and listen to her talk about absolutely nothing, and I would think, I want this noise in my house forever.”

He smiles at the memory, cigarette between his fingers.

“Everyone kept telling me to find someone serious. Someone proper. Someone rich, preferably. A calm woman. A woman who knew when to stop talking.”

He snorts.

“Fuck that.”

I look up. He shrugs like he knows my mother would slap his arm if she heard him say that.

“With your mother, I couldn’t breathe from laughing half the time. I am not joking. We would end up on the floor. My stomach would hurt. She was ridiculous.”

“Mom was that funny?!”

He points at me with the cigarette.

“You have no idea. She still is. Don’t let the shouting about laundry fool you.”

I laugh again.

For a second, I can picture them younger.

“She had everyone looking at her,” he says. “Always. People wanted to be near her. I felt proud when I realized she wanted me.”

His voice changes. It’s softer now.

“At our wedding, I cried like a baby.”

I stare at him.

“I can’t imagine you crying.”

He laughs, embarrassed now.

“Believe me, I cried. A lot. Your mother looked beautiful and I was useless.”

I smile.

He looks away again.

“The point is,” he says, “I didn’t let my mother choose for me.”

The room gets quieter. I stop smiling.

He takes another drag and blows the smoke out slowly.

“And I think you should listen to yourself more than you listen to other people. That is all.”

I stare at the floor.

“If people don’t like someone you care about, fine. Let them not like him. They can survive it. And if they can’t, that’s not your problem. “

Him.

I look at my father. He is not looking away.

He knows what he said. He also does not look scared of it.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says, lifting the cigarette again. “The number of tattoos on this Silas guy is a little concerning.”

I go completely still. Then my brain catches up.

“What?”

He shrugs, almost casual.

“Lots of tattoos. But… I’ve seen enough videos to understand exactly what you see in him.”

I stare at him.

“You watched videos of Silas?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because Mateo said his name at my table and I have internet. I was just curious.”

That almost makes me laugh. I press my mouth together.

My father looks pleased with himself for maybe half a second.

“You don’t have to talk about him if it makes you uncomfortable, dad.”

I do not want him to do this out of pity.

I do not want him to stand here and force himself through a conversation just because he thinks I need it.

He shakes his head. “No. No, it does not make me uncomfortable.”

I look at him.

“It is the truth,” he says. “He seems like a very cool guy. If he does not have a criminal record or anything, I would suggest you bring him to Spain sometime.”

I let out a breath that is almost a laugh and almost not.

Great.

I have approval from my father, I passed the difficult part everyone usually gets stuck on, and I’m still stuck on him.

I have permission to bring him here. I just don’t have permission to talk to him.

The irony is unpleasant.

I take my cigarette from the ash glass and inhale just to give my hands something to do.

“Grandmother would faint if she saw him,” I say.

My father thinks about it. “Very possible. But between us, your grandmother is almost a century old. Everything scares her. Not just him.”

I laugh.

My father smiles like that was what he wanted.

He puts his cigarette out in the glass and straightens.

I think the conversation is over. It should be over.

It has already given me too much. But he does not leave immediately.

He stands there near my desk.

I stand too, mostly because he is standing and I do not know the rules for this.

He looks at me. Then he does something worse than speaking.

He opens his arms. Awkwardly.

Like he is not sure if he is allowed.

I do not step back. I move into him immediately.

I hug him hard.

The second my arms close around him, my eyes sting.

It is stupid. It is just a hug. It is just my father.

But my body reacts like I have been holding my breath for days and someone finally noticed I was turning blue.

His hand comes to my back. He rubs once, slowly.

I close my eyes. I am bigger than him now.

I’m taller. Stronger.

Older than I feel.

Still, somehow, I stand there and feel twelve.

“You are a much better man than you think you are, son. I hope one day you understand that.”

I cannot answer immediately. There is something in my throat.

I nod against his shoulder. I hate how much I needed that sentence.

“Thank you, dad,” I say.

He lets me go and squeezes my shoulder once.

Not gentle exactly. Firm.

Dad-gentle.

The kind of touch that pretends it is practical so nobody has to admit it is love.

“I have to take your sister to the party before she starts shouting.”

I nod.

He points at me. “Eat.”

I laugh under my breath. “Yes.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“And open the window. Your mother is not stupid.”

I look at the smoke in the room. Then at him.

“You are also smoking.”

“Yes,” he says, already walking to the door. “But I am her husband. I have legal protection.”

“That is not how it works.”

“It is how marriage works.”

---

Do I smell… SPAIN CHAPTERS??????!!!!

Hey guys 🥹 Did that chapter make you feel any better after all those sad chapters? Please vote if it did hehe:)

Also, this was supposed to be Luciana playing with Victor’s hair, not the reverse, but I had already drawn it like this, so… here, take it anyway 😭

I’m so sorry😭🤚

Also i think I’m sick so I will be miserable now

BYE I LOVE YOU

39) A Divine Being

Silas’s POV

I’m pissed.

Which is not exactly new information.

I wake up pissed. I breathe pissed. I’ve built an entire personality out of controlled irritation. But this is a very specific kind of pissed.

The kind where Jett is dragging Christmas decorations out of storage, Poppy is somewhere upstairs trying to untangle fairy lights, and I’m trapped in a chair near reception with my arms crossed because the reporters outside have suddenly decided today is the perfect day to ask me what happened with Victor Acosta.

Honestly, I hate you for this, Victor.

I really do.

You are the reason I’m sitting here like a hostage instead of listening to Christmas songs, drinking coffee, and pretending I’m not thinking about you.

You are the reason I can’t even have a sad little festive breakdown in peace.

I exhale through my nose and stare at the journalist in front of me.

“Can we finish this?” I ask. “I have an appointment soon.”

I do not have an appointment soon.

“Of course,” the guy says, already lifting his recorder closer.

Someone hands me a microphone.

I look at it. It’s ugly.

The camera guy adjusts something.

The reporter smiles. “Silas Blackwood, can you comment on Victor Acosta leaving Linea Ink?”

“No.”

His smile twitches.

“Was he fired?”

“No.”

“Did you ask him to leave?”

“No.”

“Did something happen between you two?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. “He annoyed me by making all of you stand here and look at me like this.”

A few people shift. I hope they are uncomfortable.

Because I am.

Another reporter steps in closer.

“Does this have anything to do with the competition? Are you still upset that he took first place from you?”

I stare at him.

“That was like, a month ago,” I say. “Shockingly, some people have lives after award ceremonies.”

Not me, currently.

“Did Victor leave because of you?”

My hand tightens around the microphone. I bring it closer to my mouth immediately, because if I pause too long, they’ll smell blood.

They’ll know there’s something there.

I don’t give them that.

“Victor is an adult,” I say. “He makes his own decisions.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a ‘learn to listen.’”

Behind the cameras, Poppy makes a tiny laugh.

A woman near the back raises her voice.

“Sources say his guest spot was frozen suddenly. Was there a problem with his work?”

I laugh.

“His work?” I repeat. “No. His work is insane. Very irritating of him to be this talented.”

The woman pauses, like she wasn’t expecting praise.

Yeah. I contain multitudes.

“So… you respect him as an artist?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Even after whatever happened?”

I feel my jaw shift.

“Respecting someone’s work and being happy with their choices are two different things,” I say. “Adults can do that. I recommend trying it.”

“Did Victor hurt you?”

Yes.

No.

Not like you mean.

Not in a way I want your mouth touching.

Not in a way I’m giving to strangers with cameras.

“Whatever happened between Victor and me is not entertainment.”

“But something did happen?”

“Something always happens between people,” I say. “That’s called being alive.”

“Was there a fight?”

“I fight with Jett twice a day and nobody brings cameras!”

“Because Jett isn’t Victor Acosta.”

Another woman pushes forward, her phone already recording.

“Was he involved in another physical altercation?”

I turn my head slowly.

“What?”

“What? Don’t you think people deserve to know if he’s dangerous?”

I laugh.

“People deserve clean water and food,” I say. “They do not deserve Victor Acosta’s medical history because they’re bored.”

They don’t answer.

“His past is public enough,” I continue. “You don’t need to dig through it because he left a guest spot.”

“Are you defending him?”

I shrug. “I’m saying ask better questions.”

The reporter’s face tightens.

Merry Christmas. I want to go home.

Fake my death and move to Portugal.

Open a tiny tattoo shop near the sea where nobody knows my name and nobody asks me about Victor Acosta.

I’ll tattoo waves and birds. I’ll drink coffee outside. I’ll become mysterious.

Locals will say, “That tattoo artist is strange but beautiful.”

I’ll nod at the ocean like I have secrets. And none of my secrets will include a six-foot-three Spanish disaster.

A camera flashes. I blink hard.

“Silas. Were you and Victor close?”

I lift the microphone.

“Victor worked here,” I say. “I respect him. I’m not discussing anything else.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is. You just don’t like it.”

The reporter opens his mouth again.

Before he can speak, a crash comes from the back of the studio.

Everyone turns.

Jett appears in the hallway looking completely destroyed, holding a plastic reindeer head in one hand and a box of ornaments in the other.

“Silas,” he says, dead serious, “I need urgent help.”

I stare at him. He stares back.

A piece of silver garland slides off his shoulder.

I turn back to the reporters with the most tragic expression I can fake while actively trying not to laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “As you can see, there’s been an emergency.”

“Silas, one more question—”

“No.”

“Will Victor Acosta return to Linea Ink??”

I hate that question.

Because I don’t know. Because I want to know.

“Ask him, not me.”

I go downstairs to Jett. He’s standing near the Christmas boxes.

“What help do you need?” I ask.

He looks at me like I just asked the stupidest question.

“Nothing, you idiot. I was helping you escape the interrogation about he-who-shall-not-be-named.”

Right.

“Come on, Jett… don’t be like that,” I mutter.

“Why shouldn’t I be like that??” he snaps. “I don’t get it. He played with your trust like it was nothing. I’m ashamed of myself that I even helped him flirt with you. I’m disgusted.”

My head snaps up.

“Wait, what??”

Jett freezes for half a second. Then he points at me immediately.

“Hey. That. Stop that.”

“What??”

“That thing you’re doing right now.”

“What thing?”

“That little spark in your face. Stop getting excited.”

“I’m not getting excited.”

“You are.”

“I’m just shocked.”

“You’re wagging your imaginary tail, Silas.”

I let out a laugh. Because unfortunately, that is funny.

But it’s not true. At least I don’t think it’s true.

I don’t feel excited. Not exactly.

“When did that happen?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It very much matters.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“He asked YOU for help flirting with me?”

“Silas, shut the fuck up.”

My mouth falls open a little.

No.

No, because I cannot imagine this. Victor Acosta asking Jett for flirting advice.

Victor.

The man who looks like he was built in a lab.

That Victor.

Asking Jett how to flirt. With me.

“Was it then?” I ask quickly. “With the piercing? Is that why he wanted you after?”

Jett turns away from me and starts hanging a Christmas ball on the fake tree with unnecessary violence.

“I’m not talking about this.”

“You literally started this.”

“I said one sentence.”

“You dropped a bomb and now you want me to decorate through it??”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Shut the fuck up, Silas.”

“What did he say, Jett?”

He ignores me and grabs another ornament.

I stare at his back. “Okay, fine. What did YOU say to him?”

He hangs the ornament. It falls.

He catches it before it hits the floor and curses under his breath.

I keep staring.

“His flirting was awful, by the way,” I add.

Jett slowly turns his head toward me.

“Well, you still kissed him, so I think you fall for garbage flirting.”

I don’t answer.

Because, tragically, he has a point.

I look down into the box with the plastic snowflakes.

Now all I can picture is Victor standing there, serious as death, asking how to flirt with me like it’s something he could study.

It hurts. It should make me angrier.

It should make me go, wow, so while he was lying to me, he was also asking for tips on how to crawl even deeper under my skin.

And yeah, part of me wants to fight him. But another part of me thinks it’s adorable.

I want to punch myself in the mouth for even thinking that word.

Because Victor looks so dead sometimes.

So still. So locked behind his own face.

He can draw something beautiful enough to ruin my whole life, but the second he has to say, hey, Silas, I like you, he needs emergency support from my best friend and probably a diagram.

And he wanted to flirt with me. That means he wanted me too.

Before the kiss.

He wanted me enough to talk to Jett about it. I’m not even sure if Victor likes Jett.

I swallow.

Then we hear Thiago’s bike. You can tell it’s his.

Jett immediately turns his head toward the entrance.

I point at him with wide eyes.

“Stop. I see you.”

“What?”

“He’s straight. Tell your dick to behave.”

Jett laughs and throws both hands up.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to. Now YOUR imaginary tail is wagging.”

“No, no no. I’m never making the mistake of getting attached to another straight guy.”

I snort.

“Sure.”

“No, seriously. If I ever hear the sentence ‘Don’t stay up waiting for me, my girlfriend is expecting me home’ one more time, I swear to God I’m becoming violent.”

That gets a laugh out of me. Because it’s fair.

Nothing humbles a gay man faster than realizing the guy he’s been staring at for three weeks spends every conversation talking about his girlfriend.

The girlfriend. Always the girlfriend. Every time.

I start heading for the stairs.

“You coming?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I’m already halfway up when he speaks again.

“If he was gay though…”

I stop immediately. Turn around. Fast.

Jett is already grinning. The bastard.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying that if he was gay, I would respectfully shoot my shot.”

“Jett.”

“I’d be a gentleman.”

“Sure.”

I walk up the stairs and immediately stop.

Okay. No.

Actually, hold on.

Because calling the woman standing at the entrance “just” a girl feels borderline disrespectful.

That is not a girl.

That is a divine being.

There is absolutely no way she’s from the same planet as the rest of us.

Everything about her is perfect. Like aggressively perfect.

Her long black hair doesn’t have a single strand out of place. Not one.

Meanwhile my hair simply exists and somehow ends up looking like I lost a fight with several angry pigeons.

The studio has gone completely silent.

Me. Jett. Poppy. All staring. Nobody knows what to do.

I elbow Poppy without taking my eyes off the woman.

“Poppy.”

“Yes.”

“Bring the nice cookies.”

“What?”

“The emergency cookies.”

“But they are yours—”

“Just bring the cookies, Poppy.”

Something in my voice must convince her because she immediately rushes toward the small kitchen.

A minute later she’s standing in front of the woman holding the entire basket.

The entire basket.

The woman smiles. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Poppy visibly forgets how language works.

“You made those?”

Poppy nods.

The woman takes one. Takes a bite. Thinks about it.

Then nods. “They’re good.”

Poppy looks seconds away from putting that sentence in a picture frame.

Jett starts aggressively motioning at her from behind the counter.

Say something.

Ask something.

Use your words.

Poppy looks at him like she wants to kill him.

What do you want me to say?!?!

Eventually she turns back toward the woman.

“So… do you maybe have an appointment?”

“I don’t think so.”

Poppy immediately brightens.

“Perfect! We love walk-ins. Not that you look like a walk-in. You look amazing. Are you sure you don’t have an appointment?!”

Jesus Christ, Poppy.

The woman laughs. Even her laugh sounds expensive.

Then she lifts a hand.

Points directly at me.

“I’m here for him, mostly.”

My soul leaves my body. I swallow hard.

Jett slowly turns toward me. Poppy slowly turns toward me. I slowly turn toward me.

Because surely she can’t mean me. There’s no way.

I look behind me.

Nothing. Just a wall.

Fuck.

She smiles at me.

Beautiful women never smile at me like that unless I’m about to lose money, dignity, or both.

Jett lifts his head from the front desk. “Why do you look like you’re here to either bless us or sue us?”

The woman points at him with one manicured finger. “Because I am here to change your life, piercing boy.”

“I have a name.”

“I know your name. It’s piercing boy until you earn my respect.”

Jett slowly turns to me. “I like her. Please don’t piss her off.”

---

NEXT CHAPTER IS ONE OF MY FAVORITES MUAHAHAHAH Silas is so cooked.

Also, I think I accidentally wrote myself into a challenge😭 I’m finally at the point where the Vox/Victor storyline starts demanding real emotional depth, and suddenly I have no motivation to write anymore.

NOT BECAUSE I DONT KNOW WHERE THE STORY IS GOING, but because I’m trying to portray a situation that feels way bigger and more complicated than anything I’ve personally experienced.

Sometimes I feel like I should’ve gone to therapy before trying to write about it. I’m definitely outside my comfort zone, but maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe it means I’m growing instead of repeating the same things I already know how to write:)

My biggest fear is getting so comfortable with one formula that I stop challenging myself and just start recycling the exact same scenes with different character names. Becoming the kind of author who writes the same book ten times because the first version succeeded 😀

Victor is carrying this book on his giant Spanish shoulders and I could not be more proud of the monster I created. It’s so refreshing.

(holy yap, i’m sorry)

40) VIP

( shoutout to my tattoo industry knowledge for finally being useful )

Silas’s POV

“First of all,” she says, “introductions. I’m Rosalia Del Toro.”

Jett straightens a little. “Del Toro??”

“Thiago’s sister,” she adds.

“Thiago has a SISTER??” Jett asks.

Rosalia turns to him. “Thiago has a whole family. Shocking, I know. He was not grown in a bar.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jett mutters.

Her eyebrow lifts.

He immediately smiles. “Respectfully, of course.”

“How do you know the studio?” I ask.

“Because my father’s company has been helping keep studios like this visible for years,” she says.

Poppy frowns slightly. “Helping?”

Rosalia nods once. “You know. Sponsors, convention booths, guest artist programs, supply discounts, event invites.”

I cross my arms. “Continue.”

She smiles. “My father is Rafael Del Toro.”

I lean back against the counter. “Wait. Del Toro as in Del Toro Creative??”

Rosalia points one manicured finger at me. “There we go.”

Jett looks between us. “Am I supposed to know this?”

“Yes,” Poppy says at the same time I say, “Probably.”

I look at Rosalia again. “Your dad is the one who sponsors Black Needle Expo?”

“Yes.”

“West Coast Ink Week?”

“Yes.”

“The Vegas flash battles?”

“Yes.”

“The LA guest spot program?”

“Yes.”

“The guy who somehow has his name on every tattoo event poster in three states?”

“Yes,” she says. “He sponsors events, artists, studios, suppliers, training programs, and brand showcases. If you’ve worked a serious convention on the West Coast, you’ve probably stood in front of one of our banners without realizing it.”

“Okay, so what?” I ask. “You came here to tell us your dad has been secretly lurking behind half the tattoo industry?”

Rosalia stares at me. Then she laughs.

“Oh, I like you. But no. I came because my father is expanding the winter program this year, and he gave me one project to manage almost fully by myself.”

Jett gasps. “Nepotism.”

Rosalia points at him immediately. “I prefer legacy pressure, piercing boy.”

“Hot.”

Poppy folds her arms. “What project?”

Rosalia’s whole face changes. Now she looks excited.

“My father wanted a winter industry retreat,” she says. “Something bigger than a convention but less exhausting than a full expo.”

Jett slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the desk. “Okay…”

Rosalia smiles.

“So we’re doing a cruise!”

“WHAT.”

Jett looks like his soul just left his body.

“A cruise??” he says.

Rosalia nods. “A professional tattoo industry cruise.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

Rosalia pulls out her tablet from her bag and taps the screen a few times.

“Five days. Long Beach to Mexico and back. Private event block on a real cruise ship. Selected studios from Vegas, Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, and a few international guest artists. Sponsored travel from Vegas to port. Rooms covered. Food covered. Event access covered. Booth setup covered.”

Poppy’s mouth parts a little. “Covered??”

“Covered,” Rosalia confirms, then she turns the screen toward us.

I stare at it.

I see our name.

LINEA INK.

“You were selected.”

Poppy turns to Rosalia. “Selected by who?”

“By the event team,” she says. “And me.”

I look at her. “You??”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know us.”

“I know your work.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s enough for this.” She taps the screen again.

“Linea Ink has been getting so much attention. Your client engagement is really good. Your social presence is strong, your flash events do well, you have a recognizable artist with competition buzz, and a piercer people apparently keep recommending in the most chaotic reviews I’ve ever read.”

Jett points at himself. “Wait. Chaotic reviews?”

Rosalia looks at her tablet. “One client said, and I quote, ‘Jett pierced my nose and also gave me relationship advice I did not ask for but weirdly needed.’”

Jett nods, touched. “Aw. That was beautiful.”

I look back at the poster.

I scroll through the details. “Okay but… live tattooing? On a ship?”

“Not in the cabins like criminals,” Rosalia says immediately. “We have approved event rooms. Sterile stations, medical waste disposal, proper setup, everything. You’ll have scheduled slots, flash sheets, private bookings, and panels.”

Jett points at the screen. “Piercing too?”

“Piercing too. Limited and clean. No drunk belly-button piercings at two in the morning, before you ask.”

Rosalia keeps going, her voice getting faster now.

“There’ll be parties, dinners, flash days, competitions, beach stop, and closing awards.”

Jett whispers, “Oh my God. I was born for this.”

I look back at the tablet. “And all we have to do is show up?”

Rosalia tilts her head. “Show up, behave, work, don’t embarrass me, don’t start a war with another studio, and don’t tattoo anyone’s ass in a hallway.”

Poppy walks closer, trying and failing not to smile. “This is actually huge.”

“It is,” Rosalia says. “This isn’t just a cute, fancy trip. People watch these events. Sponsors watch, magazines watch, big studios watch. Artists get guest spots from these things. Brand deals. International bookings. This could be very, very good for you and your studio.”

I swallow. Because yeah.

It could. It could be insane.

Jett grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “Bro. We’re going on a fucking CRUISE.”

“We haven’t said yes.”

“Are you sick??”

Rosalia smiles again.

“You should say yes,” she says. “Because the posters are already designed.”

Jett slowly turns his head toward her. “What does that mean?”

“It means my father needed the featured studios confirmed early, and I was very confident.”

“You booked us before asking??” I ask.

“I prefer the word manifested!”

“That’s bad, too.”

“It worked though, didn’t it?”

Jett points both hands at her. “Woman, I respect the manipulation.”

Rosalia presses a hand to her chest. “Thank you. So?” she says, lifting her chin, “are we excited?”

Jett grabs the iced coffee she brought and lifts it like a toast. “I am emotionally and sexually ready for this cruise. Sign me the fuck up.”

Jett grabs my shoulders and shakes me hard.

“Bro,” he says. “We’re going on a cruise.”

I stare at the poster on Rosalia’s tablet again.

Jett points at me. “Come on. Say yes before I start crying and make everyone uncomfortable.”

I exhale. “Okay, yeah. Fine. Fuck it. This is huge.”

Jett gasps.

Rosalia claps once, too excited. “Perfect. Amazing. You won’t regret it. Probably! I mean, you definitely won’t regret the exposure. The rest is… emotional and I can’t legally promise anything. Can you sign here real quick??”

I blink.

Poppy’s smile fades slightly. Jett slowly lowers his coffee.

Rosalia starts tapping on her tablet too quickly. “Come on, do it. I’ll send the forms tonight. Health certificates, travel details, cabin rules, behavior contract, emergency contacts, all very boring, very normal, very not worth panicking about.”

My eyes narrow. “Why would we… panic?”

“No reason,” she says instantly.

Too instantly.

She grabs her coffee. “Anyway, I have to go. Very busy. Very important. Many things to do. Many people to email. Some people not to email because it would make everything worse. Bye.”

She turns around.

I stare at the back of her head.

“Rosalia.”

She stops. Her shoulders go still.

Jett looks at me. Poppy looks at her.

“Don’t leave,” I say.

Rosalia turns around very slowly. Too slowly.

She gives me a bright, fake smile. “What?”

I point at her. “Why are you walking like that?”

“I’m not walking like anything,” Rosalia says. “I’m a naturally graceful woman.”

“You said ‘probably.’”

“I say many words.”

“You said ‘not worth panicking about.’”

“Because it’s not.”

“You said some people shouldn’t be emailed because it would make everything worse…”

For one second, she tries to keep smiling. Then her whole face collapses.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling hard. “Here’s the thing.”

I close my eyes. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard it. It’s not that bad.”

“Oh my God. That is what people say before telling you something bad.”

“It’s not bad bad.”

She presses the tablet against her chest like it can protect her from me. “In my defense, the email was VERY clear in my head.”

“In your head,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“Great start.”

She inhales. “I told the cruise coordinator to put Acosta and Blackwood in VIP.”

My entire body goes cold. Poppy’s eyes widen. Jett’s mouth opens.

I stare at Rosalia. “No.”

She lifts one hand. “I obviously meant separately.”

“No.”

“I meant Acosta in VIP and Blackwood in VIP.”

“No.”

“But because I wrote Acosta and Blackwood, and because apparently men cannot read context unless it’s tattooed on their forehead, he understood it as Acosta and Blackwood together.”

“No.”

Rosalia talks faster. “And he booked one VIP suite.”

“No.”

“For both of you.”

“No.”

“And the VIP rooming list has already been approved, and the suites are sold out.”

“No.”

“And if I go back to my father and tell him I made the rooming list complicated, he will never let me run another event again.”

I take a step back, shaking my head. “Absolutely NOT.”

Rosalia’s eyes go huge. “Silas, hear me out.”

“No.”

“It’s VIP.”

“No.”

“It has a balcony!”

“No.”

“Ocean view!”

“No.”

“Private dining access.”

“I don’t care.”

“Priority boarding.”

“I hope the boat sinks.”

“Do not say that near cruise staff.”

“I’m not sharing a room with Victor Acosta.”

“It’s not a room,” she says quickly. “It’s a suite!”

I stare at her.

She smiles weakly. “That sounded better in my head.”

She looks between Jett and Poppy. “ Help me. “

Poppy clears her throat. “I mean… technically, VIP does sound nice…”

I whip my head toward her. “Poppy.”

“I’m just saying there may be free breakfast…”

Rosalia points at her immediately. “Exactly. Free breakfast. Thank you. See?? Smart woman.”

“No,” I say.

“Free dinner too.”

“No.”

“Probably room service.”

“No.”

“Jacuzzi.”

…

I freeze for half a second.

Jett sees it. His grin turns evil.

“Oh,” he says. “Jacuzzi got him.”

“Shut up.”

Rosalia steps closer, sensing weakness. “Silas. Listen to me. It’s five days. You’ll barely be in the suite. You’ll have events, dinners, parties. You’ll be working. Being professional.”

“With Victor.”

“Yes.”

“In one suite.”

“But with a jacuzzi.”

I drag both hands down my face. “I hate all of you.”

Rosalia clasps her hands together. “Please. I know it’s messy. I know. But I swear, it was an honest mistake. And I can’t fix it without making it look like I can’t handle the event. My father is waiting for me to mess this up. I can feel it.”

“That is not my problem.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “I know. But it would help me. And it would help your studio. And it’s still a huge opportunity. You get the featured slot, the press, the cruise, the clients, the networking, the free food, the VIP access—”

“The jacuzzi,” Jett adds.

I slowly turn my head toward him.

He immediately points at Rosalia. “She made me say it.”

“I did not,” Rosalia snaps.

Poppy sighs. “Silas…”

“No,” I say, already hating the way she says my name.

Poppy gives me that soft look. “You don’t have to like it. But this is big for you. For the studio.”

Jett nods seriously. “My career as piercing boy depends on this.”

I glare at him.

He nods even more seriously. “Also free food and alcohol.”

Rosalia lifts both hands. “See? The team understands!”

I look at the tablet again.

The poster.

The studio name.

My name.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“No jacuzzi is worth this.”

Nobody speaks.

Then Jett says, “But what if it’s a really big jacuzzi?”

I open my eyes.

Rosalia gives me the most desperate smile I’ve ever seen.

“VIP,” she whispers. “Jacuzzi. Free food. Please don’t ruin my career.”

I stare at her.

The part of me that has taste but no dignity, hears VIP.

And I hate that it does something to me.

Because unfortunately, I am a whore for luxury.

I’m not saying I can’t live without luxury.

I can. I have.

I have eaten cereal out of a mug because all my bowls were dirty.

I have slept on Jett’s couch under a jacket because the blanket was apparently “somewhere” and by somewhere he meant gone forever.

I have used cheap shampoo that made my hair feel like shit.

So yes. I can survive without expensive things.

But would I be mad if someone offered me the chance to live like an even more spoiled rich widow for five days?

No. I would not.

I would unpack dramatically. I would wear the robe. I would stand on the balcony, acting mysterious.

I would order room service just to feel powerful.

I would touch every tiny expensive soap in the bathroom and whisper, “You’re coming home with me.”

Anyone who says they would turn that down is lying. For attention.

And Rosalia unfortunately knows it. She can see it on my face. I know she can.

She knows I heard “VIP” and immediately became a worse person.

But of course, because my life is never allowed to hand me anything nice without hiding a knife inside it, there has to be a downside.

There is always a downside.

And obviously, the downside is tall, Spanish, and named Victor Acosta.

A VIP suite would be great.

A jacuzzi would be fucking great.

Free food would be great.

But sharing all of that with Victor?

Sleeping in the same space as him??

“I don’t believe this,” I say, staring at Rosalia.

She smiles. “Trust me, babe. I promise you won’t regret it.”

She slides her sunglasses back on, slowly. “At the end of the day, he’s beautiful, famous, and talented. I seriously doubt he’ll spend his nights in your room anyway.”

…

What do you mean he won’t spend that much time in the room?

What do you mean Victor Acosta is beautiful and famous and talented like I don’t know that?

I know that. I know it too well.

That is part of the problem, Rosalia. Thank you so much for your service.

Would you also like to pour lemon juice directly into my open wounds while we’re here?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, someone is bound to catch his eye,” she says. “It’s a cruise full of artists. He’s Victor Acosta. People are going to throw themselves at him. You might be stressing for nothing. Maybe you’ll end up sleeping alone after all.”

No.

If people flirt with Victor, that means they’re flirting with Vox.

My Vox.

And yes, I know. I know.

I know I’m not supposed to call him that. I know the ownership sounds insane. I know I am angry at him. I know he lied.

But I also know tattoo artists.

I know piercers.

I live with one horny piercer who once flirted with a delivery guy because he had nice knuckles.

We are not a subtle species.

Tattoo people don’t flirt like normal people.

Normal people ask about your day. Normal people maybe touch your arm and then spend three business days wondering if it was too much.

Tattoo people see someone attractive and immediately attack it.

They lean too close.

They say things like “your lines are insane” with their eyes on your mouth.

They compare tattoos as an excuse to touch skin.

They offer drinks. They offer afterparties.

They offer “come see my flash sheet upstairs,” which is almost never about the flash sheet and everyone knows it.

And piercers are even worse. Piercers are tattoo artists with less fear.

Do not get me started.

Put all of those people on a cruise ship? With alcohol and music??

With no one needing to drive home??

Finished.

The man is doomed . They are going to swarm him.

They are going to see Victor standing there all tall and quiet and beautiful, and they are going to lose their minds.

Someone is going to pretend they don’t know who he is, which is even worse because pretending not to care is flirting for people with strategy.

Someone is going to ask if he wants a drink.

Someone is going to ask if he wants to step outside for air.

Air.

Please.

We all know what air means.

Air means I want five minutes alone with you where my morals are weaker.

And Victor is not stupid.

But Victor is Victor.

He doesn’t always clock things fast enough when people are playing soft and pretty.

He notices details in ink, in lines, in breathing, in things no normal person catches, but someone flirting with him?

Someone pressing just close enough to make it look accidental??

God help me.

He might just stand there and think they’re genuinely interested in his technique.

His technique.

I am going to need a weapon.

Not a big one. Maybe a fork.

They’ll look at him like he’s available.

He is. Technically.

And yes, I am angry at him.

I want to slap him forty-seven times.

I want to ask him why he let me sit there like an idiot, trusting him, missing him, wanting him, when he knew.

I want to yell. I want to be cruel.

I also want to lock him in the VIP suite and tell him, “Here. Sit. Stay. No one gets to look at you tonight.”

Which is crazy. That is possessive.

But I’m sorry.

What am I supposed to do?

Be mature? In this economy?

With Victor Acosta on a cruise full of tattoo people?

No.

I don’t know what I feel anymore.

Everything in me is contradicting itself.

My pride says let him go. My anger says make him hurt.

My jealousy says lock the door. My body says stay close.

My brain says run. My heart says Vox.

And I hate that the most.

Rosalia’s smile softens for half a second.

Then she shrugs again. “Don’t overthink it. I mean exactly what I said. He’s not exactly lacking options. Maybe you’re panicking over nothing.”

I stare at her.

Jett reaches out and taps the back of her hand twice.

Tap tap.

Rosalia looks down at his fingers like he just placed a dead fish on her skin.

“Don’t touch me, piercing boy.”

Jett immediately pulls his hand back and nods. “Understood.”

Then he clears his throat, trying to look casual. “Is your brother coming?”

Rosalia looks at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Thiago?”

“No, your secret other brother.”

“Yes, Thiago,” she says. “He’ll be there. He’s doing bar work for the private events. Cocktails, sponsor dinners, afterparties. Why?”

Jett shrugs.

“Just asking.”

I slowly turn to him. He refuses to look at me.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Jett suddenly has posture. Jett suddenly has mystery.

Jett suddenly remembers the existence of manners because Thiago might be on a boat with alcohol and tight shirts.

Disgusting. I support it.

Poppy finally lifts her hand a little.

“Wait,” she says. “What about… me?”

Rosalia looks at Poppy. She removes her sunglasses. “You?”

Poppy nods. “Yeah. I mean, if the studio is going… am I included as staff, or is this just for artists and piercers?”

Rosalia’s gaze drops for one second.

Then she smiles.

“Of course you’re included,” Rosalia says. “I wouldn’t invite Linea Ink and leave behind the person who probably keeps the entire place from burning down.”

Poppy laughs a little, surprised.

Rosalia tilts her head, studying Poppy. “You’d come as studio staff. Schedule support, front-desk representative, whatever title makes you feel important enough to accept free champagne.”

Poppy smiles. “Free champagne??”

Rosalia’s smile grows. “Private welcome dinner. And since you’d be attached to the studio team, your room is covered too.”

Poppy’s eyebrows lift. “My own room??”

“Shared staff accommodation,” Rosalia says, then pauses. “Unless I decide I need you close for… organizational purposes.”

Poppy frowns, confused. “Organizational purposes?”

Rosalia’s face is completely innocent.

“Yes. You seem organized.”

Poppy laughs softly. “I mean, compared to them, sure. Yeah. I am.”

Rosalia looks at me and Jett for half a second, then back at her. “Compared to most people.”

Oh my God.

She’s flirting. She is absolutely flirting.

Poppy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, still not fully catching it. “I don’t know. I’d have to check the schedule. Someone needs to handle appointments if we’re all gone.”

Rosalia steps closer to the counter and rests one hand on it.

“Then we close for five days,” she says simply. “Put up a notice. Redirect urgent bookings. Let your clients know the studio was selected for an invite-only industry event. That makes you look wanted.”

Poppy nods.

“Also,” Rosalia adds, softer, “you deserve to come. You’re part of the studio, aren’t you?”

Poppy’s expression shifts.

Damn.

Rosalia is good.

I hate when beautiful people are also competent.

Pick a struggle.

Poppy smiles. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“You don’t have to guess,” Rosalia says.

Poppy looks down for a second, like she’s suddenly very interested in the desk.

Rosalia straightens, back to business. “Anyway. Yes, Poppy, you’re invited. I’ll put you on the staff list.”

Poppy nods. “Okay! Thank you.”

Rosalia smiles at her. “Don’t thank me yet.”

I drag a hand down my face because in the last ten minutes, I have been blackmailed into a luxury cruise with my almost-something, Jett has developed a suspicious interest in Rosalia’s straight bartender brother, and Rosalia may or may not be trying to professionally seduce my receptionist.

This studio needs holy water.

Rosalia claps once. “Perfect! So we are all agreed!”

“No,” I say immediately. “I did not agree to sharing a room with Victor.”

Jett raises his hand. “For what it’s worth, I also think you should go.”

I stare at him. “Of course you do. Your dream man is making drinks.”

He gasps. “Bro, first of all, don’t expose me in front of his sister, the fuck?”

Rosalia turns slowly toward him.

Jett freezes.

She smiles.

“Dream man?”

Jett clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That was taken out of context.”

Rosalia looks him up and down. “My brother likes confident people.”

Jett straightens immediately.

Then she adds, “And people who don’t tap women’s hands without permission.”

He slowly sinks back down. “I can grow.”

“I doubt it.”

“I totally respect that.”

Rosalia turns back to me. “You can survive five days with Victor.”

I laugh once. “Can I?”

“Yes. You’ll have your schedule. He’ll have his. You’ll both be busy. You don’t have to resolve whatever this is. Just come. Eat expensive food. Take the opportunity. And if Victor ends up spending his nights somewhere else, then congratulations, you get the whole VIP suite to yourself.”

I hate it.

I hate that my brain immediately pictures Victor’s mouth near someone’s ear because the music is loud.

Victor not coming back until morning.

Victor coming back smelling like someone else.

I feel insane. I feel twelve.

“Send the forms,” I say through my teeth.

Jett gasps. “Is that a yes???”

“No.”

Rosalia beams. “It’s a yes! Amazing. I’ll email everything tonight.”

“Email Poppy,” I say. “She’s the only adult here.”

Rosalia’s smile turns elegant again.

“With pleasure,” Rosalia says.

Poppy smiles. Rosalia notices.

She turns toward the door, satisfied. Then she pauses and looks back at us.

“Pack something nice for the formal dinner,” she says. “And something black for the opening party. Tattoo people only know one color, so at least make it interesting.”

Jett salutes. “Yes, captain.”

“Never call me that again.”

Rosalia leaves.

The bell over the door rings. The door shuts behind her.

And then nothing.

Nobody says a word.

I stare at the door.

Poppy stares at the floor.

Jett stares at me. Finally, he clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t get upset,” he says. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Rosalia because, you know, she scares me in a way I kind of respect, but if it’s really that bad, you can come to my room at night.”

I look at him.

He shrugs, trying to make it sound casual. “You don’t have to stay with Victor. Seriously. If it gets too much, just come crash with me.”

“You don’t have VIP,” I mutter.

Poppy lets out the smallest laugh.

Jett stares at me like I just spat on his soul.

“Wow,” he says. “Okay.”

“What?”

“I offer you support and you immediately choose classism.”

“It’s not classism if it’s true.”

“I have a room.”

“Not a VIP room.”

“At least I’m one person,” he says, pointing at himself. “What you see is what you get.”

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Because he has a point.

Jett is simple.

Victor is a fucking escape room.

He points at me. “Dude, wake up. Both of you. We are going on a cruise. A tattoo cruise. FOR FREE. With events and alcohol and Mexico and rich people towels. Why am I the only one acting correctly???”

I lean against the counter. “I don’t know if you understand the part where I have to sleep in the same suite as Victor.”

“Oh, I understand,” he says. “Trust me. I understand a lot. You two already act like divorced people who still hook up in the parking lot after court.”

Poppy makes a sound.

“You know what?” Jett says. “I have an idea.”

“No.”

“I think we should switch.”

“No.”

“You take my room. I’ll take the VIP suite.”

I straighten. “No.”

Jett’s smile turns evil. “Interesting.”

“No.”

“Very quick answer. Didn’t even think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about stupid things.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s practical. You don’t want to stay with Victor. I, being a generous friend and a humble man of the people, am willing to sacrifice myself and stay in the VIP suite with him.”

“Absolutely not.”

Jett lifts both hands. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why??”

“Because no.”

“That’s not a reason. You said you don’t want to stay with him.”

“I don’t.”

“So let me stay with him.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because I will actually kill you.

The thought of Jett sharing a suite with Victor makes me uncomfortable.

Not because I think Jett would do anything.

He wouldn’t. Probably.

He wouldn’t do that to me. But still.

No.

No one gets to take my place in that room.

“Because you snore,” I say.

Poppy looks down immediately. She knows that was weak.

Jett’s eyebrows lift slowly. “I snore?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?!”

I shrug.

Poppy loses the fight and laughs.

Jett points at her. “See?? Even Poppy knows that was bullshit.”

“I will tattoo your forehead.”

“Will it say jealous?”

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels.

He jumps back immediately. “Okay, okay, violent bride. Relax.”

Poppy covers her mouth.

I freeze.

“What did you just call me?”

Jett points at me and starts backing away like he is approaching a wild animal. “Nothing.”

“No, say it again.”

“I said violent… pride.”

“You did not. You said bride.”

“Did I?”

“You know you did.”

He grins.

“Fine,” he says, lifting both hands. “Stay with him then. Sit in your little luxury room and fight with him like you’re married and trying to decide who gets the beach house in the divorce.”

“We are NOT married.”

“No, you’re worse. Married people at least admit they share things.”

---

WE ARE GOING ON A CRUISE FAAAAAHHHH

Anyway guys, I hope you’re FOLLOWING ME and saw the message on my board. I’m taking a short break from posting so I can focus on writing the cruise chapters without stressing about deadlines or updates.

I really want to give these chapters the time and attention they deserve, so I’m stepping back for a little while to write them properly :)

41) The Pain Helps

(read the previous chapter first, I posted two)

Victor’s POV

I sit on my bed and draw you.

At some point I notice I barely need the reference anymore.

I still keep your picture open on my phone, but I am not really looking at it for structure now.

I think I am mostly keeping the photo there because I missed your face, not because I don’t remember it.

I even made plans to go out later.

Just for a walk, nothing dramatic. To remind myself there is an actual world outside the Silas-shaped fog I have been living in lately.

My phone starts ringing.

I get irritated immediately because your face disappears behind the call.

It is Rosalia. Thiago’s sister.

One of the very few non-problematic people I know, which already puts her in some rare and almost endangered category.

I answer and put her on speaker so I can keep drawing.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey, Vic. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

That is a lie, obviously, but it is the kind people accept because it is easy and polite and does not force them to examine the wreckage too closely.

I keep sketching your mouth while she talks. Your bottom lip a little fuller than the top.

I smile without meaning to when I remember exactly what they felt like.

How kissing you felt like.

That is the kind of thought I am trying to have less often.

“So,” Rosalia says with a dramatic sigh, “I’m just gonna get to it because I do not have the energy to explain this whole mess ten more times. I fucked up.”

I glance down at the screen.

“What did you do?”

She exhales hard into the phone. “The whole cruise thing. The rooms. The idiot in charge apparently cannot read, or maybe he just enjoys ruining my life.”

I stop shading.

“What happened?”

“I told him to put you in VIP and Blackwood in VIP too,” she says, already sounding annoyed at herself, “and he understood together. In the same room. And now all the other rooms are taken because I checked the mistake too late.”

I freeze. For a second I just stare at the sketch.

I take her off speaker and put the phone to my ear.

“Does Silas know?” I ask.

“Yeah, I told him.”

My grip tightens around the phone.

“Was he angry?”

“He wasn’t exactly thrilled,” she says carefully.

I rub a hand over my face. “No. No, Rosalia, fuck.”

“Relax, he didn’t say—”

“No, you do not understand.” I sit up straighter. “He is not stupid. He is going to think I asked you to do it. He is going to think every fucking effort I’ve made so far was bullshit and manipulation and now all of it gets thrown away because of your staff being incompetent.”

There is a short pause.

“Victor,” she says, more serious now, “I explained that it was completely my mistake. I did not involve you at all, I swear. And he didn’t even say anything about you. He never mentioned you.”

“Was he mad?” I ask again, quieter this time.

She goes silent for a second.

“Well…”

I nod to myself.

“I am not going.”

“Victor, cut the bullshit.”

“Put me somewhere else.”

“I literally can’t,” she snaps. “Everything is full. What do you want me to do, give birth to another room?”

I let out a long breath and lean back, staring at the ceiling now instead of the page.

Rosalia makes a noise on the other end. “What the hell happened between you two anyway? I thought you were getting along.”

“Stuff happened.”

“Uuuuuh,” she says immediately, dragging the sound out. “Is it what I think it is? Because if it is, part of me is happy and the other part feels really bad right now.”

“I’ll tell you another time, Rosalia.”

“Okay, fair. But please show up that day.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I hang up.

…

This is terrible.

Silas is going to think I am trying to corner him.

He will think I arranged it. Or wanted it. Or at the very least that I am not miserable enough about it.

He will think I am taking advantage of something that should have stayed clean.

He will think I saw one opening, and decided to crawl through it.

I will hate this. And I will love it.

At the exact same time.

I will love knowing he is close enough that there is no screen, no city, no convenient excuse between us.

Close enough to look at.

I will love every disgusting second of being near him again, and I will despise myself for loving it.

Because if he is uncomfortable, then none of the rest of it matters.

If he thinks I am using this, then it is already ruined.

If he looks at me like I am some opportunistic freak who saw a chance to get him alone and took it, I do not know what I am supposed to do with my own face.

I have to be terrified of myself. I know how careful I would have to be.

if I let even a little of it out in the wrong way, then I become exactly what I’m afraid he already thinks I am.

A man who sees forced proximity and immediately starts building hope inside it.

A man who thinks just because fate shoved us into the same room, he is entitled to one more chance.

I am not entitled to anything.

That part matters. Maybe more than anything else.

Because he might decide while we are there.

This cruise will force an answer out of something.

Maybe not the answer I want. Maybe the opposite.

But it will be something.

Being that close, for that long, there is no way it stays suspended forever.

He is going to make a decision about me. I know he will.

People do when they are cornered by circumstances long enough. They either lean in or shut the door properly.

And I am terrified of both.

If he leans in, I will want too much.

If he shuts the door, I will have to stand there and accept that he really wants nothing to do with me anymore.

Cruel, maybe. But fair.

Fair because I hurt him.

Fair because if someone makes you feel manipulated or lied to or unsafe, you do not owe them closeness just because they are sorry.

I would obviously hate it. I would probably carry it around for the next ten years.

But it would still be fair.

And I would still be there in the same room, with all that want trapped under my skin, trying not to let it show in ways that would make him even more uncomfortable.

I would have to sit with that.

Live with that.

Sleep a few feet away from what I cannot touch and what I absolutely do not have the right to ask for.

Maybe that is the punishment part of it.

Not just being near him, but being near him without permission to reach.

I’m gonna be near him.

All day.

I need to get better. I need to get a grip.

I need to work on my self-control immediately.

Not eventually. Not when it is convenient.

Now.

Before that cruise. Before that room.

Because for you, this might just be irritating.

For me, it is going to make life difficult.

That’s what I’m terrified of.

Not you.

Me around you. My own body around you.

I do not trust it.

I cannot trust that I would not bend down and kiss you while you are talking.

What if you are just talking and I lean in?

What if you say my name in that annoyed voice and all I hear is your mouth moving and I stop thinking properly?

You could be saying something important. Something angry.

And all it would take is my body deciding, in one filthy stupid second, that your mouth matters more than the content of your words.

I need discipline. I need to be able to feel every bad impulse rise in me and kill it before it reaches my hands.

It is disturbing. It is exhausting.

Obsession is ugly enough on its own. But this goes into reflex too.

I picture scenarios and immediately have to start correcting myself inside them.

No.

Do not step closer.

No.

Do not reach.

No.

Do not answer that thought.

No.

Do not stare at his mouth while he is visibly upset with you.

No.

Do not say the thing that is true just because it is true.

No.

Do not tell him he looks good when he is angry.

No.

Do not tell him you missed him.

No.

Do not tell him the room already feels different in your head because he is going to be in it.

I am going to have to censor myself constantly.

And I should.

Because one wrong sentence at the wrong time and you will freak out.

Fairly.

That part matters too.

Fairly.

Because if you are already suspicious that I am somehow benefiting from this disaster, and then I say something too close to what I am actually thinking, you are going to look at me like I am proving your worst assumption about me.

Maybe you would be right.

The line between fear and desire gets filthy around you.

I am scared of doing the wrong thing because I know how badly I want the wrong thing.

I want closeness I have not earned.

I want time alone with you that I have no right to want.

I will say something reckless. I know I will.

Something badly timed. Something too raw.

I cannot let that happen.

I cannot stand there and make you feel cornered because I am too selfish to keep my own hunger quiet.

I get in the car and drive fast.

David is the only person I can ask for help right now.

He does not understand everything about me, but he understands enough to not cry immediately.

I cannot ask my parents for this. They would cry.

So I go to David.

I knock three times. No answer.

Maybe I should go back home, unlock the drawer, look at your drawings until I sleep.

I take out my phone. Before I can text, the door opens.

David stands there in sweatpants and a black shirt, hair messy, face annoyed.

“Hi,” I say. “Can I come in?”

He looks at me for long enough that I know he is considering saying no.

I can see it.

His eyes move over my face, my shoulders, my hands.

He is not stupid. He knows when someone brings a problem to his door and calls it a visit.

Then he sighs.

“Fuck it. Come in. I’m not gonna act hard to get while I’m sitting alone.”

I walk inside.

His house is full.

That is the first thing I notice every time.

Full shelves. Full tables. Full corners.

I do not know how he breathes in here.

“Come on,” he says.

I follow him into his office.

There is a desk with too many things on it.

He sits behind the desk. I sit across from him.

David leans back and lifts both hands like he is surrendering before I even speak.

“So?” he says. “What happened? And please don’t tell me we’re flying back to Vegas tomorrow. Give me a break, man.”

I shake my head.

“No.”

I put both hands on the desk.

Visible. That is not accidental.

David looks at them, then at me.

I swallow. “It has to do with Silas. Do you remember the things I told you on the plane?”

David exhales.

“Unfortunately, yes, I remember. You fucked up.”

I nod. “I know.”

“Good start.”

“I need to not make it more fucked up with my mouth. And with my body.”

His expression changes.

“Get to the point, Victor.”

I look at my hands. They are still flat.

Flat hands do not grab. Flat hands do not become proof that Leo was right about me.

“I want to make sure I don’t say something stupid in front of him. I want you to test me until I learn to control myself.”

David goes very still.

His house is full, but the room becomes empty around that sentence.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

“Pretend you’re Silas and say things he might say to me. Provoke me. If I say something wrong, hit me.”

For one second, nothing happens.

Then David laughs.

I do not laugh. I sit there and watch him until he stops.

His face changes slowly. “Oh,” he says. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“No.”

“Yes, you have. That is insane, Victor. What the fuck?”

“Listen to me, David. Please.”

He rubs both hands over his face.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I need this.”

“No, you really fucking don’t.”

“I do.”

“You need a therapist.”

“I have one.”

“Then call her!”

“I can’t just ask Luna to slap me every time I say something that would hurt him.”

David’s hands drop from his face.

“Yeah, because Luna is sane.”

I breathe once.

“That is why I came to you.”

His eyebrows go up.

“Wow. Honored, dude. Put it on my grave. Here lies David, less sane than a therapist.”

“David.”

“No. You listen to me. What you’re asking is fucked .”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“I know it is fucked. I am still asking.”

He stares at me. I stare back.

There is a long silence.

David points at me. “Who taught you that?”

“What?”

“That. Pain equals correction. Who the fuck taught you that?”

I do not answer immediately.

Because there are too many answers.

My own body. My own failures. Doors I broke. Walls I hit.

The first time I realized pain could interrupt the thing in me that moved too fast.

Nobody taught me. Everyone did.

I lift one shoulder.

“It helps me.”

David’s jaw tightens.

“Since when is this a thing??”

“I want to be safe around him,” I say. “We might be in the same room for a week.”

David frowns. “What?”

“The cruise.”

His eyes narrow.

“Wait. You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“With him there?”

“Yes.”

“What are you afraid you’ll say?”

I look down at my hands again.

“I am afraid I will use Vox like proof that I know him. I will make him responsible for what happens to me if he walks away. I need you to make me say it wrong here,” I say. “So I do not say it wrong there.”

His throat moves. “And the hitting?”

“The pain helps me mark the mistake.”

“No.”

“David.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Victor.”

“Please.”

He looks away first.

Now I feel like I’m making someone hold something dirty because my hands are already full of dirty things.

David gets up and walks to the other side of the room. He stands with his back to me for a moment, hands on his hips, head down.

I wait.

I can wait when I know the answer will be yes or no.

He turns back.

“One time,” he says.

“But one time does not teach—”

“One time,” he repeats, sharp. “And then we see what the fuck this is doing to you. I’m serious. I am not becoming your punishment machine.”

“Okay.”

“No. Not okay. Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

He comes back to the desk and sits down slowly.

He starts writing on a piece of paper.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging the pen across the page.

I wait.

He finishes writing, then slides the paper across the desk with two fingers.

“Careful what you say.”

I look down.

YOU HURT ME.

My throat tightens.

Because I can picture you saying it.

You will say it. You should.

David leans back in his chair. “Answer.”

I keep my hands on my knees. “Yes,” I say. “I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.”

The slap comes immediately. My head snaps to the left.

I clench my jaw.

Then I turn back to him.

David’s mouth is tight.

“Relax your jaw,” he says.

I loosen it.

“Don’t get defensive.”

I nod.

I nod because I know I did something wrong. That is enough for now.

The explanation can come after the impact. That is the order my body understands best.

“I don’t get it,” I say carefully. “It’s the truth.”

“Don’t you dare say that to him. Do you hear me?”

David points at the paper.

“You just put your guilt on a plate and handed it to him. Like, here. Look what your pain did to me. Do something with it. “

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you mean first. I care what it does first.”

He leans closer, voice lower now.

“You tell him, ‘I hate myself for hurting you,’ and now he has to stand there with your self-hatred in his hands. He either comforts you, or he watches you suffer, or he feels like the cruel one for not making you feel better. You see that??”

I nod.

Again and again.

“Yes. It makes him responsible for what I feel about what I did to him.”

“Yes. Good. That’s the problem.”

I keep nodding.

In my head, it sounded right. In my head, it was accountability.

That is why I cannot trust my head when you are inside it.

David taps the paper.

“You need to show that you know you hurt him without asking him to take care of your guilt. The fact that you hate yourself for it is not his job. Do not make it his job.”

“Okay,” I say. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Try again.”

I look at the sentence.

YOU HURT ME.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I did. You don’t have to make me feel better about that.”

David’s face changes.

“Good,” he says. “Good. That’s good.”

“Okay,” I say. “Give me something else.”

“You want me to hit you again?” he asks. “Seriously?”

“Just continue. Please.”

His jaw shifts. He does not like the please.

David looks down at the paper again, disappointed before he even writes.

He writes another sentence. He turns it toward me.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

“I need you.”

Another slap. This time from the right.

My head turns the other way. Heat opens across my other cheek.

I do not say anything. My palms press harder into my knees.

I look back at him.

“What?” I ask. “He asked. I answered.”

David lets out a breath that sounds more like a curse than air.

“That’s not how this works, Victor. Fuck.”

I stare at him. “That was the answer.”

“No. That was pressure.”

“It’s true.”

“Stop saying that like truth is enough.”

I close my mouth.

David points at me, not angry exactly. Worried.

A little disgusted by what he just did, maybe.

“You say ‘I need you’ to someone you already hurt, and what does he hear?”

I do not answer fast enough.

David hits the desk with his palm. “Think.”

I breathe in. “He hears that leaving me would damage me.”

“Yes.”

“He hears that he has to keep me functional.”

“Exactly.”

“He hears that if he walks away, what happens to me is partly his fault.”

David leans back, eyes still on me.

“Good. There. Give him space,” he says.

I nod again. I look at the paper.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

My cheek pulses.

“I want what you want to give me,” I say.

David’s eyebrows pull together. “Closer.”

“Nothing you don’t want to give.”

He nods slowly. “Good. That doesn’t put a leash on him.”

David takes the paper back. He writes again.

He turns the paper around.

I HATE YOU.

“No you don’t.”

David stands so fast his chair almost falls back.

“No. No, no, no. Fuck you, Victor. No.”

I freeze.

He does not slap me this time.

He steps away from the desk and drags both hands through his hair.

“I can’t fucking do this. I can’t. What are we doing? What the fuck are we doing?”

I do not answer. Because the answer is obvious to me.

We are making sure I do not ruin Silas with my mouth.

David turns back to me, furious now.

“What am I going to do? Slap you all night until your mouth learns what not to say? Come on, man.”

I sit very still.

My cheeks burn. Both sides now.

David comes around the desk and stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to look up at him.

He puts both hands on my shoulders.

“Victor,” he says, and his voice changes. “I promise you, you do NOT need this.”

My throat tightens.

“I do.”

“No. You need help. You need correction. You do not need me to hit you.”

“The pain helps.”

His hands tighten slightly on my shoulders.

“The pain makes you stop talking. That is not the same thing as learning.”

I look at him.

I want to argue. I have evidence.

Pain works. Pain interrupts. Pain arrives and says, wrong .

His hand leaves my shoulder and catches my chin, not forceful, just enough to bring my face back.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“Silas tells you he hates you. What do you NOT say?”

“No, you don’t hate me.”

“Why?”

“Because it tells him what he feels…”

“Good. You don’t get to correct his feelings.”

I nod.

David’s expression softens.

“There. That. That’s what we’re doing. You see? I didn’t have to hit you for that.”

I swallow.

“It would be faster.”

“No it wouldn’t.”

David lets go of my shoulders and crouches a little so we are level.

“Come on. Correct answer,” he says. “Silas says, I hate you.”

I look at the paper still lying on the desk.

I HATE YOU.

The right answer feels like putting my hand into a machine and not pulling it back.

“You can hate me.”

David nods. “Good. That gives him his own anger. That doesn’t steal it from him.”

I nod once.

David stands fully and moves back behind the desk, but he does not sit.

“No more slapping,” he says.

“But—”

“No. If you like it, good for you. Find someone else to do that job. I don’t want it.”

I have no answer.

He picks up the papers and stacks them together.

YOU HURT ME. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I HATE YOU.

Three failures. Three corrections.

Two slaps that felt useful and one absence that felt like being forced to do the work myself.

“Tomorrow we do this again. With no slaps.”

I look at the papers. I want to ask again. I want to say please again.

I want to tell him that my brain respects consequences more than explanations.

Instead, I just nod.

---

Y’all, I’m so sad for my baby Victor because he genuinely believes pain is what helps him improve💔 Unfortunately, I see a lot of people who think like that, and I want you guys to know that pain and growth are not always the same thing 🧚🏻‍♀️

Pain might stop you for a moment, but understanding is what ACTUALLY changes you. Be kind to yourselves, okay? Learning from a mistake will always be more valuable than endlessly punishing yourself for it :)

Life lessons with Disco, part 922729 bro

I’ll make sure the next chapters are hot, sexy as fuuuhhh, intimate, and fluffy.

I already know there’s a scene coming that will have you all screaming “WHAT?!?!?!?!” at your screens.

SEE YOU SOON BYE I LOVE YOU❤️

42) Tattoo Circus

Silas’s POV

Victor Acosta had not been my problem for the past two weeks.

He was Spain’s problem. God’s problem.

But he was not mine.

Not after he stood in my house and basically stabbed me with his words and then looked at me like he was sorry for noticing there was blood.

He’s not my problem.

I had made that very clear to myself.

Several times a day. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes while standing in front of my fridge at three in the morning.

Two weeks. Fourteen days.

We had not exchanged a single message.

Not as Victor and Silas. Not as Vox and me.

Nothing. Absolute silence.

I missed Victor. I missed Vox too.

And that was the part that made me want to put my head through a wall, because Vox was supposed to be the lie.

The fake name.

But my body missed him like someone had taken away my cigarettes.

Actually, no. Worse.

It felt like I had thrown my own cigarettes away while still being a smoker, then spent the next two weeks standing over the trash can like a fucking idiot, pretending I wasn’t thinking about climbing inside.

That was me. Very stable.

The other day, I logged into Minecraft because I had reached a new level of pathetic where even pixelated dirt had meaning.

It felt like talking to him without actually talking to him.

Which, for the record, is insane. I know that. I am self-aware. That does not mean I make better choices.

I opened the game, fully prepared to walk around our world, and he was already there.

Online.

I just sat there, staring at his username, and my stomach did that stupid little drop.

He was there. Vox was there. Victor was there.

And I didn’t message him.

I didn’t even move at first. I just watched.

Which sounds creepy, but in my defense, he had catfished me for years, so I think I was allowed one creepy Minecraft surveillance session.

Fair trade.

I had no idea what the hell he was doing. At first I thought he was mining, normal people stuff.

Then I realized he had basically dug out the entire world under our world.

A whole fucking underground village. A full civilization beneath everything we had built.

Houses, lights, paths, farms, all of it hidden under the ground.

It scared me a little.

Because it looked too respectful.

Like he wanted to build something but didn’t want to touch what I had made.

He wanted to exist there without ruining anything of mine.

And I hated that I understood it. So I left.

I didn’t message him. I didn’t type helloooooo, like always. I didn’t ask what the fuck he was doing.

I didn’t even break a single block out of spite, which honestly shows improvement, because I considered it.

I considered it for a full ten seconds.

Then I logged out and stared at my useless white ceiling.

Then I checked his Instagram too. Obviously.

He was fine. Or he looked fine.

I saw his studio packed. I saw people happy to have him back. I saw videos of his team welcoming him.

There were hugs. There were smiles.

Then there was the music.

Precious.

The song that was playing when I kissed him.

The song that had basically witnessed one of the dumbest and best decisions of my life.

Now he’s posting it.

I wanted to be mad about it. I was mad about it. I am still mad about it. I am furious, actually.

I am furious because there was a second where I looked at him and wanted to forget everything just to keep him in the room.

That is exactly the kind of thing I would judge in other people while making coffee.

And yet there I was, living it, because I’m a hypocrite.

I want to think his name and feel bored as fuck, but I don’t.

I’m angry and I miss him. Both things at once.

Because I didn’t lose one person. I lost two.

I lost the guy I had a crush on, the one with his terrifying way of making me feel seen even when I wanted to be left alone.

But I also lost Vox.

I lost the person who knew me when I didn’t have to perform.

The person I could type literally anything to without thinking about my face, my body, my tattoos, my name, my studio, my reputation, my ex, my anger, my talent, my whole fucking brand of being too much.

Vox got the version of me that didn’t need sarcasm to survive the room.

Victor got the version of me that wanted to be touched.

Badly.

And then I found out they were the same person, and somehow that made it worse instead of easier.

Because now I don’t know which part to mourn.

The lie or the truth. The friend or the crush.

The man who knew me or the man who wanted me.

Now he’s about to become my problem again.

Because I’m on a plane to Miami, where we’re staying tonight before boarding the cruise tomorrow morning.

The cruise where I’m supposed to share a room with Victor.

And by room, I mean probably a bed too.

Jett is currently sitting next to me, wasting oxygen and battery life by smiling too much at texts from his straight friend.

Poppy is beside him, reading the event schedule.

I’m supposed to be looking at the schedule too. I’m supposed to be normal.

A person who can sit on a plane and not spiral over the fact that in less than twenty-four hours I will be sharing a bathroom with Victor Acosta like we’re married and waiting for someone to ask us what color towels we want.

Am I scared of him?

No.

Am I scared of myself?

Yes. Absolutely.

Because the problem is not that I don’t want him. The problem is that I still do.

The problem is that one thought keeps fighting another inside my head and neither of them has the decency to shut up.

One part of me wants to shove him into the nearest wall and insult him again and again, the other part wants to know what his tongue piercing feels like.

It’s disgusting. I hate it here.

Before everything blew up, I used to dream about this kind of thing with Vox.

The idea of being stuck somewhere with him. I wanted to meet him and do stupid shit together.

Get drinks. Get lost. Sit on a floor somewhere and talk until one of us forgot how time worked.

And yeah. Fine.

With Victor too.

I wanted him before I knew he was already tangled inside the other half of my life.

I turn my head because Jett keeps giggling at his phone.

“Is it Thiago?” I ask.

Jett doesn’t even look at me.

He just keeps staring at his screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, mouth curved in the most annoying little smile I have ever seen on another human being.

“None of your business,” he says, laughing under his breath.

Which means yes. Obviously.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“You talk about me and Victor like you’re not ready to buy a wedding dress.”

That makes him look at me. Finally.

His face twists. “First of all, shut up. Second of all, I don’t want his dick—”

Poppy makes a judgmental sound from beside him.

Jett points at her without looking away from me. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, still staring at the event schedule.

“Don’t lie. That tone was homophobic. Are you homophobic, Poppy?”

“I’m literally into girls.”

“And YET.”

I look at Jett again because this is so pathetic that it almost makes me feel better about my own situation.

“What?? I don’t like him. He’s just really funny. And hot people can be funny without me wanting them.”

Poppy turns a page of the schedule. “Sure.”

I stare at him for another second, then glance at his phone again.

He turns the screen toward his chest.

God help him.

“Just remember this moment,” I say, settling back against my seat. “Because when you start crying later, I’m going to be very annoying about it.”

“No, I’m not crying over Thiago.”

“But you did cry over that guy with that neck tattoo who called you bro after kissing you.”

He flips me off without looking away from his phone again, which means I win.

I turn toward the window again, pull my hoodie up, and close my eyes before my brain can find another way to betray me.

I sleep until we land.

We reach the hotel. The lobby is a disaster.

Black clothes everywhere. Rings, chains, leather jackets, heavy boots, tattoo cases, camera bags, organizers with headsets, piercers, artists hugging.

Everyone around me is hyped like the cruise starts in five minutes instead of tomorrow morning.

A few of the biggest studios are gathered around the lobby in separate little packs, like extremely tattooed wildlife.

I recognize logos before I recognize faces.

Some studios from New York. One from Berlin. A few from Los Angeles.

Reporters are scattered everywhere, already spiraling because they don’t know who to attack first with microphones.

Every time someone semi-famous walks through the revolving doors, three cameras turn at once like starving birds.

I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and look around.

No Victor. Nowhere.

Maybe he hasn’t arrived yet.

To my right, Kaiser’s team is causing more noise than every other studio combined.

He’s with the heads of his studio, a couple of artists I vaguely recognize, and his friend who looks like he wandered into the wrong event and decided to stay because the vibe was good.

I think he’s the guy with the back piece. Maybe.

Could be someone else.

I’ve never been good at remembering faces unless they piss me off, break my heart, or look at me like they know something I don’t.

Unfortunately, that means my memory is mostly full of enemies.

Noah catches me looking and grins. I lift my hand in greeting.

He aggressively blows me a kiss across the lobby.

I press a hand to my chest and pretend to be deeply moved, and it makes him laugh.

Before I can say anything else, feedback screams through a microphone from somewhere near the front of the lobby.

Everyone flinches.

It’s Rosalia Del Toro, standing near a tall black sign with the cruise logo on it, holding a microphone in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

She looks furious, and very close to committing a felony.

“Stop touching that,” she snaps at someone off to the side, covering the microphone too late so half the lobby hears it anyway. “It is a promotional display, not a stress toy, you idiot.”

A guy in a beanie slowly removes his hand from the brochure stand.

Rosalia closes her eyes for one second. Just one.

Then she lifts the microphone again and smiles.

“Welcome,” she says, bright and deadly. “To everyone arriving for the Del Toro Ink at Sea event, please stop forming little gangs in front of the elevators and come collect your hotel packets.”

Nobody moves fast enough for her liking.

Her smile sharpens. “That means now.”

Jett leans closer to me. “I love her.”

“How?! She would definitely sell your organs for better scheduling.”

“Exactly. That’s why I love her.”

“All featured artists, please come get your room cards,” Rosalia says into the microphone. “Quickly. We do not have all night. Come on.”

That gets people moving.

The main artists start peeling away from their little black-clothed cult circles and heading toward the check-in table.

I get my envelope, my room card, a welcome packet, and a tiny branded keychain I am definitely going to lose before tomorrow morning.

We all start moving toward the elevators after that, dragging our bags through the lobby.

I look down at my room card.

I don’t like being a featured artist.

I get a room by myself and more chances to spiral in private.

I’m not planning to jerk off tonight, so I don’t see why I’m supposed to be excited about single occupancy.

Jett leans over my shoulder. “What did you get?”

I flash him the card. “1707.”

He lifts his. “Oh, come on. Poppy and I are 1709.”

Poppy looks between our cards. “What?”

“Who dared put someone between us?” I ask, offended. “Who looked at me and Jett and thought, yes, separate the children?”

Jett snorts. “Maybe they value sleep.”

I shrug. “I’m sure whoever has 1708 will ask to change the second they realize you’re next door.”

Jett shoves my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble into my suitcase. “Fucker.”

“Stop talking.”

We keep moving down the hallway with the rest of the tattoo circus.

Doors are opening and closing. People are already yelling between rooms. Someone is blasting music from a portable speaker even though we’ve been here for approximately twelve minutes.

The entire floor already feels like it’s about to violate hotel policy in at least six different ways.

I reach 1707, swipe the card, and step inside.

The room is nice. There is a huge bed, clean sheets, and floor-to-ceiling windows with Miami glowing outside.

I drop my bag on the floor and fall face-first onto the bed.

For about four seconds, I consider becoming one with the mattress and refusing to participate in anything.

Then loud music blasts from our hallway.

I can hear voices outside my door.

It sounds like a school trip, if the school trip was full of inked adults with nicotine addictions.

I lift my head from the bed.

Another shout comes from the hallway. I get up, because I’m nosy as hell, and open the door to see what the fuck is happening.

Obviously, it’s Kaiser.

He’s standing in the middle of the hallway with sunglasses on indoors, holding his phone out, recording.

Around him, people are following along.

In front of the camera is Jett. With his shirt lifted.

Kaiser is pointing at Jett’s pierced nipples, zooming in.

“Guys, look at this,” Kaiser says to his phone. “This is craftsmanship.”

Jett nods seriously at the camera, shirt still up, accepting all the attention.

“Thank you,” he says. “I suffer for art.”

I stand in my doorway and stare. The chaos is contagious.

Kaiser spots me.

His whole face lights up like he just found a better target.

“Oh,” he says, dragging the word out.

I point at him. “No.”

He takes off his sunglasses with one hand. Then he turns the camera on me and moves it slowly from my boots up to my face.

“Guys,” he says, voice dropping into full reporter mode. “Check out this man.”

I lean against the doorframe, unimpressed.

Kaiser grins behind the phone. “Silas Blackwood, how does it feel being the unofficial mascot of Las Vegas tattoo artists?”

I laugh because what the fuck else am I supposed to do?

“I’m not.”

“You literally are. Guys, he’s pretending he doesn’t know he’s famous. That’s so brave. Anyway.”

He taps the screen and ends the video.

The second the camera is gone, his whole energy somehow gets worse.

He steps closer through the hallway chaos and grabs my shoulder.

“Listen to me carefully,” he says. “Tonight, you come to my room.”

I gasp. “Fuck. That’s romantic.”

“I know. We’re celebrating the cruise before the cruise.”

“That sounds… less romantic.”

“It’s a team thing,” he says. “Everyone comes. You bring alcohol and cigarettes, okay?”

Before I can answer, the guy next to him smacks the back of his neck. Hard enough to make Kaiser flinch.

“Stop encouraging people to smoke, you idiot.”

Kaiser turns to him like he has been deeply betrayed. “Rava, chill. If it’s not their time to die, they won’t die.”

Kaiser points at me again. “Tell the others. My room. Later. Bring whatever makes people fun.”

Poppy crosses her arms. “Food?”

“Also yes.”

Jett drops his shirt back down. “Can I bring myself?”

Kaiser looks him up and down. “That is necessary.”

Then he claps his hands once. “I’m going to shower. See ya guys.”

I get back into my room. I wash my hands in the bathroom. Then I hear something through the wall.

A dull sound. Something heavy being set down.

I lift my head.

The room beside mine.

The mysterious little wedge between me and Jett.

The unknown human chosen by fate, or Rosalia, to stand between my piercer and me.

I dry my hands, fix my hair with my fingers, open my door, and step into the hallway again.

The door to 1708 is open.

Perfect. Convenient.

I knock lightly on the open doorframe. Nothing.

“Hey,” I call, stepping closer. “Neighbor person?”

Still nothing.

I lean in a little, just enough to look inside without making myself look like a criminal.

There’s a suitcase near the desk, half-open.

Another bag is on the floor, zipped tight.

The bathroom door is open. Empty.

Nobody naked. Good.

I move a little farther in.

I stop.

My gaze catches on an open duffel bag near the chair.

There’s a dartboard inside.

Not a cheap one.

A proper dartboard, wrapped carefully, shoved between folded black clothes and what looks like a pair of heavy boots.

A case of darts sits beside it.

My stomach drops.

“Silas?”

The voice comes from behind me.

That accent. I know that accent. Of course I know that accent.

I turn around.

Victor stands in the doorway of 1708 with two heavy bags in his hands, one over each shoulder.

He’s dressed in black. Black shirt, black pants, sleeves pushed up.

I look at his hands.

They’re red from the bags, veins pushed up like they’re about to split through his skin.

I step in, grab one of them, and I set it down on the counter.

“Thanks,” he says.

I don’t answer.

I just stand there with my arms crossed, staring at him while he wipes the sweat off his forehead.

He looks at me, confused.

“What do you need me for?” he asks.

I glance down for a second, jaw tight, arms still crossed like I’m holding myself together by force. “I don’t need you.”

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

He nods.

I keep looking at him. “I don’t know if you had something to do with us ending up in the same room, but you should know I’m going to make this very difficult for you.”

“I didn’t arrange it, Silab—”

My head snaps up.

He suddenly looks nervous.

“Silas. I’m sorry. I didn’t arrange it. I even told her to change my room.”

I look at him.

“You didn’t want to be with me?” I ask.

His eyes stay on mine. For a second, he doesn’t answer.

“I’m not answering that.”

I nod once. “Right.”

“Silas—”

“No, it’s fine.” I cross my arms tighter. “Very mature. Big fan.”

I’m waiting for him to say something. Anything.

He stays silent.

I laugh under my breath.

“You know, for someone who suddenly loves honesty, you pick really interesting moments to shut the fuck up.”

His face changes just enough for me to see it.

He looks around.

“What? Do you think this is pleasant for me? It’s awkward for me too. I’ll try to bother you as little as possible, since I can’t leave.”

Then he turns back around like that’s it. Like he solved it.

Now I’m supposed to go wow, thanks Acosta, so considerate, and leave.

No. That’s not enough for me.

I want to get under his skin. I want to see if there’s a point where he cracks.

“I sleep with the light on.” I lean against the counter, watching him. “You hate lights at night.”

“I can sleep with the light on.”

I take a step closer. “I keep the AC cold.”

He shifts a little closer too. “I’ll wear a hoodie.”

“Freezing cold,” I say, staring straight at him.

“I packed two.”

“I take long showers.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I use all the hot water.”

“I can shower cold.”

I narrow my eyes. “I leave my clothes everywhere.”

“No, you don’t. You hate that.”

That makes me pause.

I swallow and lift my chin. “Now I don’t hate it.”

“Then I’ll keep my things on one side.”

“I don’t want your things near mine.”

“They won’t be.”

“I also steal blankets.”

“You can have them.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“I have two hoodies.”

I stare at him, properly pissed now, because this should not be this hard.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I say. “You’re impossible to fight.”

He tilts his head. “I’m not trying to fight you. Do you want me to fight you?”

“No. But I might tell you to leave.”

“Then I’ll leave.”

I frown. “That easy?”

“Yes. I have rules.”

“Yeah?”

He holds my stare. “Mhm.”

“For me?”

“For myself.” His eyes stay on mine, steady. “And I don’t intend to break them.”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose and tilt my mouth into a small smirk, because yeah.

We’ll see about that.

I want to hate you properly. I want you to be exactly what I said you are.

Wrong and unforgivable.

I want to keep finding reasons not to let you back in.

And I’m probably going to try. More than once.

---

CHAT WE ARE SO BACK.

Okay, hear me out. I’m trying really hard to make these chapters as good as possible, so please be patient with me :) That was the most boring chapter compared to the next ones.

I’ll be uploading every 2 days again :))))

Some very unexpected things are about to happen… hehe.

That’s all. BYE I LOVE YOU GUYS ❤️

43) I’m Straight

REMINDER: In this story, Noah and Rava haven’t met Lorenzo, Marco, or any of the others yet. This takes place during the winter before the events of Ride or Die. So for now, they’re just a regular 21 yo college student and a 22 yo horny tattoo artist 😀

And for those of you asking, I just didn’t want everyone in Ride or Die to be in their thirties with kids while Silas was still a baby. I wanted them all to be around the same age, so just think of this as something that happened while Rava was still studying in Canada. It’s really not that complicated.

Silas’s POV

It’s midnight.

At least I think it is.

The aggressive pounding on my hotel room door destroys whatever sleep I somehow managed to fall into.

Which is honestly impressive.

I spent most of the evening staring at the ceiling thinking about tomorrow and all the terrible life choices that brought me here.

I drag myself out of the world’s most comfortable bed and stumble toward the door.

My hair is definitely committing crimes.

I open it.

Jett and Poppy are standing there.

Holding bottles. Several bottles.

Rum.

Vodka.

Tequila.

A suspicious amount of tequila.

I blink a couple of times.

“You do realize the event starts tomorrow, right?”

Jett shrugs.

Poppy gives me a look. “Babe. Have you actually looked at the schedule?”

I stare at her.

“No.”

She holds up the booklet.

“Tomorrow we just move onto the ship and settle into our rooms. Then there’s the Black Party at night.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh.”

“We have nothing to do.”

I think about it. Then nod.

“Okay, fair. Let’s get drunk.”

Jett immediately lifts the tequila.

“That’s my boy.”

“Give me one minute.” I point at them. “Do not leave.”

“We’re literally standing outside your door.”

“I don’t trust you.”

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Fix my hair enough to stop looking homeless.

Throw water in my face. Then give up.

I’m still wearing pajamas.

I don’t give a fuck. The clothes are not going to be the problem tonight.

We take the elevator up, and Jett leads the way.

Eventually we stop in front of room 1720.

Kaiser’s room.

The door is already open. Which immediately feels concerning.

Music is pouring out into the hallway. The bass is physically attacking me.

Then a shirt flies out.

An actual shirt.

It shoots through the doorway and lands in the middle of the hallway.

Nobody inside reacts. Not one person.

Like this happens regularly.

I slowly look at Jett. Jett slowly looks at me.

“We should probably go in.”

“Absolutely not.”

We go in.

The second I step inside, I understand why nobody reacted to the flying shirt.

Because this room is complete fucking chaos.

Not normal chaos. Tattoo artist chaos. Which is obviously worse.

The entire suite looks like a convention exploded.

People are everywhere. Literally everywhere.

The couch is occupied. The chairs are occupied. The floor is occupied.

At least three people are sitting on countertops for reasons unknown.

Half the room is covered in open luggage. The other half is covered in tattoo equipment.

Someone has set up a portable tattoo station on the dining table.

A guy with face tattoos is currently tattooing a tiny spider on another guy’s ankle while holding a beer.

Neither of them seems remotely concerned about this.

Across from them, a woman with bright red hair is charging four different vapes at once.

Another group is taking shots.

Aggressively.

The bottle keeps moving around the circle faster than humanly possible.

One of them misses his mouth entirely and nobody cares.

There’s a guy sitting on the floor sketching tattoo designs directly onto hotel stationery.

A heavily tattooed woman is drawing roses on somebody’s arm with a Sharpie while explaining why traditional tattoos are superior to every other style.

Someone yells “MAGNUMS ARE SUPERIOR.”

Three different voices immediately start yelling back.

The room smells like tequila.

And vape juice. And aftercare cream.

The music changes. Everybody immediately screams because the guy controlling the speaker accidentally disconnected it.

Booing erupts.

A tattooed giant standing on the couch points dramatically.

“REMOVE HIM.”

The music comes back. The crowd cheers.

Justice has been served.

In the corner, someone has started a competition. They’re comparing healed tattoos on their thighs.

Nobody knows why. Nobody questions it.

In the back, I spot Thiago making out hard with a blonde girl.

I turn straight toward Jett to block the view before he sees it, but his eyes are already on them.

He was laughing a second ago, and now his whole face just changes.

His expression shifts into this innocent, confused look, and he seems so genuinely surprised that I actually feel bad for him.

He looks like he had been happily looking for him, and his face didn’t even get the chance to fully change after seeing that.

It just froze there.

Fuck.

I grab his arm and pull him a little toward me. “Hey. I already spotted two people looking at you like they want to lick you. Cheer up.”

“Really?” he shouts over the music.

I nod.

That gets a small smile out of him.

Then Kaiser spots us and gets up from the bed where he’s sitting with Rava.

I genuinely do not know how Canada survives him.

He stumbles over a few people sitting on the floor, steps over somebody’s leg like he’s crossing a battlefield, and makes it to us with his drink still somehow in his hand.

He looks at all three of us, then at the bags in Jett’s hand.

“This is so sexy of you.”

Then he turns to me. “Dude. Today somebody stole your spot as the youngest tattoo artist in here.”

He points to the corner where some kid is tattooing a huge guy. “That one over there. He’s only eighteen. Obviously he got into the scene through connections, but the kid does insane work. Absolute magic.”

Then he looks back at me and grins. “But don’t worry. You’re still our baby to me.”

“Dude, you’re literally one year older than me.”

“Still older,” he says.

According to Kaiser logic, that settles it.

It’s been one or two hours.

At this point, Jett is licking vodka off Kaiser’s stomach while holding eye contact with him because they did body shots and now we all have to live with that visual forever.

I scan the room and spot Rava guy sitting on the little couch looking like a lost puppy somebody accidentally dropped into a pit of wolves.

Honestly I’m surprised no one’s already climbed on top of him and eaten him alive.

He’s cute.

I light a cigarette, take my time with it, then head over.

I drop onto the couch beside him, lazy and loose, and blow the smoke the other way so I’m not exhaling straight into his face.

“First time at a tattoo artist gathering?”

He laughs a little. Nervous.

“Yeah, actually. And I’m terrified, not even gonna lie.”

I grin and take another drag.

“Aw. Baby’s first time at the circus.”

I tap ash into the tray and glance around the room.

“So?” I ask, looking back at him. “You with Noah?”

His eyes widen immediately.

“Oh—no, no. I have a girlfriend. Sophia. I’m straight.”

I stare at him for half a second. Then I start laughing.

“Dude. I meant with his group.”

“Oh,” he says, laughing too and dragging a hand over his face. “Sorry. That was awkward.”

“Extremely,” I say, still grinning.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, he’s my best friend. He insisted I come with him. But as you can see, he already abandoned me to go lick your friend.”

I lift both hands like well, obviously.

“Yeah, if Jett picks a target, it’s over. One way or another, that bitch will get what he wants.”

Rava laughs harder at that.

He looks around the room for a second, taking in the chaos again, then glances back at me.

“So… do you have a girlfriend or…?”

I smile.

“Nah. I’ve been gay since I can remember.”

He nods. Just nods.

I smile.

God, I love spotting the pre-awakening ones.

No fucking way this man is straight.

And yeah, I know. People love doing that whole don’t assume bullshit, sexuality isn’t a vibe, you can’t tell just by looking at someone.

Whatever.

My radar is rarely wrong and when it is, it’s only because the man in question is deep in denial.

So no, I don’t buy it. It’s not even just the face.

Although, honestly, the face is not helping his case.

He’s way too put together. Too annoyingly pretty. Everything on him looks intentional.

The hair, the clothes, the skin, the whole soft expensive-looking tragedy of him.

Straight men usually look like they got dressed during an earthquake and called it a day.

This one came assembled.

And then there’s also the way he said it.

The second I even nudged in that direction, he rushed to hit me with the I have a girlfriend and the I’m straight.

Panicked.

Like he was trying to throw the words at me before I could think them first.

I know that move.

That is not the calm confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is.

That’s like the verbal equivalent of slamming a door before somebody sees what’s inside the room.

And maybe I’m evil, but every time a guy does that shit, all I can think is oh, brother.

There it is. The fear. The speed. The unnecessary overexplaining. The little defensive stiffness.

Babe, relax.

Nobody was about to drag you onto a pride float.

I just asked a question.

Actually, no, scratch that. I didn’t even need to ask.

He told on himself for free.

The actually straight ones usually don’t sound like they’re trying to escape a police interrogation.

They just say it and move on.

This one said it like he was trying to convince both me and himself at the same time.

One day he’s gonna look at some guy for two seconds too long and suddenly it’s over.

Identity crisis. Sweaty hands. Existential spiral. Maybe a little bit of shame. Maybe a lot.

Maybe a very confusing month where every thought he has starts sounding suspiciously homosexual.

Who’s gonna be the poor bastard that cracks him open?

Who’s gonna be the one that makes him stare at the ceiling at three in the morning like he just got hit by divine punishment?

Who’s gonna be the guy that ruins women for him forever?

The guy that turns I have a girlfriend into so, funny story six months later?

Poor thing.

Not really. But a little.

I take another drag and look at him again, slower this time, like I’m studying him.

He looks like he’d blush if somebody said something filthy to him and then spend the next week thinking about it against his will.

I angle my body a little more toward him and smile in that sneaky way.

“Hey, can I see the back piece?” I ask. “I’ve been eyeing it since the competition.”

His face lights up instantly.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He sits up straighter, suddenly proud.

“Sure.”

He turns his back to me and reaches behind himself, grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it up.

And Jesus fucking Christ.

My cigarette dies in the tray immediately because no, absolutely not, this deserves my full attention.

“You’re shitting me,” I mutter. “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I lean in and put my hand against the ink carefully, almost reverent for once in my goddamn life.

And I have no words.

None.

There is not one raised line. Not one single fucking spot. No weird texture. No patchiness. No gaps. Nothing.

Just black.

Solid, perfect, suffocating black laid in so clean it doesn’t even look real.

It looks printed onto him.

I drag my fingers lightly over one section and squint.

“What possessed Kaiser while he was making this?” I mumble.

Rava laughs.

And I’m still staring because this is insane. Actually insane.

“It’s unbelievable,” I say.

And I mean it.

It’s the kind of work that makes artists go quiet for a second because jealousy and admiration are basically cousins.

The kind of piece that makes your eye twitch because it’s gorgeous and unfair and now you have to live with the fact that someone out there did this with their own hands.

I lean back again, still staring at his back.

“This is offensively good. I’m mad now.”

He laughs again and drops his shirt back down.

And of course I’m jealous.

How could I not be?

His back is one giant masterpiece and mine had to be split in half like I was being punished by God.

If that was on my body, I’d be walking around shirtless everyday.

I’d be standing in front of strangers like hey .

No reason.

Just look at my back for a second.

“You know,” he says after a second, a little more relaxed now, “if you have time, I want you to do one on my arm.”

I look at him, shocked.

“Are you cheating on Kaiser with me??”

He laughs.

“Well, thankfully for him, I’m not his only client. And besides, even he says you’re amazing.”

That makes me smile.

Because okay. Compliments always hit harder when I’m not prepared for them.

“He’ll be fine,” Rava adds.

I lean back into the couch, dragging my arm across the top of it.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s fucking do it. On the cruise.”

His face lights up immediately.

“Perfect.”

Then his eyes flick over toward the other side of the room and he exhales through a laugh.

“I should go collect Noah before this gets worse.”

He pushes himself up from the couch. “Bye.”

“Bye,” I echo, lifting a hand.

What a sweet creature.

I look around again.

I would love to enjoy this chaos properly. I should be enjoying it.

The room is a mess, everyone is drunk, but the only thing I can think about now is how many times I imagined being in a situation like this with Vox.

Some loud party. Some stupid hotel room. Too much alcohol. Too much bass. Too much smoke.

Then us slipping away together because we got bored of everyone else.

Going somewhere quieter just to do our own dumb shit.

If Victor hadn’t fucked everything up, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

Maybe I’d be in some corner with him, making out like crazy.

Laughing against his lips. Touching him in places that would make people scream if they saw.

Dragging my hands lower just because I could.

Just because he’d let me.

But no.

Obviously he had to make it complicated. Of course he did.

Suddenly I’m exhausted.

I head over to Poppy, who’s standing off to the side talking to the studio from Los Angeles.

“Poppy, just so you know, I’m going to sleep. Tell Jett too so he doesn’t go looking for me, okay?”

She looks at me properly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just sleepy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, of course. Sleep well, Silas.”

“Thanks.”

I leave the room.

The second I step into the hallway, I realize exactly how much I’ve had to drink.

All the identical doors look like they’re gently moving. Swaying enough to annoy me.

I rub my eyes and keep walking until I reach my room.

I lean my forehead against the wood or whatever fake expensive material this hotel is using, and slide the key card in.

I try the handle.

It doesn’t open.

I go still.

Then I try again, slower this time, because maybe the card needs respect or foreplay or whatever the fuck.

Still nothing.

I stare at the door with pure hatred.

“This fucking hotel,” I mutter. “And its fuckass broken doors.”

I lean back against it and slowly slide down to the floor, knees up, too drunk and irritated to care how pathetic this looks.

Jett will come eventually. He’ll find me.

Probably laugh first, help second. I can wait.

Then the door behind me opens. I shoot up fast and brush off my pants.

Victor is standing there.

His hair is wet. No shirt.

The second he sees me, he grabs one from the chair next to him and pulls it over his head fast.

I catch everything before it disappears.

His biceps flexing while he gets it on, his bare chest, and that goddamn happy trail that should honestly be classified as a public disturbance.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

It takes me a second too long to answer.

Then I drag my eyes back up to his face.

“I’m fine. Sorry. Accident. Mixed up the doors.”

He nods once.

I’m about to leave when voices spill out from inside his room.

Spanish. More than one voice.

Some guy crashes into Victor from behind and ends up half on his shoulder.

I know him.

A lot of piercings. Black mullet haircut. Sharp eyes.

I’ve definitely seen him before. Pretty sure he works at Victor’s studio.

Actually no, definitely. We’re at a tattoo event for studio teams. Obviously I’ve seen him.

The second he notices me, his whole face lights up. Then he starts talking to me in rapid Spanish.

Very rapid. Aggressively rapid.

I stare at him. He keeps going.

I catch absolutely nothing except maybe my own name.

Or maybe not even that. Maybe I imagined it.

Then he turns to Victor, says something while pointing at me, then looks back at me like he’s waiting for a response.

I stare at him. He stares at me.

I point at myself. “English.”

He grins. “Sí.”

Then he keeps speaking Spanish.

I look at Victor. “That was not English.”

He points right back and says something that sounds extremely accusing.

I gasp. “Hey, dude. Don’t get bitchy with me just because you decided to speak in flamenco.”

He says something else. I catch absolutely nothing.

“English,” I say slowly, like he’s the drunk one.

He nods and says, “No.”

I go quiet.

“You know what? Fuck you.”

He smiles. “Fuck you.”

The guy opens Google Translate.

Speaks for thirty seconds.

The phone translates:

“The lord respects the refrigerator.”

I fall against the wall laughing.

“What the FUCK does that mean?”

The guy is laughing too.

Neither knows.

Victor steps out of the room and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the rest of them inside.

I look at him. “Wow. And I thought your English was weird. You’re basically fluent compared to your people,” I mutter.

His mouth twitches like he almost smiles.

“Where’s your key card?” he asks calmly.

I hand it to him.

He takes it, and walks to my door.

The lock clicks open. He pushes and nods for me to go in.

I step inside and drop back onto the bed without even pretending I have dignity left.

The mattress catches me immediately. I stare at the ceiling.

“Do you have water?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods once, then turns like he’s about to leave.

“We have the competition the day after tomorrow, by the way,” I say from the bed.

He stops.

I turn my head and look toward the entrance.

“I know,” he says.

“Don’t go easy on me because you feel guilty.”

He stills there for a second, then plants one hand on each side of the doorway, leaning just enough to fill the whole entrance without even trying.

It should not do anything to me. It absolutely does.

“You know I wouldn’t hand you a win.”

I scoff. “You or Vox?”

“Neither.”

I nod.

“Good,” I say, staring right back at him. “Because I’m going to fight you as hard as I can.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“I expect nothing less.”

There’s something deeply unfair about how calm he sounds saying it.

“Goodnight, Silas,” he says. “Drink water.”

Then he closes the door slowly. And the room goes quiet.

---

Okay, listen to me for a second, please😭 This is the chapter I wrote when I genuinely had zero motivation. I was literally forcing myself to exist.

BUT.

The next chapter, and every single one after that go SO HARD. I promise. Trust me.

Also, I’m curious…

Did you all come here after Ride or Die, or are there new people reading Guilty Pleasure who never read it!?!?!?!

If you’re new here, just so you know… Rava is the main character from my other story. (THE ONE WITH 10 MILLION READS. I’M LITERALLY NEVER SHUTTING UP ABOUT THAT😭)

44) My Name Is Victor

Silas’s POV

I say bye to Jett and Poppy for a bit because tragically I have to go get on the bus with the VIP people.

God forbid we ride with the regular broke peasants.

Us, the chosen ones. The special little celebrities.

Actually, what the fuck am I even saying. We’re on an all-expenses-paid cruise.

We’re all VIP in this bitch.

I step onto the bus and immediately get hit with the most depressing sight of my life.

Everyone looks dead.

Half of them are passed out, the other half look like they never actually went to sleep in the first place.

It’s weird as hell seeing famous artists like this.

These people look all intimidating and put together online, then in real life they’re slumped in bus seats with last night’s makeup and the souls of the damned leaving their bodies.

I move down the aisle, stepping past all the corpses, and then I see Victor in the back.

He’s wearing a huge black hoodie, earphones in, dead asleep against the window like some exhausted emo giant.

I smile a little.

There’s an empty seat next to him and I catch someone else looking at it, so I go sit down immediately.

In a practical way.

We are sleeping in the same room, after all, so obviously I sit here.

So I don’t lose him. That’s literally it. Nothing to unpack.

I barely get settled before I feel a tap tap on my shoulder from behind me.

I turn around and see Thiago. That actually startles me a little.

“Oh. Hey.”

He smiles at me. “Hey, prince of Las Vegas. Where are your friends?”

I blink at him. “Prince?!”

He gestures at me like I’m the dumb one here. “Yeah. You’re kinda pale, you have blue eyes, black hair. Very expensive-looking.”

I stare at him. “I’m covered in ink.”

“So? You still look like you own a kingdom.”

I snort. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll bleach my hair like Jett.”

“Nah,” he says immediately. “Wouldn’t work on you.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, really? It works on Jett but not on me?”

“Yes.”

I just nod slowly, taking in deeply offensive information. “Interesting.”

He leans a little on the seat. “Where’s that bleached-hair punk?”

“On the bus behind us. Why?”

He shrugs. “Just asking. I saw him last night with Kaiser doing body shots. He is wild.”

I turn a little more toward him, trying to act shocked. “Body shots?”

Thiago laughs under his breath. “Yeah. He was licking tequila off him like water had been banned worldwide and he was dying of thirst.”

I look at him for a second. “Wow. You really spent some quality time observing that. I’ll let him know you were impressed.”

His eyes widen. “No, the fuck? Don’t tell him that.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Silas.”

I grin and turn back around in my seat. “Bye.”

He mutters something under his breath and goes back to his seat, and I settle in next to Victor again.

I look at him for a second, waiting to see if he’s going to wake up now that the bus is moving.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

One of his earphones has slipped off, hanging there loose, and immediately I’m dying to know what he listens to when he’s fully alone.

What he puts on when nobody’s watching and he can be his weird little secretive self in peace.

I grab the fallen one carefully, making sure I don’t tug the wire too hard and yank the other one out of his ear.

The last thing I need is for him to wake up and catch me stealing his music like some creepy little freak.

I put it in my ear.

…

Policy of Truth.

I stare ahead.

That is so deeply ironic. Also kind of weird.

What the fuck is he doing? Punishing himself in his sleep? Is this what he does for fun?

I take the earphone out and place it back exactly where it was.

The bus turns.

His head slowly starts tipping toward me.

My whole body goes alert. Oh, absolutely not.

I put one finger against the side of his head and push him upright again.

A second later he drops the other way and knocks lightly into the window.

I laugh under my breath.

Vox would wake up and say something like:

• my head hurts.

• I think I hit it on something.

And I’d laugh in his face.

But unfortunately this is real life and he’s right here in front of me, so now I know the truth.

The bus turns again.

And this time he falls against me for real.

His warm cheek presses into my shoulder, and I swear to God my heart starts beating so fast I almost get embarrassed.

I go completely still.

Holy shit.

I immediately close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep too, because that somehow feels like the only logical solution here.

I see nothing. I know nothing.

Oh no, what a tragedy. I was sleeping.

I had no idea Acosta decided to get comfortable on top of me.

Not my business. Not my problem.

Definitely not the reason my pulse is trying to kill me.

I stay completely still and let my head tilt a little too, just enough to sell it, like yeah, obviously, I’m asleep too, this is just two exhausted people minding their own business.

His hoodie brushes against my arm every time the bus moves. His hair smells clean.

I keep my face relaxed, even though I’m pretty sure if anyone looked at me closely they’d see I’m one heartbeat away from exploding through the window.

If he wakes up like this, I’m dead.

Actually no, worse. If he wakes up like this and says nothing, I’m even more dead.

So I keep pretending.

Voices hit me first. Then people nudging me.

I open my eyes, disoriented for half a second, and immediately realize my head had dropped on top of his.

Fuck. I sit up fast.

I glance at Victor before I can stop myself.

His cheek is red from my shoulder, a soft mark pressed into his skin, and some of his hair is stuck to his face in messy dark strands.

He still looks half asleep. Half dead, honestly.

Thiago passes by us in the aisle.

“Check your messages,” he says before stepping off the bus.

I unlock my phone fast and open the chat.

There’s a photo of me and Victor asleep, curled up next to each other like two hibernating bears.

I close it fast. Oh my God.

What if I sue him for taking a picture of me without my consent?

That would be hilarious. I could ruin his life a little as a treat.

I don’t say anything to Victor, even though I can feel him moving behind me while we get off the bus.

I grab my stuff and step outside, still mentally trying to recover from the crime scene Thiago just sent me.

Then I look up. And the cruise ship is right there.

I stop walking. Because what the fuck.

That thing is enormous.

Less cruise ship, more floating city for hot people. I just stand there staring at it like an idiot for a second, completely frozen.

Then Jett attacks me.

“Hi. I missed you.”

I laugh and stumble a little from the impact. “I missed you too. Where’s Poppy?”

“She already went to get her room card. Want to go too?”

I nod.

Then his eyes flick behind me and land on Victor, who’s lifting his suitcase out from under the bus.

Jett smirks immediately. “And there he is. Mr. Multiple Personalities himself. Did he talk to you at all?”

I shake my head. Nope.

Jett makes a face. “Good luck in that room. Try not to kill each other.”

“Thank you,” I say dryly.

He leans in a little. “And remember. Sex may seem tempting, but it is not the answer.”

I stare at him.

“Do not let his biceps and his face hypnotize you,” he says, fully serious now. “Stay focused, okay?”

I just nod like I’m being briefed before war. Because unfortunately he’s not even wrong.

“I’ll do my best,” I mutter.

“You better,” he says.

We get our key from Rosalia for the cursed suite with the cursed jacuzzi.

Room 1402.

Victor actually takes it. I’m just there behind him like a bitter ex-wife following her divorce lawyer through the aftermath.

We drag our suitcases into the elevator to go up to the suite, and of course it’s empty.

The universe looked at us and said yeah, let’s lock them in a moving metal box too. Cute.

Now I’m trapped with the one person I want to punch, kiss, avoid, question, and maybe throw into the ocean.

Not in that order. Actually, no, maybe in that exact order.

I drag my suitcase to one side. Victor plants himself against the wall across from me.

Arms crossed, face blank, looking straight ahead.

The air feels suffocating.

I want to say a thousand things. I want to ask him where the fuck he’s been in his head.

I want to ask him if he missed me.

I want to grab him, kiss him aggressively, then walk out and pretend nothing happened.

I need to say something, because the longer I stay quiet, the more unbearable this gets, and he clearly has no intention of opening his mouth first.

He just keeps standing there with his arms crossed, staring forward like a sexy bodyguard.

I look at his reflection in the mirror in front of us first.

Then at the real thing with the tight jaw and the tired eyes.

“How’s Pickle?” I ask.

He looks at me. “What?”

“Pickle. Your dog. What’s he doing?”

He turns back to face forward.

“He’s in Spain with my sister.”

Spain. Right.

That hurts more than it should.

Because after all of this, I still can’t talk to him normally.

Openly.

I have my friend standing right in front of me. Probably the worst person my heart ever picked, and I don’t even know what his life looked like while he was gone.

I don’t know if he was okay.

I know Victor, but I know Vox too.

And now that those two people have crashed into each other inside my head, everything feels even worse.

Because now I know things I didn’t know Victor carried.

Heavy things. Not normal life crap.

Not stupid everyday bullshit like fighting with your sister over who gets the bathroom first.

So now I feel twice as bad.

I look at him again.

“Did you sleep with anyone in Spain?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want the elevator to snap and kill me instantly.

What the fuck is wrong with me??

And this elevator is taking thirteen years. I swear it’s moving in slow motion.

Victor doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me.

I panic so fast I nearly leave my body.

“Forget I said that,” I mutter. “Don’t answer that. That was none of my business.”

I rub at my eyes.

God. I sound insane.

“Sorry. I think I’m still drunk from last night.”

“No.”

I look at him.

“What do you mean no? You know better than I do?”

“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone in Spain.”

I go still.

Then he turns and looks at me properly. “I couldn’t.”

I turn back toward the doors. Stare at the floor.

There’s a tiny piece of dirt near my shoe, and I push it around with the edge of my sneaker.

I hate myself for how relieved I feel. I really do.

It’s not that I needed him untouched for me. I’m not that kind of asshole. At least I try not to be.

But I didn’t want the image.

Didn’t want my brain to build some sick little movie of Victor with someone else’s body on top of his.

Someone else’s hands on him. Someone else hearing the sounds I know he makes.

I keep staring at the floor.

“Cool,” I say quietly, because apparently that’s the only word my stupid mouth can produce.

He’s still looking at me. Not my face, though.

My neck. Intensely.

“What?” I ask.

He lifts his hand and points to his own neck, right under his jaw, a little to the side. “You have a mark here.”

I turn toward the mirror.

I do have a mark there. And I know exactly how it happened.

Jett’s stupid bag.

Because that man moves like he’s alone in every room and everyone else is just air.

He hit me with it last night when I bent down at the same time he stood up.

Victor keeps looking at it.

“Something happened last night in the room with the others, I imagine?”

For a second, I don’t get what he means.

Then I do.

He thinks someone had their mouth on my neck.

I look at him through the mirror first, then turn my head a little.

“Like what, Vox?”

His jaw tightens.

“My name is Victor.”

I don’t answer. I just look at him.

For one ugly little second, I think about lying.

I think about saying, yeah. Good guess.

Someone was on me last night. Someone had their mouth on my neck. Someone was licking me there, biting me there, making a mess of me there.

And that someone could’ve been you, but you fucked up, so congratulations.

Hope that feels nice.

I almost say it. I really do.

Then I look away because I’m angry, not cruel.

“It’s from Jett’s bag,” I say. “He hit me by accident. I bent down while he was getting up.”

Victor stays quiet. Then he nods once and looks forward again.

The elevator finally reaches our floor.

Thank fuck.

We reach the suite and he opens it with the key card.

And yeah.

Yeah.

This is exactly why I’m not switching with Jett. This right here is heaven on earth.

It screams VIP in the most obnoxious way possible and, unfortunately, I immediately feel important.

I hate how fast luxury works on me.

One shiny floor and one expensive lamp and suddenly I’m like yes, actually, I do deserve a better life.

Everything is perfect.

The bed is huge, the view is insane, the bathroom looks like rich people cry in there beautifully, and the whole place smells like money.

I step farther inside and then I see the reason why I’m here.

The jacuzzi.

The promised jacuzzi.

Suddenly Victor starts becoming slightly less annoying.

Maybe I overreacted. Maybe this is fine. Maybe we’ll survive this.

Maybe I can ignore the fact that I’m sharing a room with him because there’s a jacuzzi big enough to drown my problems in.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.

I look to the left.

There’s a sad little couch there.

Not even a real couch. More like a decorative couch.

Something made for a purse, not a Spanish giant.

I look back at him. “You don’t even fit there.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. You should take the bed.”

He moves like he’s about to put his things near the couch, and I step in front of him.

“No. Maybe I want the couch.”

He looks at the couch, then back at me.

“Take care of your back and go to the bed now.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“First of all, calm down. You might be older, but I’m also an adult.”

“I don’t care if you’re an adult,” he says. “Your back needs a bed, not a couch. Complain as much as you want. You’ll survive.”

I stare at him.

There’s something deeply offensive about being cared for by someone who says it like an order.

He just decided my spine is now under his management.

“Fuck you, Victor.”

“I’ll take that as okay.”

“No, don’t take it as okay. Take it as fuck you.”

He passes by me anyway, his shoulder brushing mine lightly.

He puts his bag near the couch like he still thinks this is happening, then walks to the thermostat and changes the AC to cold.

The second he steps away, I change it back.

Pure reaction. No thought. Just instinct and spite.

He turns his head and looks at me.

I stare right back while I do it, because yes, obviously I need him to know I’m being difficult on purpose.

He smiles a little.

I hate it.

He drops his bag onto the chair and a paper bag beside it immediately falls over.

Something slips out and hits the floor.

A sketchbook.

Victor turns. Fast.

He goes to grab it, but I get there first, snatching it up before he can touch it.

And then he freezes.

His eyes go wide in a way I have never seen on him before.

“Silas,” he says immediately. “Give it back. Do not open this.”

I smile at once.

Because now I’m interested.

“Why?” I ask. “What do you have in here? Naked drawings? Is it porn? Is it me?”

“Just give it to me. Please.”

His voice is serious. Almost anxious.

What the fuck?

I mean, yeah, I get it.

I don’t like people touching my sketchbook either.

But this is different. This isn’t normal irritation. This is something tighter. Something deeper.

He looks genuinely stressed, and for some reason that almost makes it funny.

Not because he’s upset. Just because I’ve never seen him like this.

Victor Acosta looks one wrong move away from actually panicking over a sketchbook.

So obviously I become the worst version of myself.

I pretend I’m about to open it. And he comes toward me immediately.

I climb backward onto the bed with it, quick, and the second I do, he stops.

Just stops.

Like the bed is a forbidden zone.

Like there’s some invisible line there he won’t cross.

With the look on his face, I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

But another part of me wants to push. Wants to provoke him. Wants to see what he’ll do.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is my chance to prove to myself that he’s exactly what I think he is.

That underneath all this weird carefulness, he’ll still push if he wants something badly enough.

He’ll still take. He’ll still reach.

“Silas,” he says again, calm but serious. “Just give it to me. Please.”

I spread my legs a little and lean back on my hands, bracing myself against the mattress.

Then I slide the sketchbook between my thighs.

“Come get it,” I say. “It’s right here. Between my legs.”

His eyes lift to mine.

And the way he looks at me for a second makes my brain go static.

Because he knows exactly what I’m doing.

He knows I’m baiting him. He knows I’m being a little bitch on purpose.

And for one stupid second that look almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be angry at him.

I smirk.

“Give it to me, Silas.”

“Come get it, Victor.”

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t step forward.

Doesn’t reach.

Doesn’t even look at the space between my thighs for too long, even though I know he could.

I know he wants the sketchbook. I know it would be so easy.

One step, one grab, and it’s over.

But he doesn’t do it.

So I pick it up again and run my hand over the cover like I’m petting the thing just to piss him off more.

“Nice,” I say softly. “Does it have more lies in it? Some new surprise in there for me?”

His face changes at that.

It looks tired now. Not even defensive.

“There’s something in there I don’t want you to see,” he says. “Or anyone. It’s private.”

I click my tongue and tilt my head. “Yeah? Well, you didn’t want me to see Vox either. I thought after that you’d at least try being honest with me. I thought maybe you’d stop hiding shit.”

He goes still.

Like he realized I’m right and there’s nothing he can say about it.

I think I actually hit him.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Now I’m the one who freezes.

I blink at him.

What?

That’s it??

No argument, no pushing, no snatching it out of my hands.

Nothing.

Just that soft, awful apology.

I stare at him, suddenly thrown off in a way I hate. “What, that’s it? You’re just going to let me open it because I said you shouldn’t hide things?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just stands there looking at me with that same trapped, miserable expression, like there are twelve different things happening inside his head and none of them are good.

I tighten my grip on the sketchbook. “I’ll open it if you don’t take it from me yourself. I’m serious.”

Still nothing.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

I watch him.

Watch his hands stay behind his back.

Watch the way his body is tense, like every muscle in him wants to move and he’s forcing himself not to.

So I make a show of opening the first page.

Slowly.

Still he doesn’t lunge.

Doesn’t grab. Doesn’t climb onto the bed.

Doesn’t reach between my legs for what he wants even when I practically hand him the excuse.

He just watches me… do it.

Fuck this.

I close it completely.

Hard.

Then I shove it back into the paper bag and toss it onto the chair.

Who am I kidding?

As much as he gets on my nerves, I don’t actually want to be that kind of asshole.

I know exactly what I was doing. I know it was shitty.

I was waiting for him to fail. Waiting for him to snap and take it. Waiting for him to give me something ugly so I could point at it and go, see? There. That. That’s why this was never going to work.

But he behaved. He fucking behaved.

I sit there on the bed again, annoyed for reasons I don’t even want to examine, while he slowly exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the last thirty seconds.

What the hell did they do to you in Spain, Acosta?

Because this version of you is messing with my head.

And that’s the problem.

Not that you want the damn sketchbook. Not that you’re hiding something.

The problem is that I made it easy for you.

I put it between my thighs, looked you right in the eyes, and handed you the perfect excuse to touch me.

And you still didn’t.

If you had reached for it, I would’ve had something.

Proof. Confirmation.

A reason to look at you and say there, that’s who you are.

You take.

You cross the line when you want something badly enough.

But you just stood there, like the line mattered more than whatever was in that sketchbook.

Which is deeply annoying, actually.

Victor slowly looks at the bag on the chair, then back at me, like he’s still not fully convinced I’m not going to grab it again just to be a menace.

Fair. That would be a very me thing to do.

I stay sitting on the bed, one knee bent, arms loose, trying to look unbothered.

I’m not unbothered.

He swallows once. “Thank you.”

I laugh once through my nose. “Don’t say it like I did something noble. I was being a dick.”

“You still gave it back.”

This is so fucking inconvenient.

God, I want to bite him.

Not even metaphorically. Just a quick violent little chomp out of frustration.

I push off the bed and stand up.

“Relax. If I wanted to see your secret little drawings that badly, I would’ve opened it.”

He watches me. “I know.”

Fuck this.

He makes me feel like the unhinged one.

Unbelievable.

But.

Just because he behaved once doesn’t mean he always will.

One moment doesn’t magically fix the fact that he talked to me like he was two different people.

It just makes it more confusing.

Tonight is the black party.

Which, from what I’ve seen and heard so far, is not really a classy little cruise event.

It’s more like a floating nightclub.

Dark lights. Black clothes. Loud music.

Basically hell.

Maybe I just need to watch him in the right environment.

Let’s see how careful he is when the music is loud and everyone smells like liquor and heat.

Let’s see what happens when he has every excuse in the world to slip.

Because I know I should not want him.

Not after he let me get attached to a version of him that wasn’t real.

Or maybe was real. Which makes it worse.

Because if both versions were real, then what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

Fall for both and die??

No, thanks.

So this is better. This is smarter.

I’m going to let him prove he’s wrong for me.

That’s all.

I’ll go to this party, look hot, mind my business, and give him room to show me exactly why I need to get over this.

And if he cracks, good.

If he gets weird and possessive, then perfect.

Thank you, Victor. That’s exactly the kind of reminder I need.

Because then I can finally stop with this pathetic mental back-and-forth.

So yeah, this is a test.

A trap.

And at this point I honestly don’t know if I’m setting it for him or for myself.

I just know I need to be careful, because if he looks at me like that tonight and I stand there acting offended while secretly melting into the floor, then congratulations.

I didn’t prove anything.

I just walked straight into my own stupid little setup.

---

Hey guys could you PLEASE vote😍 it motivates me to write more if i see people interact idk why…

Anyway I hope you guys won’t hate on my baby Silas for being a little bitch because that’s on purpose. He still feels betrayed 🙂 I promise I will flood you with cute and sexy scenes after a while you deserve it and honestly I do too.

anyway i think next chapter is Victor’s pov hehe. And the one after that.

45) You Hate Sharing, Don’t You?

(sorry if the obsession is too much 💔 )

Victor’s POV

I button my black shirt in the mirror facing Silas’s bed.

We have to go to the torture room tonight. The Black Party.

Even the name sounds annoying.

Silas’s head is resting against his palm. He’s staring.

“Am I missing something?” I ask.

“Dignity, maybe,” he mutters through his teeth.

I turn and look at him directly.

“What do you mean?”

He gestures at me lazily, from head to toe.

“Your outfit.”

I glance down at myself.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” he says, “if your dream is to have half the ship think you’re dying to get cornered near a railing.”

“How do I look like that?”

He shrugs like it should be obvious.

“You just look very available.”

I smile.

“Tell me how to fix it then.”

He blinks once, like he did not expect me to ask that.

“What?”

“If I look so dangerously available, help me,” I say. “What should I change?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me.

His phone vibrates.

He looks down at it, reads whatever is there, then gets to his feet like that is the end of the conversation.

Or maybe the only way he can end it without saying something worse.

“I’m going downstairs with Jett and Poppy,” he says.

Then he looks at me.

“Let me know if you decide to stay in another room tonight, Mr. Available.”

And then he leaves, without saying anything else.

Available.

I turn back to the mirror with a quiet laugh.

I know one thing I could wear proudly.

Your ownership.

I would gladly wear that.

If you are frightened by the idea that I seem available, then make me unavailable in the most obvious way you know how.

Go on. If that is what scares you.

Mark me.

Put something on me that doesn’t wash off in a day. Teeth, nails, lips, whatever you feel like using.

I don’t even need it to be pretty. I just want to look at my own body and see you on it.

You’re scared people flirt with me? That they’ll look at me and think they have a chance?

Give them a reason to back off. Turn me into a walking warning sign.

Let them look once and know immediately, never mind, someone’s already there.

Someone mean .

Own me.

Put your hand around my neck and teach me how to stand still.

Tell me where to go and I will go.

Tell me how quiet to be and I will swallow every useless word whole.

I would wear your ownership like a badge of honor. I would let the whole world know I belong to you.

If you said stay, I would stay.

If you said don’t speak unless I ask you a question, I would understand the rule before you finished saying it.

If you told me to cut my own throat just to prove how much I want you, I would pick up the knife and ask you where.

I would let you reduce me in ways I would never forgive in anybody else.

Not because I think I deserve cruelty.

Because with you, even humiliation starts dressing itself up as intimacy.

That is probably not healthy. It is such an embarrassing fantasy. So beneath the person I am supposed to be.

Too willing to collapse into something slavish just because the right mouth said the right cruel thing to me at the wrong moment.

And still, if you stood there and looked at me and said you really would, wouldn’t you?

I think I would smile. I think I would.

Because yes.

Yes, I would fall that low for you.

I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face.

I’m not taking my eyes off you tonight.

Because Adam happened.

He chose to be a monster, but carelessness gave him room.

Nobody was paying enough attention. Nobody was looking closely enough. Nobody noticed enough, cared enough, stayed near enough.

I will not make that mistake. I will watch you from a distance.

I am not going to humiliate you by trailing after you around the room like I have completely lost my mind.

I haven’t lost my mind. I am just using it.

I don’t care if it sounds strange.

Normal people failed you.

Normal people mind their business.

Normal people assume someone else is paying attention.

Normal people see a beautiful man in a crowded room and think he can handle himself, so they look away.

I have no interest in being normal about this. Not after what happened to you.

You don’t even have to know I’m doing it. I don’t need thanks or credit.

I just need to know that if something shifts the wrong way tonight, I’ll see it before it gets the chance to become anything worse.

I go down to the party alone. I do not even know where my team is.

The second I walk in, blue and red lights hit me from every direction at once, flashing, making everything look unstable.

All I see is black.

Black shirts, black dresses, black boots, black sunglasses and silver jewelry.

People are dancing, drinking, shouting over the music.

The bass is so heavy I can feel it in my ribs.

The place is lined with mirrors. Huge ones.

They wrap around the room and make the whole thing look like a bad dream.

Everybody is multiplied. Repeated.

There are too many faces, too many reflections, too many bodies moving in places they are not actually standing.

It feels like no one is really here and everyone is everywhere at the same time.

The ceiling is covered in disco balls, dozens of them, reflecting the lights until the whole place looks wet with color.

I immediately start scanning the room.

My hand goes to my shirt while I walk, undoing a couple more buttons because the air in here feels like somebody bottled hell and turned it into an event.

The mirrors do not help.

They keep catching movement at the edge of my vision and throwing it back at me wrong.

Every time I think I have found an empty path, it is another reflection.

I do not like any of this. I endure it because Silas is in it.

If he was not here, I would have left already.

I would have found some quieter corner of the ship and stayed there until the walls stopped vibrating.

This is like punishment for my brain.

The lights keep changing color before my eyes finish adjusting to the last one.

The mirrors keep giving me movement where there is none.

All of it is irritating. All of it is too much.

Then I see Silas.

He is in a corner with Jett and a few others.

Jett has one arm slung around Silas’s neck, casual as anything.

My jaw tightens hard.

I take a few slow steps backward without taking my eyes off Silas, then turn just enough to sit down at the bar.

I do it calmly.

I sit like I came here intending to do exactly this.

“Ay, finally, dude,” Thiago says from behind the bar. “I thought you weren’t coming. I was starting to get bored. If you were late because you were getting ready, then fair enough. You look hot as fuck.”

I turn and look at him while he makes drinks for a group of girls leaning all over the bar.

I look at them too.

Yes.

They are absolutely ordering drinks just so they have an excuse to stare at him longer.

They are watching his hands like they want to see them doing anything except making cocktails.

He glances at me. “I’ll make your usual in a minute.”

“I’m having a soda,” I shout back over the music.

He turns fully then, offended.

“A soda?!” He laughs. “Come on, man. What are you, pregnant? Want me to put a little umbrella in it too?”

“I take sertraline.”

“Oh.”

He freezes for a second, the joke dying on impact.

Now it’s awkward.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you stopped taking it.”

“It’s okay.”

And it is. Mostly. He didn’t mean anything by it.

Thiago rarely means harm. He just opens his mouth and lets chaos happen, which is not the same thing.

Still, I can see it on his face now.

That tiny wave of pity trying to form.

I hate that. I hate when people go soft on me too fast.

I hate the look. The one that turns me into something fragile in their head for five embarrassing seconds.

So before he can sit in the pity too long, I jerk my chin toward the bottles.

“Put the umbrella in, please,” I tell him. “I want people to think I’m cool.”

That gets him laughing again, thank God.

“Done,” he says. “One tragic little glamour drink coming up.”

I lean against the bar and watch him work.

“Make it convincing,” I say.

“Oh, I’m giving it bubbles too,” he says. “Full diva treatment.”

“Perfect.”

He points at me. “Hey. You joke, but I’m making this shit beautiful.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

He grins and turns away to make it.

He finds a ridiculous little umbrella from somewhere behind the bar and sticks it in with a flourish.

“There,” he says, sliding the glass toward me. “Your bubbles.”

I take it and look at the umbrella.

It is humiliating.

“Beautiful,” I say.

“I know.”

I take a sip and look back at Silas. He is still in the corner, talking.

There’s blue across his face. Red on his throat.

The mirrors catch him, and it’s confusing.

There is the real Silas and then three more versions of him scattered around the room in broken pieces.

It makes him harder to track. It also makes it impossible not to.

He turns away. His back is half to me.

Then his eyes lift to the mirror in front of him.

And there I am again.

The reflection of me looks like Vox.

Real enough to see, just not real enough to touch.

Because that is what a reflection is, isn’t it?

A person behind glass. Behind distance.

I hold his gaze through the reflection and do not move. I let him have the full experience of it.

Let him feel what it is like to look away from me and still find me there.

Let him understand, even just for a second, that turning his back does nothing.

Not here, at least.

Wherever you look, I am around you.

To the left.

To the right.

Above you.

Below you.

You do not have to face me directly for me to be there.

You can face the other direction. I will still be there.

Suddenly he turns the right way and looks at me.

Me.

Actually me. Not the mirror.

It hits different immediately. There is no distance to hide inside now.

His eyes land on mine and stay there.

He sets his drink down, says something to Jett, then grabs him by the hand.

I frown before I even fully understand why.

And then Jett does the absolute last thing I expect.

He fixes the black bandana in his hair with one hand like he is getting ready for a performance, then starts dancing with Silas.

Not just dancing.

No.

That would be too easy.

The asshole is basically hitting on him in front of me.

The mirrors catch the movement and throw it everywhere at once, so suddenly there is Jett touching him in one corner, and another version of it in the glass behind him, and another in the mirror near the bar.

It is like the room saw what would ruin me fastest and decided to multiply it for visual effect.

His hands are on Silas’s waist first.

Ringed fingers spread over the black of his shirt.

Then they start sliding higher.

Slowly.

Up his back.

And Silas keeps his eyes on me the whole time.

His face is sneaky.

Filthy with intention.

Not smiling exactly, but close enough to make it worse.

He looks like he is saying, you see this? You see how easy this is? You see what safe looks like? This is what it looks like when somebody gets to have access to me and I do not flinch.

I hate it instantly.

My jaw locks.

Jett keeps his hands on him like he is something he gets to test out in a store.

Like Silas is a product and he is checking the quality over and over, with both hands.

He touches his waist, his neck, his hands, and Silas just lets him, while looking right at me.

Of course this is a message.

Suddenly, Kaiser walks up beside Silas.

He slips right into the chaos.

Lifts his sunglasses off his eyes and pushes them up into his hair.

Says something to Jett that I cannot hear over the music.

Then Jett grabs him by the neck, and they start making out aggressively.

They are fucking devouring each other.

Eating each other alive right there in the middle of all that black light and mirror glass and screaming bass.

Jett has his hands on Kaiser’s neck, dragging him closer, and Kaiser is already fully in it, grabbing back like he was just waiting for the excuse.

People around them lose their minds instantly.

Phones come out.

Everybody starts hyping them up like it is the greatest thing they have ever seen.

It’s that hungry energy people get when something messy and hot happens in public.

I realize suddenly that both me and Thiago have gone completely still beside the bar.

I turn my head just enough to look at him and he is staring too, mouth open, eyebrows slightly up, drink half-made in his hand like his brain short-circuited halfway through the process.

We both look stunned.

Because it happened so fast. Because the whole thing turned into a public scene in under five seconds.

One second I am watching Jett put his hands all over Silas while staring into my soul, and the next second he is swallowing Kaiser alive while the room applauds.

It is absurd.

And you, Silas, are still there, watching me.

You are waiting to see what I will do with all this.

You are asking without asking.

Are you jealous?

Are you angry?

Are you going to ruin this?

You did this on purpose.

Maybe not the Kaiser part. Christ, I hope not, because that would be a level of orchestration I am not ready to deal with tonight.

But the rest of it, yeah.

You are doing this to me on purpose. And I am letting you.

I lift my glass and take another sip even though I barely taste it.

“What’s it like kissing a man?” Thiago asks. “Different? Better? Worse?”

I keep looking at him for a second.

“Are you curious?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says with a quiet exhale. “Fuck. Maybe I’m just drunk. I need to stop tasting every cocktail I make.”

Then he walks off to make another drink.

I rub a hand down my face.

I need a cigarette. And air before I actually suffocate in this place.

I push away from the bar and head outside to the smoking area.

The second the door shuts behind me and I take my first drag, I feel some of the pressure leave my chest.

I brace one hand on the railing and blow the smoke out over the sea.

“Boo.”

I turn my head and find Silas dropping into the seat beside me.

“Boo?” I say.

“Got a lighter?”

His eyes are locked on mine.

I put my cigarette between my lips and slip a hand into my pocket.

I hand him the lighter instead of lighting the cigarette for him myself like I usually do.

He notices.

He cups a hand around the flame, lights up, and takes a long drag while looking out ahead.

He does not seem drunk exactly. Not really sober either. Somewhere in the middle.

Loose enough to be bolder than usual, clear enough to know what he is doing with it.

He gets up, takes the cigarette from his mouth and leans a little closer, tilting his head.

“You hate sharing, don’t you?”

“Stop doing that, Silas,” I say, still looking ahead.

He glances around to see if anybody is watching us.

Then he moves even closer.

“No,” he murmurs near my neck. “If it bothers you that much, say the word.”

My grip tightens a little around the railing.

“Say Jett bothers you.”

I look away.

“Come on. Say you don’t want anybody else touching me,” he says, quieter now. “Not even as a joke.”

“I don’t care who touches you,” I say immediately.

He laughs.

Sneaky little bastard.

He looks past me then, toward the loungers farther down. “That guy over there likes me.”

I look before I can stop myself.

Silas’s eyes find mine again.

“Should I… go for it?”

I shrug.

“He’s kinda hot,” he says, crushing the cigarette between his fingers and the ashtray.

My jaw tightens, but I do not say anything.

I am not doing that. I am not steering his choices.

I am not becoming the reason he does or does not go near somebody.

He turns back to me and, without asking, takes my cigarette gently from my hand.

“You know what I think, Victor?”

I turn properly then, face to face with him.

He takes a drag from my cigarette and blows the smoke right at me.

“I think Vox had more balls.”

He smiles after he says it.

That sly, wicked smile that always makes him look like he knows exactly where the knife is and exactly how deep he wants to push it.

“He would’ve kissed me already,” he says, “just to shut me up.”

He is so close when he says it that for one ugly second I can actually see it.

Not imagine it vaguely.

See it.

My hand on the side of his neck. My mouth on his. His back against the railing.

Every loud, reckless part of me finally getting what it has wanted for too long.

“True,” I say.

His brows lift slightly, maybe because he was not expecting me to agree.

“And then you would’ve used it against him the next morning.”

That shuts him up immediately. Because he knows I am right. And that is the whole fucking problem.

I know him well enough to know exactly how he would weaponize it when daylight came back.

He would turn it into proof. Into ammo.

Into another reason to punish both of us.

Because he is scared and angry and not ready and he still does not know the full truth.

Kissing him right now would be selfish.

He gives a small nod.

“Okay,” he says. “So you’re choosing restraint over me.”

“I’m choosing restraint because of you.”

His mouth opens a little. Then closes.

He has nothing immediate to throw back at me.

Good.

Because I am hanging on by threads here, and if he says one more reckless thing with that fucking expression on his face, I am going to run out of adult decisions very quickly.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to listen to me,” I say, keeping my tone even. “And to hear the whole truth about Vox.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“Until then,” I say, “I’d suggest you stop flirting with me. It’s unhealthy for both of us.”

He lets out a small, pissed-off breath through his nose and looks at me like I have just insulted him by saying something he already knows.

“You seriously think I don’t know that?” he asks.

“I know you know,” I say quietly.

He does not answer. He just looks at me.

And there it is again, that unbearable space between us that is always worse when we are this close.

Because the problem has never been want. That part is obvious.

The problem is everything around it. Everything under it.

All the shit packed into one almost between us.

Vox. Leo. Lies. Anger. Adam. Timing. Fear.

He looks down at my cigarette in his hand. He brings it to his mouth again, takes one last drag, and passes it back to me.

“What a beautiful way to ruin the mood,” he says.

---

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH I CANT WAIT TO POST THE NEXT CHAPTER. ITS SO SOS SOSOSOSOOS GOOD. you will love it i promise i promise i promise

anyway for those who don’t have instagram, i made a drawing of how i see Victor, here it is :)

(photo spam)

(my instagram is @ dirtydiscospam i have more stuff there)

I love how we all went like, “bring Silas. I can fight.”

Silas better not fumble because there’s a whole line behind him😭

46) Goth Goat

Victor’s POV

We are still outside, smoking and staring at the black sea.

He makes a move to sit back on the ledge, then thinks better of it when he notices the puddles.

I take my jacket off immediately and hand it to him.

“Sit on this,” I tell him.

He looks at me like I just said something insane.

Then he laughs.

“No?”

I frown at him. “Put it down so you don’t sit in the water.”

He grins. “You’re both so polite.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Vox is going to haunt me forever.

“We are, yeah. Now take our jacket.”

He looks down at the floor, angry. Then he rubs at his eyes hard, like he’s irritated with them too.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and the words come out rough. “That was—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated shake of his head. “It was bitchy. I don’t even know why I said it.”

I do.

So I can’t stand here and agree with him like I don’t.

I know exactly why he said it. I know why he keeps reaching for the blade every time things between us start feeling too real.

I know Silas. I know how fast his defenses go up around me and how much sense that makes.

That doesn’t stop it from hurting.

If anything, seeing that he knows he’s doing it hurts worse.

He covers his mouth with his hand and stares straight ahead, looking suddenly stranded inside himself.

“I swear I don’t enjoy this shit. Pushing you. All of it.” He swallows hard. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. The fact that I’ve known you for three years when I thought I’d known you for three months.”

Three years.

Hearing him say it out loud hits different.

I nod once and reach for the cigarettes before I say something reckless.

The lighter clicks. The first drag burns beautifully.

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say, blowing out the smoke. “Take the jacket.”

“I’m only taking it because I hate touching wet shit when I didn’t see where it came from.”

I nod, smiling around the cigarette. “Okay.”

He puts it down and sits on the edge of it, then looks up at me.

“You can sit too. It’s yours.”

“I’m fine here.”

“I said sit.”

I go and sit next to him.

Awkwardly.

Not too close, because I am not trying to make this weird. But close enough that my heart starts beating like a complete idiot anyway.

I can smell his cologne again.

For a while, we just smoke without saying anything.

It feels strange.

Not bad. Just strange.

Like for one minute we have pressed pause on all the personal disaster between us and we are simply two tattoo artists outside on a ship having a cigarette together.

No Vox. No lies. No almosts.

Just this.

“By the way,” he says eventually, “your accent is starting to disappear.”

He blows smoke out into the air.

“I don’t like it.”

I laugh a little. “What do you mean you don’t like it? Weren’t you the one telling me my accent was terrible?”

He looks at me.

“People lie.”

Then he looks ahead again.

He starts digging through the pocket of my jacket.

I laugh softly at the sheer rudeness of it.

A second later he pulls out a piece of paper I had in there and holds it up.

“Why do you keep blank paper in your pocket?”

I shrug. “In case I feel like drawing.”

He looks at it for a second, then starts folding it into something.

I wait a little, hoping I will figure out what he is doing on my own.

I do not.

“What are you making?”

“Don’t talk to me,” he says.

Something in my stomach does this stupid little flip.

It tickles.

The wind blows his hair into his face and he mutters a curse under his breath because he cannot see properly through it.

I do not dare reach over and push it back for him. I leave him alone. I let him keep control of his own body.

“Is that… a boat?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m trying to find a way to escape this ship, so I’m making a new one.”

I look down at it.

“These dimensions are not going to help you. I’m sorry.”

He turns and looks at me.

“Oh no. Really?” he says.

I nod. “Plus, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Fuck you, Victor.”

“Can I fix it?” I ask.

He hands it to me.

I crease it properly and unfold the parts he ruined.

His hands can do miracles on skin and somehow cannot manage one simple paper boat.

He folded it at the most random possible points.

I undo the whole thing to start from the beginning, and then I feel his head on my shoulder.

I stop moving completely.

I look to my left without actually turning my head.

He has gone soft and heavy.

On me.

Either he still feels safe enough around me to fall asleep like this, or he is drunker than I thought.

Or maybe he thinks I’m boring.

My whole body goes painfully still around the weight of him. I can feel his hair against my neck.

The simple, devastating fact that he let himself lean on me without thinking too hard about it.

I barely move my shoulder and he jerks back up immediately.

He rubs at his eyes, blinking hard like he is annoyed he almost drifted off, then takes the paper boat from my hand.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to the room now. Do you want me to take you?” I ask.

“Yeah, fuck it,” he says.

Then he looks at me properly.

“Let’s go.”

He steadies himself on my shoulder and gets up on his own.

I let my hand hover near him for half a second anyway, just in case.

I like being useful.

“Let me tell the others first,” he says.

I nod.

…

We step into the heat and noise again.

Silas turns to me once we reach the hallway near the bathrooms.

“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be back.”

I nod and lean against the wall outside the restrooms with my arms crossed.

A minute later, Kaiser walks out of one of the bathrooms.

He spots me, gives me a quick two-finger see you around gesture, and keeps going.

Jett comes out of the same bathroom Kaiser just walked out of.

I raise my eyebrows.

He sees me, ignores me completely, and goes straight to the mirror to fix his clothes and hair.

He wipes at his mouth while fully aware I am watching him.

Then he looks at me through the mirror and exhales.

“Fuck it.”

He turns and starts toward me, reaching out like he is about to touch my arm, and I immediately step to the side.

“Wash your hands first,” I say. “I know what you were doing.”

He freezes.

Then nods quickly, several times.

“Right. Right.”

He turns back and starts washing his hands fast, glancing at me awkwardly while he does it.

“What?” I ask.

He dries them off, then takes a breath. “Okay, I’m gonna say this fast because they’re waiting for me. It’s about Silas.”

I adjust against the wall and cross my arms.

“I’m listening.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Dude, I did not expect to ever say this to you, but please, please find a way to fix whatever the hell this is.” He points vaguely between the two of us. “I’m serious.”

I say nothing.

He looks annoyed at himself for even continuing, but does anyway.

“I know I’ve been a dick to you. I know I act like I want to bite your head off every time I see you, but fuck this, man.” He shakes his head. “Silas actually liked you, and it’s terrifying.”

“Liked?” I ask, and swallow.

His face changes immediately.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, no. Still. Fuck.”

He drags both hands down his face. “I don’t even know if I should be telling you this. If he finds out I said any of it, he’ll probably dunk my head in bleach the next time he helps me with my hair.”

That gets the tiniest pull at my mouth.

He points at me.

“But I’m telling you anyway because I’m tired, bro. He’s hurting. You’re obviously hurting too. The whole thing is getting painful to watch.”

I look down and nod once.

“I know. But I fucked up.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “You did. But you’re also the only one who can fix whatever this is.”

That makes me look up at him.

He leans back against the sink, arms hanging at his sides now, less defensive than usual.

“I’ve known Silas for years,” he says. “He’s always bitchy. Sour with everyone. Flirts for the content. Says outrageous shit because it’s funny. But actually wanting someone??”

He shakes his head. “That’s never really been him. Especially after… you know. Adam.”

My throat tightens.

“I really thought my best friend was just done after that. Like that part of him got wrecked for good.”

I turn my face away because I suddenly do not trust it.

“I’m not exaggerating,” he says. “There were times we’d be talking and he’d just zone out for a second, and I’d know immediately it was you. Or he’d laugh at his phone out of nowhere like an idiot. Or he’d get all weirdly protective over stuff that obviously had something to do with you.”

I smile a little.

I can picture him doing every single one.

Jett catches the smile and points at me like yes, exactly.

“See? That. That’s what I’m talking about.”

He steps closer.

“So please do something. Fall to your knees. Cry. Scream. Do your weird intense shit, I don’t know.” He throws a hand up. “He likes it. Just please. I want my in-love Silas back.”

“I want Silas back too,” I tell him.

“I will talk to him too,” he says. “I don’t know why all this came out of me just now. I only thought about it now.”

I tilt my head at him.

“Maybe the head unlocked something in you…”

He looks at me, horrified.

I look back at him blankly. “What?”

He just stares. Then points at me.

“That was actually funny.” He squints. “Can I hug you? I’m gonna hug you.”

And before I can answer, he throws himself at me.

I go rigid immediately, caught off guard by how sudden it is, by the fact that Jett of all people is hugging me.

Then, awkwardly, a little terrified, I hug him back.

He squeezes hard. I smile a little, relieved.

“And remember,” he says, still crushing me, “I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I didn’t see that he wants it too.”

I nod against his shoulder.

“You two just need to finally talk like actual human beings.”

He pulls back enough to look me in the face.

“Okay?”

I nod again.

“Okay.”

He studies me for one second, like he is checking whether I really mean it.

Then he lets go, smooths his shirt down like none of that just happened, and points at me one last time.

“Don’t make me regret talking to you, dude.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You better. We need our dartist back.”

Silas finally shows up.

Jett hugs him, tells him goodnight, and then disappears back into the chaos.

—

We both took a shower, and now we are brushing our teeth.

I stay exactly behind him, but not too close. Far enough that he does not feel weird.

Then he bends over the sink to spit out the toothpaste and his ass brushes right over my dick.

I widen my eyes immediately and move to the left as fast as I can.

Every part of me starts burning.

Every single part.

I close my eyes for one second, trying to remove the image from my brain.

I can’t.

I just made it worse. Now I have the feeling and the replay.

He straightens up like absolutely nothing happened, wipes his face with the towel, and walks out of the bathroom.

I just stand there staring at the doorway.

Then I snap out of it, rinse my mouth way too fast, and walk back out.

He is already on the bed, flat on his back, spread out like a starfish.

I go sit on the couch.

“Forget it,” he says.

I freeze. “What?”

He sits up.

“We have the contest tomorrow,” he says. “Which means we’ll be bent over for hours.”

He braces himself back on his hands and tilts his head at me. “I want a fair competition. I don’t want you losing because you slept badly and your back hurts. I want you rested.”

I just stare at him.

Because that is not what I expected him to say.

He pats the right side of the bed.

“There. You have your side. I have mine. Come on.”

“Are you… sure?” I ask.

He nods.

“Use your words.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Victor, I’m sure. Hurry up. I’m sleepy.”

I walk toward the bed slowly.

Very slowly.

Then I sit on it even slower.

Silas climbs under the blanket aggressively, turns away from me, and now all I can see is his back.

“Goodnight,” he says. “If you touch me, I’ll cut your hand off.”

A small smile pulls at my mouth.

“Goodnight.”

2 AM

He is on top of me.

Literally on top of me.

He gave me a whole speech about not touching him, threatened me, and now at some point in his sleep he has turned over and collapsed onto me.

One of his arms is over my stomach.

His leg is resting between my legs.

His face is near my shoulder.

I can feel his breath through my shirt.

My heart is beating harder than it did the night we kissed.

I just lie there flat on my back, not moving, not breathing properly, not doing a single thing except trying not to lose my mind.

I thought I would be the problem.

I thought I would be the one struggling not to do something stupid.

Thought I would be the one unable to control myself.

So far, he is the one torturing me.

I stare up at the ceiling in the dark and try to think about literally anything else.

The competition tomorrow.

Spinal posture.

War.

The economy.

My own funeral.

Nothing works.

Because Silas shifts slightly in his sleep and his hand slides a little on my stomach and now I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound like a complete fucking loser.

I stay still. Very still.

If I move, I risk waking him up.

If I wake him up, he will realize he is draped over me.

If he realizes that, one of two things will happen.

Best case, he gets embarrassed and moves away.

Worst case, he gets embarrassed and starts yelling.

Neither option appeals to me.

So I keep lying there like a corpse someone placed under a very attractive blanket.

His knee presses lightly against my thigh.

Fantastic.

I close my eyes.

I open them again and stare into the dark.

My brain starts helpfully offering thoughts I absolutely do not need.

He feels safe enough to sleep like this.

He turned toward you.

He came to you in his sleep .

He is here.

He is here.

He is here.

I swallow carefully.

He makes a tiny sound in his sleep. Barely anything.

Just some sleepy, irritated little exhale into my shoulder like I am not arranged correctly enough for his liking.

That almost kills me on the spot. Because it is so casual. So unfairly soft.

He is not doing this to flirt.

He is not awake enough to tease me.

He is not performing.

There is no sarcastic remark waiting around the corner.

It is just his sleeping body choosing mine.

And that is more intimate than anything else.

I let my head sink deeper into the pillow and force every muscle to stay loose.

Do not touch him. Do not adjust him. Do not do anything.

He trusts me like this.

Even after all the reasons he should probably stay on the opposite side of the mattress forever.

I laugh once under my breath.

Of course this is how it would go.

He has not stopped spinning, I swear to God.

He gave me a whole speech about sides and boundaries and space, and in the last hour alone he has changed position enough times to nearly kick me off the bed at least six times.

I am not even going to start on the blanket situation.

A few minutes ago he was borderline fighting it in his sleep.

I think he was actually cursing at it.

Now he is wrapped in almost all of it while I just exist next to him with whatever little corner he left behind.

And somehow I am still overheating. Because his hand is still on my stomach. Because his face is still tucked into my neck.

I can still smell the soap in his hair.

It is ridiculous.

I am half hanging off the mattress, I have barely any blanket, one of my legs is probably in another time zone at this point, and still none of that matters as much as the fact that he is breathing against me.

Suddenly I hear this low, grumpy mumbling near my neck.

I look down at him.

“What?” I whisper.

Silas makes an annoyed sound without lifting his face from my shoulder.

“Not the expensive one.”

I stare at the ceiling.

Fuck.

As Vox, he told me more than once that he talks in his sleep, but I never actually expected to experience it up close like this.

Not like this.

I lift my eyebrows at the ceiling. “What was that?” I ask calmly.

“The goth goat.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I do not laugh.

“The goth goat,” I say, nodding.

“Can’t be trusted…” he mutters.

“With… what?”

“Chicken soup.”

I turn my head away for a second.

Then back to him. His eyes are still closed.

His whole face is soft with sleep, completely serious.

“Silas,” I whisper, “you’re not making sense.”

He makes this angry little sound in the back of his throat.

“Just leave it,” he mutters, genuinely offended. “You don’t get it.”

That catches me so off guard I almost laugh right into his hair.

Because he says it like I am the problem here.

Like I am the one failing a very obvious conversation about a suspicious goth goat who can’t be trusted with chicken soup.

Then suddenly he turns forward and sits up.

I go completely still.

He just sits there. Motionless.

Half awake. Maybe less.

Then he turns his head slightly in my direction without actually looking at me.

“I’m thirsty.”

I glance around the room like maybe he is talking to a ghost.

Then I realize no, he is probably talking to me.

He does not seem remotely interested in getting up himself.

So I reach for the unopened water bottle beside me and hand it to him.

“Open it,” he says.

Right.

I twist the cap off and give it back. He drinks the whole thing in seconds.

He just decided that his hydration is now someone else’s responsibility.

Then, without saying anything else, he drops back onto the bed flat on his back.

Silence.

A beat later, in the smallest, sleepiest voice imaginable, he goes: “Night.”

That pulls a smile out of me before I can stop it.

“Goodnight.”

He does not answer. He is already gone again. Just fully back under.

I lie there in the dark for a second, looking at the ceiling.

I put the empty bottle on the nightstand, and settle back down beside him.

Five seconds later, he rolls right back into me like none of that ever happened.

I could say something.

I could put my hand on his back and let myself pretend for one stupid second that this means more than sleep.

I do none of it.

Because some things are only beautiful because no one touches them too hard.

So I lie there and let the silence do what words would ruin.

All I ever wanted is in my arms.

And still not mine.

---

I loved this chapter can i get a star please :)

Also guys… I don’t know if this is a me problem or if I just built them this way, but I enjoy writing their intimate moments SO much more than the sexy ones.

And I’m not saying there won’t be sexy scenes, because there WILL be, calm down. I just feel so differently when I write intimate scenes for them compared to straight up hot scenes.

With Ride or Die, I had zero problem writing both, so I don’t know why with these two I feel like this softer, more intimate style fits them more right now.

I just started writing a hot scene and I FELT WEIRD. Like genuinely, I sat there like… why do I feel like I’m sexualizing them??? HELP???

It’ll probably pass. Maybe I just need to write one properly hot scene to get back into the mood because, genuinely, it’s been ages since I wrote smut. I need to defrost. I’m rusty. Someone put me in rice.

don’t drag me if the first one isn’t the hottest thing ever. Let me remind you that in Ride or Die, the best smut scenes were the later ones:) I had warmed up by then. Fully activated.

47) You’re So Obsessed With Me

Silas’s POV

What the hell is happening.

I can feel that I’ve been asleep for a suspiciously long time. Like, dangerously long.

I feel rested, and that alone is enough to make me concerned, because I, Silas Blackwood, have not felt properly rested since my mother used to put me in that amazing baby swing I had when I was an infant.

That’s how serious this is.

I rub my eyes and stare up at the ceiling for a second, still half dead.

Then I lift my head a little.

Victor is sitting across from me on the couch, fully dressed and ready, looking disgustingly awake.

And directly in my line of sight…

My extremely visible morning wood.

I immediately yank the blanket over my boxers.

His eyes lift to my face.

Fuck me.

No, actually, don’t.

That is very obviously the whole fucking problem here.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Victor was sitting right there in front of the bed, and I was asleep with my dick apparently deciding to rise and fucking shine before the rest of me.

Awesome.

Exactly the kind of shit I want happening in front of my rival.

He saw it. He definitely fucking saw it. There is no world where he didn’t.

The couch was facing the bed. The bed was facing him.

My dick was probably trying to shake his hand and introduce itself.

Hi, yes, good morning, I’m Silas’s humiliating lack of self-control. Nice to meet you.

Humiliating. Need to be put down immediately.

For one second I think about yanking the blanket higher and pretending I’m still asleep.

Maybe forever. Maybe I just stay here until I rot. Maybe they peel me off this mattress in six days.

I swallow and keep staring at the ceiling.

Okay. Fine. Whatever.

He’s a man too.

A man with a dick, which means he gets morning wood too. There is no way I’m the only poor bastard in this room waking up half hard because biology is a perverted little freak.

So yeah okay, maybe he saw mine.

Big fucking deal.

He definitely wakes up like that too.

Probably worse. Actually, definitely worse.

No way a man built like that is modest anywhere. I refuse to believe it.

So it’s fine.

Maybe one day I’ll wake up earlier.

Just once.

Just enough to catch his ass in the same situation so we can be even, because no, fuck that, I am not suffering this level of psychic damage alone while he gets to sit there all mysterious and unaffected.

If he saw me waking up hard, then I deserve to see him hard too.

Fair is fair.

Eye for an eye. Wood for wood.

Then we’re even. Then the universe is balanced. Then I can maybe know peace.

I drag a hand down my face and exhale through my nose.

I swallow.

“Morning,” I say, and my voice sounds five times worse than usual.

Rough and dead.

“Morning. You should’ve been up forty minutes ago.”

I stare at him.

Then I grab my phone.

And immediately launch upright.

Shit.

“What the fuck, Victor??” I snap, already reaching for clothes in my suitcase. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up, dude? What about the contest?”

I’m digging through my bag at full speed, and he just sits there watching me.

“I wanted you angry,” he says.

I freeze for half a second and look at him.

“What?!”

“You do better when you’re mad.”

I narrow my eyes.

This bitch.

This absolute bitch is using Vox knowledge on me.

And the worst part is he’s right.

He’s completely right.

I already work like a dog on a normal day because my ego physically cannot tolerate mediocrity.

But when competition gets involved, when there’s someone to beat, that’s it.

I become unbearable.

I don’t even recognize myself when I’m competitive.

Something snaps inside me and suddenly I’m operating on pride and pure psychological violence.

I glare at him. “You are so fucking irritating.”

His expression barely changes. “You’re awake now.”

“Yeah, no thanks to your weird little mind games.”

“They worked.”

I hate that my silence is basically an admission.

He stands up from the couch. I stop moving for a second.

Oh my God.

I look at him suspiciously. “How long have you been sitting there, by the way?”

“A while.”

“A while,” I repeat.

He says nothing. I stare at him.

“You are never going to speak of what you saw.”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

I go into the bathroom and start brushing my teeth, annoyed.

I’m annoyed because he was right about the competition thing and he knew it.

He figured me out.

He figured out that pressure makes me better at what I do.

That if you want the most unbearable, most locked-in version of me, all you have to do is put me in front of something I can lose.

It pisses me off.

Because competition is probably exactly what got me here.

Ego too. Pressure too. Being a little insane. Being unable to relax.

The part of me that would rather choke than be average.

That’s what built this. Not just talent.

I don’t even think talent is my biggest strength.

My biggest strength is that I don’t let myself breathe.

That’s it.

I don’t get one little win and start acting like I’ve made it.

I stay on my own ass constantly. I keep getting pissed off. I keep wanting more.

Better work, bigger pieces, stronger reputation, higher standards.

I don’t even know how to sit still and be pleased with myself for more than twelve seconds.

Which is exhausting.

And also probably why LINEA INK got this successful.

Because of my refusal to be forgettable.

People love talking about passion like that’s enough.

Passion my ass.

Passion just gets you started. Competition is what keeps your foot on someone’s neck.

At least that’s how I see it.

You put someone better than me in front of me and suddenly I’m alive.

Suddenly I’m having ideas at three in the morning, I’m reworking designs I already liked, I’m staring at my own work and I’m thinking, no.

Do it again. Better.

Again. Better.

It makes me mean. Not to other people.

Mean to myself.

I reach a goal and immediately feel embarrassed that it took me that long.

Then I need a harder one. More impossible one.

And I love it.

I hate it too, obviously, because it makes me insane, but I love it.

Maybe that means I’ll stay dissatisfied with myself forever.

Maybe I’ll stay one of those deeply irritating people who achieves something great and then immediately ruins the moment by wanting more.

But I also think that’s why I am who I am.

That’s why I don’t settle.

That’s why I keep pushing even when I should probably sit down, drink water, and shut the fuck up for once.

I can’t. Unfortunately.

I’m built wrong.

The pressure hits and I light up.

And even with Victor.

God. Especially with Victor.

You son of a bitch.

You’re one of those deeply irritating freaks who make impossible shit look casual.

You do things that should take visible effort and somehow make them look easy.

It’s like your hand doesn’t even struggle.

The pencil just obeys you out of fear. The ink wants to sit right for you.

Disgusting. Offensive.

God knows how badly I want to beat you.

Especially after what you did to me in October.

That one fucking point.

I still think about it at random times.

I could be washing dishes, minding my business, living my life, and suddenly my brain goes, remember that one point???

And my whole mood is ruined again.

Because one point means close. One point means almost.

One point means I was right there, close enough to taste it, close enough to touch it, and you still walked away with it.

That haunts me.

And I can’t even cheapen it in my head to make myself feel better, because you deserved the win.

I hate that I can’t sit here and call you overrated.

I can’t just call you lucky.

I can’t even call you sloppy on your off days, because even your off days look better than some people’s best work.

You have that thing. That disgusting thing.

That thing where talent and instinct and discipline all got drunk together and made a problem for the rest of us.

With some people, I can roll my eyes and go yeah, okay, they’re good, whatever.

With you, I have to look straight at the work and go, fuck. That’s excellent.

Beating somebody decent is nice.

But beating somebody like you means something.

It means I dragged myself above a standard that actually matters.

I won against a person worth winning against.

The more impressive you are, the more I want to outdo you.

I want to win.

I want to do work so undeniable that even you have to look at it and go, yeah. Fine. This time he got me.

That’s exactly why I’m going to try extra hard to beat you today.

I step out of the bathroom still toweling my hands dry and look at him.

He’s exactly where I left him.

I crouch by my suitcase and grab my shirt slowly on purpose.

Then I glance up at him.

“Turn around.”

He swallows. “What?”

“Turn around,” I repeat, holding the shirt in one hand. “I want to change.”

He looks thrown off for half a second, then gestures vaguely toward the bathroom behind me. “You can change in there.”

“I want to change here,” I say. “Turn around.”

There’s a tiny pause. Then he actually does it.

And yeah, I did that shit on purpose.

Petty?

Absolutely.

Deserved?

Maybe.

I pull my shirt off fast, not giving myself enough time to think about the fact that my skin is bare and he’s right there with his back turned and his stupid broad shoulders taking up half the room.

My heart gives one ugly thump against my ribs, but I ignore it and yank the clean shirt over my head.

“Done,” I say.

I drop onto the edge of the bed and start shoving my feet into my shoes.

He turns back around and looks at me while I tie them.

“Okay,” I mutter without looking up. “Are you happy now that I’m pissed off before we’ve even left the room?”

“Yes.”

I look up at him.

“Yes?” I repeat.

He gives one small shrug. “I like beating angry artists.”

I go still.

Then I slowly lift my head the rest of the way and stare at him.

“What?”

Another shrug. Smaller this time. More irritating.

“What,” he repeats.

I let out a sharp laugh through my nose. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“No,” he says. “I’m honest.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I didn’t feel bad for you the first day,” he says. “I’m not going to start now.”

I tie my second shoe tighter than necessary. “Damn, Victor. You really know how to make yourself lovable.”

“I know what works on you.”

That makes me glance up again.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “And what exactly works on me?”

“You like being challenged. So I challenge you.”

I let out a quiet scoff and push to my feet.

“You’re so fucking obsessed with me.”

That finally gets something out of him.

Not a full smile. Victor doesn’t give those away easily.

Just the corner of his mouth lifting a little.

And for some sick reason, that annoys me even more than if he’d laughed in my face.

“Sure,” he says.

“What? You think you’re not?” I step closer without meaning to, then stay there because backing up would feel like losing. “You spend half your time poking at me.”

His eyes drop for one second.

To my mouth. To my throat. I don’t even know where exactly.

Then they come back up.

“I hope you lose,” he says, smiling.

Fucking psycho.

I grab my jacket off the chair and brush past him, shoulder hitting his on purpose.

“Keep smiling,” I mutter. “It’ll look even uglier when I beat you.”

Behind me, I hear him move.

“I’d love to see you try.”

We walk out of the room together and head for the elevator.

I press the elevator button.

Victor says nothing. But I can feel him staring at me. I turn my head and catch him doing it.

I smile.

“You just like me so much, don’t you?”

His face barely changes.

“I’m just thinking about the goth goat.”

My smile drops instantly. I stare at him.

“What?”

His mouth twitches.

“Yeah. Someone told me it couldn’t be trusted with… soup? Yeah, chicken soup.”

My eyes go wide.

Oh my fucking God.

No. No no no.

Not again.

I did not. I did not do that shit again.

That’s it. That’s the final blow.

Kill me with a rock.

I look away.

I am so tired of humiliating myself in front of this man.

So unbelievably tired.

Every time I start to recover a tiny bit of dignity, my own body crawls out from under me with a knife and stabs it to death.

Sleep talking. Morning wood. What next? Do I start purring in my fucking sleep too??

I stare at the elevator doors.

Okay. It’s fine. I can recover this. I just need to act normal.

I glance at him.

“You talk in your sleep too, you know.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly.

“Do I?”

I nod.

“Yeah.”

He watches me for a second.

Suspicious. Annoyingly unreadable.

And no, he doesn’t. Not that I know of, anyway.

But who exactly is going to expose me here? Him??

He doesn’t know shit. This is my moment now.

If I’m going down, I’m dragging him into the dirt with me.

He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, looking at me like he knows I’m making shit up.

“What do I say?” he asks.

I shrug like this is no big deal.

“You know. Random stuff.”

He waits. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face.

“Like what?”

I turn to look at him.

“You said,” I begin, keeping my face serious, “‘the strawberry is a snitch.’”

I continue before he can interrupt.

“And then something about… leather being a state of mind.”

His mouth twitches again.

I hate how fucking hot that is.

“And,” I add, because if I’m lying, I may as well lie beautifully, “something about the… spanish government.’”

Now he’s definitely trying not to smile.

Which annoys me even more because I know he knows.

He knows I’m full of shit. He knows I’m retaliating.

“That’s what I said,” he repeats flatly.

I nod. “Word for word.”

He looks down for a second, like he’s actually considering it.

Then he lifts his gaze back to mine.

“Interesting.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re weird in your sleep too. Feel better now?”

Then he tilts his head.

“You’re lying.”

The elevator doors open.

We step out into the lobby and head outside toward the competition area.

I shove my hands into my pockets and walk beside him.

“If you tell people about this, I’ll kill you,” I mutter.

He keeps walking. “The goth goat?”

“Yeah.”

He gives a slow nod like he’s taking that very seriously. “It still can’t be trusted with chicken soup.”

I make a disgusted sound and look away, but I can already feel the smile trying to betray me.

Unbelievable.

I’m out here getting blackmailed by my own unconscious mind.

I crack my neck once and glance at Victor. He catches it immediately.

I give him a sharp smile.

“Hope you had fun with the free entertainment.”

His gaze stays on me.

“I did.”

“Enjoy it now. By tonight you’re just going to be the guy who lost to the one who talks about goth goats in his sleep.”

I turn around before he can answer and keep walking.

If I’m lucky, by the end of the day the only thing stuck in his head won’t be my sleep-talking bullshit.

It’ll be the fact that I beat him.

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OMGGG WE ARE SO CLOSE IM IN DISBELIEF like actually wtf. I almost forgot these too should be lovers too and not just rivals and shit. I’m SO excited.

Also hey please vote :))))))))

You can do this guys just one more chapter please 🙏🥹 we’ve come so far together. I kinda yapped on that next one because I’m tattooing too… I’m sorry if it’s too detailed please don’t stop loving me.

48) The Winner Is…

Silas’s POV

We walk into the huge hall together, and holy shit.

This is it. This is where the competition is happening.

Cameras are set up everywhere around us, ready to shove themselves in our faces the second we start working.

Some poor little Christmas tree is standing in the corner of the hall, half hidden behind a sponsor banner.

There are stations lined up in a row right in front of the audience, all clean and prepared.

Sponsor logos are fucking everywhere. Behind every station there’s a giant poster for each studio.

I see his.

Victor’s studio is right next to mine.

I stop for half a second and look at the poster behind his station.

Diana.

I mean…obviously.

Obviously this dramatic bastard would name his studio Diana.

And obviously the design is annoyingly good too.

All built around darts and precision.

We get it. You’re accurate. You’re a God.

Naturally, journalists go to him first.

I glance over and watch him get swallowed by microphones. Reporters crowd him.

He should make me nervous. His talent should make me nervous.

The fact that he has almost two million followers should definitely make me nervous, because let’s be honest, people are biased as shit.

If they already love him, they’ll want him to win before the competition even starts.

They’ll call it objective while practically sucking his dick from the audience.

It does get under my skin, but my ego is way too rotten to let that be stronger than my need to beat him.

My pride will literally not let me live through losing to Victor Acosta twice.

I have to make this work. I will make this work.

I’m staring at the setup, mentally spiraling and also kind of horny from the adrenaline, when I feel a hand on my back.

I turn.

It’s Rava.

“Hey,” he says. “Um, I wanted to tell you I signed up to be a model for the competition.”

My eyes go wide.

“You did??”

“Well. Noah did,” he says with a laugh. “He said my skin takes ink really well or something. And he said you’d be happy.”

For a second I literally just stare at him.

Then I grab my own face, completely relieved, and start laughing because holy shit.

Holy shit. This is it.

I step forward and grab him by the shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say, serious for once. “Rava, I love you. Tell Noah I love him too.”

He laughs harder while I pull him into a hug, and I am not even embarrassed about how relieved I am.

His skin taking ink beautifully is the kind of information that makes me want to drop to my knees in gratitude.

He is a miracle. He is a gift from God.

He is premium-quality canvas wrapped in human skin.

Good skin changes everything.

If the skin is good, half the battle is already won.

That’s it. Done.

I suddenly feel like I can breathe again.

I pull back from the hug, still grinning.

That’s when I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

Victor.

He’s looking at me and Rava.

And his jaw tightens so hard I almost fucking smile.

He keeps squeezing his eyes shut in these small quick bursts, like his body is doing it on its own and he’s too busy trying to hold the rest of himself together to stop it properly.

Rosalia’s voice cuts through the room over the microphone.

“Silas Blackwood, Mila Hartmann, Victor Acosta, and Diego Monteiro, please come to the stage.”

Well.

Fuck.

It’s starting.

I give Rava one last look and a quick little wave before heading toward the stage.

The whole hall is packed now, full of nonstop voices bouncing off the walls until it all turns into one giant pulse of noise.

Jett and Poppy are sitting in the front row already filming proudly.

I step up onto the stage with the others and look out at the crowd.

Me.

Victor.

A heavily tattooed woman from Berlin with a shaved head and a stare like she’s buried men before and slept just fine after.

And some guy from São Paulo who looks like he could split my skull open with one hand if I look at him wrong.

I glance toward the judges standing off to the side and swallow.

Okay. This is real.

Rosalia stands in front of us with two other organizers and one of the judges. She catches my eye and gives me a small excited little greeting, subtle enough that nobody else would notice unless they were insane.

I laugh under my breath.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You are the top four finalists in today’s Blackwork Concept Challenge.”

The crowd cheers.

“And believe me,” she says to the camera, “the competition was intense this year. These four artists statistically had the most award-worthy pieces, the busiest studios, and the highest social engagement.”

The audience claps louder.

I keep my face neutral, but inside I’m screaming.

Top four. Top fucking four.

Out of everyone here, it’s us.

Me and Victor standing on the same stage again. The universe just loves dragging a knife across my ego for fun.

“You will each work on a pre-approved live model,” Rosalia continues. “This is a small-to-medium blackwork challenge. No assistants. No pre-drawn final stencils brought from outside. You’ll have forty-five minutes for concept development and stencil prep. After that, you move straight to live execution.”

She points toward a board behind her.

“Judging categories: technical application, composition, originality, flow on the body, and overall impact.”

Okay.

Good. That’s good. I can work with that.

Actually, no.

I can do more than work with that.

That’s my shit.

Technical application is easy. Composition is fine.

Originality?

Please.

Flow on the body? I have Rava.

Blessed, beautiful Rava with skin sent straight from heaven.

Overall impact is fine too. I can do impact.

I take a deep breath and I glance sideways.

Victor is standing there all composed and unreadable like this is just another fucking Tuesday.

It’s deeply irritating. Everything about him is irritating.

The crowd keeps talking, and I roll my shoulders once, forcing the tension lower.

This is the part that matters.

Not the cameras and the followers.

Or the fact that half the room would probably cream themselves if Victor blinked in their direction.

The work matters.

That’s it.

At the end of the day, everybody can choke on social media numbers.

Once the machine turns on and the needle hits skin, none of that shit can save you.

“Today’s theme is: evolution.”

I give a small nod to myself.

Okay.

That’s actually very fucking workable.

Rava already has a whole theme going on across his back, so I don’t need to force something random onto him.

I can follow the existing vibe, make it feel intentional, and evolve it with my own style.

Make it look like the next stage of something already alive under his skin.

“The contestant who places first today,” Rosalia says, “will receive a custom-made tattoo machine under their own name.”

The whole room reacts instantly.

My mouth literally falls open.

Excuse me?

“The winner will be able to work directly with the production team to choose how they want the machine built, including specifications, feel, and design details. It will be a special edition model.”

Fuck me sideways.

Suddenly the four of us look at each other at the same time like we’re about to rip each other’s arms off and beat one another to death with them.

If there was competition before, now there’s hatred mixed in with it.

The shaved-head woman from Berlin turns her head and looks at me like she’s silently saying back off while you still can.

The guy from São Paulo just rolls his shoulders once like he’s preparing to enter prison fight club.

Victor doesn’t look at any of us.

He just stands there all still like the rest of us are noise and he’s somewhere else entirely.

This is huge.

Like actually huge.

Career huge.

Ego huge.

And I’m almost sure I’ve heard Victor talk about something exactly like this while he was tattooing at my studio.

He’d gone on about machine settings in that obsessive way he has.

I’m pretty sure he once made a whole model with the exact specifications he wanted.

He is absolutely going to try like hell for this. Which means I have to try harder.

Rosalia lifts the microphone again.

“Second place will receive a full promotional magazine dedicated exclusively to the artist and their studio, and it will be available everywhere Del Toro Creative is distributed.”

The room explodes again, clapping and shouting.

We clap too, but I barely even hear it over the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.

First place is insane. Second place is also insane.

There is literally no version of this where anybody on this stage takes it easy now.

“You may now choose your model.”

I don’t even hesitate.

“I want Rava,” I say immediately, before I even bother looking at the other options.

Mine. Thank you.

Berlin gets number two.

São Paulo gets four.

Victor gets number one.

“You may now begin your design,” one of the organizers says, and then finally fucks off.

The second she’s out of my personal space, I grab Rava by the hand and drag him with me toward a corner away from the crowd.

Not fully away, obviously.

There is no such thing as privacy in this cursed warehouse of cameras.

I drop down and tug him with me, pointing at the floor.

“Sit.”

He stares at me, visibly startled, then slowly lowers himself next to me.

“We’re… doing it here?”

I shrug.

“Yeah. My best designs come out when I’m sitting on the floor.”

That’s true. Technically.

Well…

Before the surgery, anyway.

And I’m absolutely not trying to die for a competition.

I exhale through my nose and immediately get back up.

“Actually, no. Fuck that,” I mutter, brushing myself off. “Come with me.”

He laughs softly and follows me to a smaller desk a little off to the side.

I sit, pull everything into place, crack my knuckles once, and look over at him.

“You can talk to me while I draw, if you want. Say whatever. It helps me focus.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay then. I can tell you what I’m studying.”

I glance down at the paper and start sketching the first loose lines.

“Go on.”

“I want to be a teacher.”

I smile immediately, pen moving faster.

“That’s cute.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Cute?”

“Yeah. Very wholesome.”

He laughs again, and I keep drawing.

It helps. More than I expect.

His voice stays low while he talks about classes and little things from school and the kind of stuff he has to read, and I let it fill the space in my head that would otherwise be occupied by panic.

I keep looking at his existing back piece, then back at the page, then at the page again.

I start building around the language that’s already there instead of fighting it.

Same world, different sentence. Same body, next chapter.

Every five minutes I turn the page toward him.

“What about this?”

He leans in every time without hesitation.

“Oh, I like that.”

“Too crowded here?”

“Just a little.”

“Okay.”

I erase. Redraw.

Show him again.

“This better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s really good.”

“No fake positivity.”

“I’m serious.”

I’m not just trying to win anymore.

Obviously I still want to win. I want to win badly.

But the most important thing is that he likes it too.

This is his body. I don’t want to slap something on him just because it’s strategic.

I want it to fit.

So I keep showing him everything.

Every little detail, and every adjustment in the flow.

And slowly it comes together. It matches the back piece perfectly.

When I finally sit back and look at it properly, I feel that little electric rush in my chest.

I smile.

There you are.

Now we’re all back at our stations with our stencils ready.

I place mine down and glance sideways toward Victor.

Then I swallow.

Fuck.

His design is flawless too.

Clean as hell.

It’s the kind of design that makes you want to rip up your own work out of respect and rage.

I turn back to my own station immediately.

If I start comparing now, I’ll get sloppy.

And then I’ll hate myself.

And I’d actually rather die than lose because I spiraled next to Victor.

One of the organizers steps forward again.

“Now that all of you have your stencils ready, you may begin tattooing on my count.”

We all nod.

I pull on my gloves, the snap of them sounding way too loud.

The room gets weirdly still.

Everybody watching.

Cameras ready. Judges nearby.

“Three…”

I pick up the machine.

“Two…”

Rava is steady under my hands.

Do not fuck this up.

“One.”

And I start.

The second I pull that first line into Rava’s skin, I wipe it clean and see it sitting there dark as fuck on the first pass.

Perfect.

A smile pulls at my mouth.

That’s all I need.

That one little hit of proof that the skin is taking it right, that my hand is steady, and that the black is landing exactly how I want it to.

I lock into the design and stay there.

Hours pass like that until my back starts bitching.

Heat crawls under my skin. My whole body feels wrong.

Too tense and half numb.

My shoulder is starting to complain, my spine too.

If I stay bent like this any longer I might actually fossilize in public.

But the piece keeps getting better.

The more my body starts falling apart, the more the tattoo comes alive.

It’s not perfect. Nothing I do is ever perfect to me.

I’ve literally never looked at a finished piece and thought wow yes, flawless, let me suck my own dick about it.

That has never happened once in my life.

But this works.

This works more than enough for what we’re doing here.

Actually, no.

It works like hell.

Every time I wipe, the composition settles harder into his arm.

It looks intentional.

“You okay?” I ask Rava for what has to be the twentieth fucking time.

He laughs softly without moving too much.

“Internally, I’m perfect. Externally, I want to cut my arm off.”

I laugh under my breath.

“Valid. You’re doing really well.”

He smiles.

I wipe again and check a section.

“Just a little more,” I tell him. “Then you get to stand up. You’ve been perfect, seriously.”

And I mean it.

He’s sat like a saint through all of this.

No twitching. No whining. Nothing.

That alone makes me want this to come out even better.

Rosalia’s voice cuts through the hall on the microphone.

“You have ten minutes.”

Fuck.

Ten minutes.

Enough time to finish. Enough time to fuck something up.

I go over the final details fast but not rushed, forcing myself not to spiral.

I wipe the tattoo again.

Check the symmetry.

Check the flow.

Check the black.

Wipe.

Another.

Wipe.

A tiny correction.

Wipe again.

There.

That’s it.

That’s fucking it.

“Time!”

The machines cut off across the room one after another.

I set mine down and flex my hand once, hard.

For a second I just stare at Rava’s arm. Then I clean it properly. Getting the excess ink off, clearing the shine, revealing the whole thing the way it’s meant to be seen.

When the last smear comes away, I finally see all of it together.

Fuck.

I don’t say it out loud.

But holy fuck.

Rava looks down at it and actually goes quiet.

That hits me harder than any praise would.

“You like it?” I ask, and suddenly I sound way less confident than I want to.

He looks up at me.

“Silas. It’s unreal.”

I exhale once through my nose and nod.

“Good.”

The organizers start moving around, telling us to step back, to let the judges see, to prepare the models for presentation.

All four of us end up being brought together again with our work fully visible now, and the second we’re lined up side by side, the tension gets disgusting.

Because now we can look.

Berlin’s is brutal in the best way. São Paulo’s is slick annoyingly good too.

Victor’s is insane.

I keep my face blank anyway.

I fold everything inside and stand there while the judges start circling, looking from one model to the next, murmuring to each other in low voices.

One judge lingers at Victor’s. Another spends too long at Berlin’s.

Then one of them moves to mine and crouches slightly to see the flow better, and my whole body goes rigid without moving an inch.

Don’t stare. Don’t speak. Don’t look desperate.

I glance at Rava’s face instead.

He looks proud as fuck.

The crowd is quieter now too, which is worse.

No more event noise to hide inside. Just this awful waiting.

Cameras are pointed at us. People are whispering.

My hands are behind my back because if I leave them free I’ll start picking at my fingers or crossing myself.

One of the judges bends closer to Rava’s arm and my whole nervous system lights on fire.

Yeah. That’s right.

Get in there.

Look at the detail. Look at the flow.

Stare at it until your eyes dry out.

I did not break my spine for hours just for you to glance at it for three seconds and move on to somebody’s dusty little midlife crisis eagle.

This is so humiliating. I hate caring this much. I hate that I always care this much.

I hate that every competition turns me into the worst version of myself.

I get insane.

The judges keep talking quietly and one of them points at a section of the tattoo.

What the fuck does that mean?

Is that a good point? A bad point? A hot point? A “this is genius” point? A “what the hell was he thinking” point?

Why are we whispering?

If it’s praise, I’d like to hear it.

If it’s criticism, I’d also like to hear it so I can mentally fight you.

Another judge steps closer.

The longer they stand there, the worse my panic gets and the more offended I become by the possibility that they still might not get it.

I know when I’ve done something good. When a piece has that thing.

That filthy little click in your brain when you look at it and just know it’s better than half the shit around it.

And this one has it.

I glance at Rava for half a second, then back at the judges.

One of them nods, very impressed.

I nearly cum in my pants from relief.

Then the other one frowns.

This is torture.

Just put me down like a sick dog instead.

One of them lifts Rava’s arm slightly, checking how the piece shifts when the muscle tightens.

Good.

Check it all you want. There’s nothing sloppy there. I know what I did.

Rosalia steps up with the microphone and the room goes quiet again.

“Alright,” she says. “We will now move into live scoring.”

Oh, I’m going to throw up.

“The judges will now call out their category scores for each finalist. Scores will be read aloud first, then entered into the system. Once all scores are locked in, the scoreboard will display the final totals.”

I exhale once through my nose. This is it.

The first judge steps forward and looks at the clipboard.

“Technical Application,” he says.

He starts with Berlin. Then São Paulo.

Then Victor.

“Nine point five.”

Good. Annoying, but good.

Then me.

“Silas Blackwood. Nine point seven.”

My whole body goes hot for half a second.

Not visibly, I hope.

But internally, a disgusting little firework just went off.

The next category comes.

“Composition.”

Again they go one by one.

Victor gets a 9.6. I get a 9.8.

I keep my face blank.

I keep my face blank.

I keep my face blank.

The shaved-head Berlin woman gets a 9.4 and looks like she’s seconds away from biting through her own molars.

We move to the second judge.

Technical. Composition. Originality.

Now it gets more scattered.

Some 9.3s. A 9.1.

A 9.8 for Victor that makes the crowd react.

A 9.7 for me in originality that makes Jett somewhere in the front row slap Poppy so hard on the arm I can hear it from here.

Poppy slaps him back.

By the time the third judge steps up, I’m half dissociated.

I’m not doing badly. The opposite, actually.

I’m doing too well and now I’m scared to hope properly.

The third judge clears his throat.

“Flow on the Body.”

This one matters.

Especially with work like mine and Victor’s.

He reads Berlin’s first. Then São Paulo’s.

Then Victor.

“Nine point four.”

Then me.

He looks up at Rava’s arm again before reading.

“Silas Blackwood. Nine point six.”

Nine point six.

I smile.

The next category is Overall Impact.

Victor gets a 9.8 from the fourth judge.

The crowd reacts again.

Of course. Their king blinked.

Then mine comes.

“Silas Blackwood. Nine point seven.”

My ears are ringing.

I can’t even tell if the room is hot or if my blood is just trying to leave my body in stages.

We stand there while the assistants start entering everything into the system at the side of the stage.

The judges step back. Rosalia moves off to one side.

I stare ahead.

The huge scoreboard behind us flickers on.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

It starts listing each artist’s name with rows underneath for the categories.

Technical Application. Composition. Originality. Flow on the Body. Overall Impact.

Then the assistants start entering the scores one by one.

You can actually watch them appear.

This is evil.

This is one of the most evil things I have ever seen in my life.

Why would anyone do this publicly. Why would anyone create live score input as a concept.

Berlin’s row fills first. Then São Paulo’s.

Then Victor’s.

Numbers start populating under his name.

9.5. 9.6. 9.8. 9.4. 9.8.

Then more from the other judges.

I don’t breathe properly for the entire duration.

Nobody says anything yet because the totals are still calculating.

The board is set to rank us automatically.

Highest score goes straight to the top, then the rest follow underneath with their totals beside their names.

I nod once and stare at the screen while it loads.

Come on.

Come on.

The audience is dead quiet for about half a second.

Everybody’s looking at that giant screen.

“And the winner is…”

I wait.

The screen flickers.

Then the name shoots to the top.

Victor Acosta — 189.8

My shoulders drop instantly.

Just fully fucking drop.

The crowd starts screaming again.

All the cameras swing straight toward Victor as he steps forward into the middle, and he doesn’t even look excited.

Not even a little.

If anything, he looks wrong.

He looks at the scoreboard, then at the sheets in front of the judges.

Rosalia hands him the microphone and a piece of paper.

And he just stands there.

Doesn’t say thank you.

Doesn’t smile, doesn’t do anything.

Is he stupid?

What the fuck is he doing??

Not enough that he won. Now he’s going to stand there acting mysterious too?

What is this?

Rava gets to me first and throws his arms around me.

Then Jett. Then Poppy.

The three of them are all over me at once and I’m too numb to react properly.

My eyes are still on Victor.

“The result is wrong.”

Everything stops.

The crowd goes weirdly quiet all at once, and every head in the room turns toward him.

There’s this horrible second of pure secondhand embarrassment where my soul leaves my body because oh my God, what is he doing now?

The judges stare at him like he’s crazy.

Rosalia swallows awkwardly and forces out a smile.

“Victor, you are literally the winner,” she says. “There wasn’t a mistake.”

Victor doesn’t even look at her.

He points at the board.

“Blackwood. It says zero point six,” he says. “No one gave him a zero. You said nine point six. Someone entered a zero instead of a nine.”

My eyes go wide.

I turn and look at the board properly.

0.6

What the fuck.

I look back at Victor.

I cannot believe this motherfucker is doing this.

What is he doing?

Why the hell isn’t he just shutting up and taking the win?

He wanted that machine.

That whole insane custom thing with all his clinically deranged little preferences.

And now he’s standing there in front of cameras and all these people giving them a tutorial on how to take his own win away??

The room erupts into murmuring immediately.

Everybody’s talking at once now.

The audience. The judges. The organizers.

People in the crowd are literally standing up trying to see the board better.

They are taking pictures of the wrong score.

I want the floor to open and swallow me whole.

I am not living through this. I refuse.

I don’t even know what I am right now.

Embarrassed? Furious at him? Secretly thrilled? Humiliated? Ready to throw up?

All of the above, probably.

One of the organizers lunges toward the scoring laptop.

Another judge grabs the sheet in front of him and checks it again.

Rosalia looks like she’s trying very hard not to start screaming.

Then the event coordinator finally snatches the mic with both hands.

“We apologize,” he says, visibly sweating now. “There has indeed been a technical error in the scoring entry.”

The whole room boos immediately.

Loudly.

Fucking fair.

I want to boo too.

I want to boo this whole cursed event and every single person in it.

I rub at my eyes hard.

I can feel Victor’s stare on me and that somehow makes all of this ten times worse.

He doesn’t even try to pretend this isn’t about me now.

“Dude,” Jett says, grabbing both my shoulders and shaking me once. “I did not pass math, but I’m pretty sure you launch into first place after this. Like. Literally. You’re the winner.”

“His math is right,” Poppy says immediately, eyes still on the board. “You do pass him with the actual score. It comes out above him.”

The scoreboard glitches once.

Then again.

The numbers flicker.

Victor’s score stays where it is.

189.8

Mine starts climbing.

And every tiny change feels like someone twisting a knife in public.

Then the final corrected total locks in.

Silas Blackwood — 191.6

The room explodes.

Jett screams so loud I physically flinch. Poppy grabs my arm hard and then she hugs me.

I should feel victorious. I should feel relieved.

Hell, I should feel smug.

Instead I feel like I’m on fire.

Rosalia lifts the mic again.

“After correction,” she says, forcing the words out, “first place goes to Silas Blackwood.”

She hands me some gold trophy-looking thing and the cameras immediately start attacking me from every angle, barking at me to look here, no here, other side, chin up, trophy higher, smile, don’t blink, hold still.

The screaming gets worse.

I want to die.

Because this is the most humiliating possible way to win anything in the history of human competition.

  ![](https://img.wattpad.com/8693f1369c17ea1e8e91a4e16abc2b85b05cea13/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f674a4b416f7547645757544255513d3d2d313634313138383230332e313863336537396333353139313539373933323538313431323836362e6a7067)               

Follow now

---

Oh no… Silas is so pissed at Victor, I wonder where this is going

  ![](https://img.wattpad.com/16073927aa4b8ea89765c5f9a952dc15f0479161/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4944326f6d4c7a664e576c6e4f773d3d2d313634313138383230332e3138633166613234646561666632643538393138373734393135342e6a7067)               

Anyway, I went to a tattoo convention a few months ago that had a contest going on too, and it was honestly one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced. I saw some absolutely incredible tattoos and people who looked like they were from another planet. They had booths from tattoo studios everywhere, check these out. It genuinely felt like a fever dream.

  ![](https://img.wattpad.com/15c9d9316a73ff6a7b7f7ccd4f0b903258cf0898/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4c4172724e777276716b6f547a513d3d2d313634313138383230332e313863323163623430653832306366373638343839303632383233302e6a7067)               

  ![](https://img.wattpad.com/adbe6637d8c9af8fde3fe0b2896c8d27c79608b0/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f77566d5033636e394673427478413d3d2d313634313138383230332e313863323163623831616532343933623238333734383338383938392e6a7067)               

I tattooed six people in there hehe.

ANYWAY I LOVE YOU BYE❤️

49) Hate That I Love It

Silas’s POV

After endless questions in interviews and endless videos, I can finally go back to the room and lock myself away from all this shit.

My dad has called me four times already, probably because he saw on TV that I won, and I still haven’t managed to call him back.

My siblings are probably losing their minds too.

I’ll call them. Right after I deal with my biggest fucking problem first.

I walk fast down the hallway, irritated, still buzzing with adrenaline and embarrassment.

The second I walk into the room, Victor turns and looks at me.

He was drawing in the forbidden sketchbook.

Of course.

The second he sees me, he closes it and stands, already moving like he’s about to leave the room.

“Oh no the fuck you don’t,” I say, stepping right in front of the door.

He stops.

Now he’s standing close enough that I can smell his soap.

“Move, Silas.”

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

I laugh once, sharp and ugly.

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing this with me right now.”

“I think you should talk with your friends.”

“I think you should sit the fuck down.”

His eyes flick over my face.

“Silas—”

“Sit.”

The word comes out harsher than I expect.

For one second, he just looks at me.

Then he drops the bag back on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed.

I throw both hands up. “What the fuck was that?”

He looks tired.

Not physically. Worse.

Like something inside him has been holding itself upright all day by biting down hard.

“What was what?”

I stare at him.

“Oh, don’t you dare do that calm little thing with me right now. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The contest thing.”

“I corrected a mistake.”

“No.” I point at him. “No, you made a scene.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly.

“I made a scene?”

“Yes, Victor. You stood in the middle of the stage, took the microphone, and announced in front of everyone that the score was wrong.”

“Because it was.”

“You could’ve shut up.”

His face changes. His eyes go a little sharper.

“I could have.”

The honesty of that pisses me off even more.

I laugh again and drag a hand through my hair.

“Great. Thank you for admitting it. You could’ve shut up, taken the win, walked away with the machine you wanted so badly, and no one would’ve known.”

“I would have known.”

I hate that answer.

“Oh, fuck you.”

His head lifts.

“What?”

“Fuck you for that.”

His mouth closes.

I step closer.

“Don’t stand there and make it noble. Don’t turn yourself into some tortured, honest saint just because you decided to give me back something that was mine after taking something else from me first.”

His expression tightens.

Good.

Let it hit.

“You think I enjoyed that?” I ask. “You think it felt good?? Standing there while everyone looked at me like I was part of some dramatic little scandal?”

“I didn’t do it for them. I did it for my promise.”

“What promise, Victor?”

“To never take anything from you again.”

That makes my anger go crooked. Because it should be simple.

He lied. He hurt me. He fucked with my trust. I get to be angry.

Easy.

But then he says shit like that and suddenly my anger doesn’t know where to stand anymore.

I rub both hands over my face.

“No. No, no, no, no. Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are.” I drop my hands and glare at him. “You keep doing it. You keep taking the worst possible thing and making it complicated.”

His eyes narrow. “You think it’s simple for me?”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s simple for you.”

“That’s a lie.”

He stands.

I immediately point at the bed. “I told you to sit and listen to me.”

“I heard you.”

“Then sit.”

“No.”

The room goes still.

Oh.

Okay.

So we’re doing this.

He takes one step toward me.

“You want to yell at me,” he says. “Fine. Yell. You want to hate me, hate me. But don’t stand there and act like I’m the only one making this complicated.”

My laugh comes out breathless.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Are you actually standing there after everything and trying to blame me?”

“I’m trying to tell you the truth.”

“Oh my God, here we go.” I lift my hands again. “The truth. Great. Please. Enlighten me. Since you’re so fucking obsessed with honesty today.”

He clenches his jaw.

Good.

I want him angry too.

I’m sick of being the only one leaking everywhere.

“I know what I did,” he says. “I know exactly what I fucking did. I know I lied. I know I became someone you trusted because I was too much of a coward to tell you who I was when I should have. I know that every time I try to explain it, it still sounds like an excuse.”

My throat tightens.

“But you,” he says, and his voice gets rougher, “you don’t get to pretend you’re innocent in what’s happening right now.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you punish me, then get angry when I bleed.”

For one second, I don’t have anything.

“You drag me close,” he continues, stepping nearer now, “then look at me like I’m disgusting for wanting to stay there.”

My heart slams once.

“That’s not—”

“You touch me like you forgot you hate me, then pull back like I forced you.”

My mouth snaps shut.

“You look at me like you want me to do something about it, then act offended when I breathe too close.”

Heat climbs up my neck.

Anger.

Embarrassment.

Want.

All of it tangled so tightly I can’t tell what’s making me shake anymore.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

“No,” he says. “It isn’t. None of this is fucking fair.”

He’s close now.

Too close.

Close enough that if I lift my hand, I can touch his chest.

I don’t.

Obviously.

Because I’m not a fucking idiot.

Except I am.

Because I keep staring at his mouth like one.

“You think I don’t know you have every right to be angry?” he asks. “I know. You should be angry. You should have screamed at me sooner.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve been getting there.”

“But you don’t just scream, Silas.” His voice drops again. “You tease. You test. You make me look at you. You make me want you. Then you stand there and ask me why I’m confused.”

“Maybe because I don’t fucking know how I feel,” I shoot back. “Did that occur to you? I actually liked you, you know. For real. And then you drop the double identity shit on me like that’s just a normal little inconvenience. Do you think that’s small for someone who already had a hard time trusting people?”

His expression changes instantly.

“No—no, no, no.”

His hands move automatically, like he’s about to grab me, hold my arms, touch my waist, something, anything, just to reassure me.

But halfway there he stops himself.

Like he remembers I might not want that.

So his hands just hover there in the air for a second like even they don’t know where they’re allowed to exist.

Then they go to his hair.

Then over his mouth.

Then down again.

“You’re right, Silas,” he says, and now his voice sounds wrecked. “You’re right.”

I hate that that hurts too.

“But I feel like if this keeps going the way it is, I’m going to lose my mind completely.” His eyes stay on mine. “This isn’t good for you. It isn’t good for me either. And if you feel like you can’t forgive me, then just tell me. Tell me now, and I won’t bother you again.”

That hits so hard it actually makes me angry.

I stare at him. “Would you like that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Come on,” I say. “Be honest.”

His throat moves when he swallows.

“No,” he says. “I would hate it.”

His honesty hits harder than I want it to.

“I would fucking hate it,” he says again, quieter now. “But I would understand why it got there. And I would respect your decision.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and look down at his hands.

His fingers are tense.

Ready to leave, and ready to stay too.

“So if I tell you to leave right now,” I ask, “you’ll do it?”

He swallows again.

“Yes,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

I nod once.

“Leave.”

He freezes.

For one second he just looks at me.

Like maybe he’s waiting for me to take it back.

I don’t.

So he reaches for his bag.

Picks it up.

And actually starts walking toward the door.

He’s actually fucking doing it.

I move without thinking and plant myself in front of the door again.

His steps stop short.

“Silas, you need to—”

I kiss him once before I can stop myself.

It happens so fast it doesn’t even feel like a decision.

Victor freezes. He’s looking at me like I just slapped him awake.

Then suddenly he lunges at me.

His hand catches my jaw, mine flies straight to the back of his neck, and we crash into each other violently.

He kisses me back like he’s starving, but I’m already kissing him just as hard, dragging him closer.

I grin against his mouth.

There you are. There he fucking is.

There’s nothing careful about either of us. It’s instant hunger.

Our tongues fight like we’re both pissed off about how much we want it. Every second one of us pulls back, the other is already there again.

Victor grabs my waist. I pull his hair.

I angle my head and devour him, open-mouthed and filthy, ’cause I’m done playing patient.

It just keeps escalating, neither of us giving the other any room to breathe for long.

I yank his hair hard and swallow every sound he makes straight down my throat.

His tongue attacks mine and I get dizzy from how good it feels, that damn tongue piercing dragging circles inside my mouth, teasing me.

I don’t want anybody else tasting it. Moaning because of it.

You son of a bitch.

I’d rather kill us both trying to figure this shit out than hand you over nicely to someone else.

You’ll do this with me. You’ll do all of it with me.

You are not leaving me here with this.

If this is going to destroy me, it’s going to destroy you too.

My grip on his face tightens and I push him back toward the couch, almost tripping over my own feet in the rush.

I climb on top of him, grabbing his whole head again like I own it.

I attack his neck, sucking and biting, trying not to pass out from how fucking good he smells.

“Didn’t you want me to leave?” he asks, breathing hard.

I smirk against his skin. “I’m clearly having a complicated evening,” I mutter, leaving wet, sloppy kisses all over his throat.

Then I’m back on his mouth, licking into him like I can’t get enough.

He threads his fingers tight in my hair and a moan slips out of me right into his mouth.

“Fuck you,” I mutter into his mouth.

He hums like he enjoyed that.

I close my eyes the second his mouth finds my neck. He kisses the same spot again.

Everything in me feels dazed, overheated, wrecked by something as simple and devastating as his mouth on my neck.

I actually feel my eyes flutter shut harder, my whole face going hot.

It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

I’m one neck kiss away from seeing stars.

My nails press into his neck harder and I tilt my throat for him without even thinking about it, which is a deeply cursed thing to realize about myself in real time.

I’m hot everywhere.

Every kiss leaves me more dazed than the last.

I hate that I love it.

By the time we finally separate, it doesn’t feel like either of us chose to. It feels like we got forced apart by the basic human need for oxygen.

And then, there’s a knock at the door.

We both freeze.

We’re staring at each other in complete silence like two criminals who just heard the cops outside.

Then Jett’s voice cuts through the door.

“Dinner, you slut. I know you’re in there. Open up before I start screaming that the tough winner of the competition names random street cats every time he sees them.”

I swallow hard and look around like that’s going to help.

Fuck.

Actual fuck.

I lean down fast and whisper, “Get up,” to Victor, finally stopping the humiliating little movement of my hips against him.

My brain catches up with my body all at once and I drag both hands through my hair.

What the fuck just happened.

No, seriously.

What the actual fuck just happened.

I look at Victor and that absolutely does not help.

His lips are swollen, redder than before, and his cheeks are flushed enough to make it obvious something happened in here.

Something happened in here is maybe the understatement of the century.

“One second, Jett,” I call out, already sounding guilty.

I grab Victor by the arm and pull him behind the door.

“Come here.”

I do not need Jett seeing him like this. I know exactly how that would go.

He’d make it everyone’s problem within three minutes and I don’t even have an answer yet.

So I shove Victor just out of view behind the door and take one last look at him like, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not move.

Then I open it.

Poppy had clearly been leaning against it, because she almost fell.

She smiles instantly. “Sorry.”

I smile back, awkward as hell. “It’s fine.”

Jett is wearing Christmas pajamas.

Christmas pajamas.

In the middle of all this.

And now he’s looking at me suspiciously.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

I lift one shoulder. “Nothing? What do you mean?”

He starts walking toward me slowly, narrowing his eyes like a detective in the world’s most annoying crime show.

My heart starts hammering again.

He studies my face for one second, then suddenly slaps a hand over his mouth and does the most dramatic expression I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Oh my God,” he says. “I know what you did. Where’s Victor?”

“He’s sleeping,” I say immediately, automatically.

Jett stares at me. Then his eyes go wide.

“You were jerking off while he was sleeping??” he says. “Man. I did not take you for that level of wild.”

I exhale and lift my hands like, sure, why not, let’s all die here. “Sorry. Couldn’t wait.”

Oh my God.

Why did I say that?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Victor is literally right here.

I can see all three of them and they have no idea he’s standing behind the door while I keep digging my own grave with both hands.

Jett points at me. “No, because now I have questions.”

Poppy bites back a laugh. “Jett.”

“What?” he says, without taking his eyes off me. “He just told me he was jerking it while his mortal enemy was unconscious three feet away. I think I deserve answers.”

“My mortal enemy?” I repeat.

“Yes,” Jett says. “Unless you two made a friendship bracelet while I wasn’t looking.”

Behind the door, Victor says nothing.

That silence is making this at least fifty times worse.

“Anyway,” Jett says, waving a hand, “I do not need details about your personal scandal. Wash your hands and come downstairs. I’m starving.”

“I’ll be there in five,” I say. “Let me recover a little.”

I rub at my eyes like I’ve just survived a small war.

He smiles.

“You naughty little church bell,” he says. “Hurry up. I have to tell you about Thiago. And before any of you judge me or stone me to death, just know he wants me. I can feel it.”

Behind the door, Victor’s eyes go wide.

Actually wide.

I look at Jett and swallow.

“He’s straight,” I say. “Stop being delusional.”

“Shut up and listen to me,” Jett says. “Hurry. I’ll tell you downstairs.”

Then, mercifully, I shut the door in his face.

I exhale hard and drag both hands through my hair, staring at the floor for a second.

I avoid his eyes completely, because now that the adrenaline is wearing off, shame is creeping in like an unwanted houseguest.

Not because I kissed him. Absolutely not.

I’m not ashamed of having taste.

I’m ashamed of everything that happened after.

The panic. The door guarding. The suspicious wording. The way Jett peeled my dignity off layer by layer while Victor stood right there listening to all of it.

I wait until their voices disappear down the hallway.

Then I finally look at him.

Huge mistake.

He’s fully focused on me in that unnerving Victor way, like I’m the only thing in the room with an outline.

It’s like he put some invisible mark over my head and now physically can’t stop looking.

It makes my stomach do something stupid and irritated at the same time.

“Come on,” I mutter.

We step out together because, unfortunately, Jett is right and it is actually dinner time.

The elevator feels like a coffin.

We stand there side by side like absolutely nothing happened, and I want to start screaming.

I can feel him looking at me again.

I look back at him just as intensely.

And there it is again. That annoying thing in my stomach.

It happens every time he locks onto me like this. It just lands on me and stays there.

His hair is a mess. Completely wrecked.

It’s sticking up in different directions from my hands, from the couch, from everything that just happened, and the sight of it does something filthy and affectionate to my brain at the exact same time.

Which is disgusting.

I step closer before I can overthink it.

Then closer still.

On purpose. Very on purpose.

I reach up and smooth his hair down, running my fingers through the messed-up strands.

I’m so close now I can feel the heat between us again, that awful pull that keeps showing up every time we stop pretending.

My hand moves slowly through his hair, taming it a little, making it worse for myself.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet, by the way,” I say, fingers still in his hair.

“Okay,” he says, while looking at my mouth.

God. That should not hit as hard as it does.

But it does. It hits hard.

Because he’s not even trying to hide it.

He’s looking at my lips like he’s remembering exactly what they were doing a few minutes ago, and suddenly the air in the elevator feels way too thin.

“I’m still mad at you,” I add.

This time he looks up into my eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I could tell.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

What is this?

Is this some kind of flirting?

Because if it is, then holy fuck, it works.

We are so unbelievably fucked.

Because now my fingers are still in his hair, my body is still too close, and instead of stepping back like a sane person, I stay right there and stare at him like I’m trying to figure out whether he’s doing this on purpose.

He has to be.

Nobody accidentally looks at someone like that.

My hand slides out of his hair slowly.

“You’re being annoying,” I mutter.

His eyes flick to my mouth again.

“That’s not what your hand said.”

Love this nightmare.

I swallow and force myself to lean back just enough to create an inch of space, even though every part of me immediately hates that inch.

The elevator slows.

The doors open, then we separate.

He goes one way. I go the other.

Straight back to our groups like nothing happened.

—

I sit at my table with Jett and Poppy while all the other studios stay scattered around the room, each one at their own table.

People keep coming over to congratulate me on the win.

There are hands landing on my shoulder. Smiles. Claps.

At one point someone lifts my wrist like I just won the heavyweight championship instead of a tattoo competition.

But it all feels blurry right now. Like I’m underwater.

I look past them and find Victor at the table a little farther away.

I push my food around my plate with my fork and instantly hate myself for noticing how many people are talking to him.

Laughing with him. Leaning in toward him.

He keeps answering in Spanish, and I can’t understand a fucking word.

Maybe this is my sign to learn Spanish overnight.

Because this shit is unbearable.

I look back down at my plate, but my stomach is tied into such a tight knot I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped in half.

I’m not hungry.

I could be looking at the best meal of my life and I’d still rather eat the fork.

I can’t stop thinking about the kiss.

I can’t.

I glance at Victor again, and God, I am so unbelievably fucked.

I’m fucked because I forgot what this feels like.

I forgot what it feels like to do something with someone and actually like it.

To want it while it’s happening.

To not be forcing myself through it just to avoid disappointing someone.

To not be standing there trying to look chill enough, so nobody clocks that you’re uncomfortable and makes it even worse.

I kissed his twin once and it felt like kissing a wall.

Same face. Completely different man.

Victor kissed me like he actually knew there was a person inside my body.

When he had me against the door, he put his hand behind my back so I wouldn’t slam into it.

Such a small thing. Such a stupid little thing.

And somehow that’s the part that’s ruining me most.

Because he didn’t make it awkward. He didn’t kill the mood with that horrible carefulness some people use when they think you’re fragile.

He didn’t make me feel like a problem that needed special handling.

He just… did it. He was careful without making me feel broken.

Which is, frankly, offensive.

I hate that my body loved it enough to memorize it immediately.

I slip my phone out under the table and open his profile.

I stare at his picture for one second like that’s not deeply pathetic behavior, then type anyway.

ME:

• not to ruin your ego, but it wasn’t even THAT good

I glance at him subtly at the other table, a small smile pulling at my mouth.

I’m full of shit.

It was the best kiss of my life.

VICTOR:

• No?

ME:

• rating: 6/10

VICTOR:

• Cruel.

ME:

• i’m generous, actually

VICTOR:

• Give me five minutes alone with you and I’ll fix that score.

My heart starts beating so fast it’s actually ridiculous.

My hands start shaking, but for once not because I’m scared.

I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel trapped. I just feel… really, really fucking good.

ME:

• you seem very proud for someone who, as I said, delivered something so average

VICTOR:

• Average doesn’t usually make people melt against doors like you did.

I smile at my phone before I can stop myself.

ME:

• I did not melt

VICTOR:

• No?

• I don’t think you’ve seen what my neck looks like right now because of your scratches.

• You left little reminders all over it.

ME:

• are you complaining right now?

VICTOR:

• I’m not.

• I liked it.

• Do it again when I earn the ten.

Earn the ten.

Earn the ten.

Which means there’s going to be another time.

“Hello?? Earth to bitch,” Jett calls from across the table.

I snap out of it and look up.

Both him and Poppy are staring at me.

Jett looks offended.

“What?” I ask, way too fast. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Thiago sent me a meme.”

I side-eye Poppy, then look back at Jett. “Wow. Hope you used protection. That’s huge.”

“Shut up,” Jett says immediately. “I’m going to marry that man one day. You’ll all see it and you’ll feel sick because I was right.”

Poppy smacks the side of his head lightly. “Last night you were kissing Noah, idiot. You are making negative sense.”

Jett rolls his eyes. “Oh my God. Noah was a grief response.”

“A what?!” I ask.

“A temporary emotional support mouth,” he says. “Keep up.”

Poppy starts laughing. “You are so full of shit.”

“No, listen,” Jett says, leaning in like he’s about to defend a dissertation. “That was not serious. Thiago made out with that girl, I got hurt, I needed to forget he existed, Noah was there, Noah is hot, Noah is funny, and we both understood the assignment. End of story.”

I stare at him. “You kissed AND sucked someone’s dick as a coping strategy.”

“Yes.”

“That is insane.”

“That,” he says, offended, “is called adaptation. Me and Noah have a very evolved relationship. He knows it didn’t mean anything,” Jett says, like this clears everything up. “He gets me.”

“Oh, he gets you?” I say flatly.

“He absolutely gets me. He shrugs. “Kaiser was for the plot. Thiago is endgame.”

Poppy wipes under her eye, laughing now. “You are unstable.”

“I’m in love,” he corrects.

“You met him, like, two months ago,” I say.

“And yet I already know things.”

Poppy groans. “Here we go.”

“No, seriously,” Jett says, putting a hand over his heart. “I know the vibe. I know when something is real. I can tell.”

“What can you tell?” I ask.

“That he’s the one.”

I go quiet for a second just so he can hear how disappointed I am in him.

Poppy looks disappointed. “Jett.”

“What??”

“You do not know that.”

He gives her a deeply pitying look. “I do, actually.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I absolutely do,” he says. “I’ve already pictured our apartment.”

I make a face. “Oh, kill yourself.”

“No, listen to this,” Poppy says, fully delighted now. “I want to hear how bad it gets.”

Jett sits up straighter, encouraged by exactly the wrong thing. “It’ll be somewhere dramatic. Maybe Spain. Maybe Vegas. Maybe Greece. Big windows. Absolutely terrible financial decisions. One balcony for me to smoke on when he annoys me.”

“He’s annoyed you already??” I ask.

“Obviously. That’s how I know it’s real, Silas.”

Poppy folds forward onto the table laughing.

I rub my forehead. “Go on, then.”

“Thank you,” Jett says, like I’ve finally shown maturity. “Anyway. We’ll have one insanely expensive kitchen that neither of us knows how to use, but he’ll insist on buying it because he’s pretentious, and I’ll let him because I’m generous.”

“You’re inventing flaws for your imaginary husband now??” Poppy asks.

“I’m building a life,” he says. “Try to keep up.”

I lean back in my chair. “This is ONE meme deep, by the way.”

“One meme and eye-fucking,” Jett corrects.

Poppy points a fry at him. “Stop it. You kissed Noah less than twenty-four hours ago.”

He waves that away. “You stop it. Noah was a little detour on the road to my future.”

“That is so rude,” I say.

“It’s not rude if it’s true.”

“It’s still rude,” Poppy says.

Jett shrugs. “Noah knew he was part of my healing journey. He’s chill. Not like you two.”

I laugh. “Your healing journey.”

“Yes.”

“You need to be studied.”

“I need a ring,” he says. “Preferably by spring.”

Poppy actually chokes on her drink. “By spring???”

“Yes,” Jett says calmly. “Engaged by spring. Married by late summer. Autumn honeymoon.”

I stare at him. “You are genuinely terrifying.”

“Ugh, he’d look incredible in autumn colors,” Jett says dreamily, ignoring me. “Very ’rich divorced man meets the love of his life.”

Poppy is laughing so hard she has to put her head down. “Divorced now?? This guy is barely twenty-three. You have lost your mind.”

“No, I’ve found my calling.”

“Your calling,” I repeat flatly.

“Yes. Loving Thiago correctly.”

I glance at Poppy. “Can we legally have him committed?”

She’s still laughing too hard to answer.

Jett keeps going. “We’re going to have the most disgusting relationship. You won’t even be able to look at us.”

“Oh, we already can’t. Name one real thing you know about this man,” I say.

Jett counts on his fingers. “He’s hot. He’s funny. He looked jealous once. He has a sexy bike. He’s a bartender. He has marriageable hands.”

I laugh. “Marriageable hands.”

Poppy loses it again.

“Yes,” Jett says.

I put my face in my hand. “This is the worst conversation of my life.”

“I’m the love of his life.”

“You aren’t even the current inconvenience of his life,” I say.

Jett glares at me. “You are so threatened by our love.”

“I am threatened by your brain.”

“He’s obsessed,” Poppy says.

“I’m committed,” he corrects.

“You got ONE meme, dude,” I remind him.

“It was NOT just a meme. He chose that meme,” Jett continues. “He saw it, thought of me, and sent it. That is intimacy.”

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

Poppy leans back in her chair and looks at him. “Jett, what if he sends the same meme to five other people?”

Jett goes still for a second.

“Don’t say evil things to me.”

“So you have thought about that.”

“I reject that possibility.”

I laugh.

He points at me. “Mock me all you want. When he finally folds and realizes I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him, I’ll remember this.”

Poppy lifts a brow. “Finally folds?”

“Yes,” Jett says. “He’s resisting because the connection scares him.”

I just stare at him.

Poppy stares at him too. “You sound like a man with a restraining order in his future.”

“I’m just romantic.”

“You’re obsessed,” I tell him.

He smiles, smug as hell. “Exactly.”

Poppy groans. “At least he admits it.”

“Oh, I fully admit it,” Jett says. “I’m obsessed. I’m invested. I’m already mentally pregnant with our third dog.”

I choke on my drink.

Poppy screams laughing. “Third dog??”

“Yes. The first two are obvious. The third one happens accidentally because he looks at me one day and says, ‘Let’s keep him just for tonight,’ and I’m weak as fuck.”

I’m actually crying now. “You are genuinely one of the craziest people I know.”

“And yet,” Jett says, lifting his glass, “when I marry him, you’ll both be there looking stupid.”

Poppy raises hers. “I’ll be there to object.”

I lift mine too. “I’ll be there to ask Noah to tell the real love story.”

“You evil bitch.”

I shake my head. “Can’t wait for the wedding, psycho.”

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VOTE WE GOT A TONGUE FIGHTTTT. (not a sword fight yet :)

I’m in a rush so no dramatic speech love you bye

50) Nothing Tonight Means Nothing.

tiny warning before you start:

this chapter is very Victor-heavy and talks about a few darker parts of his past. I wanted to unpack him properly before I send these two back into softer / hornier territory. All the good things are still coming. Silas just needed honesty first.

Victor’s POV

We get back into the room and Silas closes the door slowly behind us.

He looks nervous for some reason, and I’m immediately confused.

“Hey,” I say, turning to look at him properly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, no—I mean yes.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s nothing.”

Something happened.

Fuck.

“You can tell me, you know,” I say softly. “Anything.”

He looks down at the floor with both hands on his hips and nods once, like he’s forcing himself through it.

“Okay. Well.” He swallows. “I just want you to know I don’t regret what I did.”

I blink, confused.

“Okay…?” I say. “Neither do I.”

He nods again, actually nervous.

“I just want you to know I really did like it,” he says, voice quieter now, “it’s just… I don’t think I can do a lot tonight. I don’t want to edge you or anything. Sorry if I led you on without being ready for something more.”

He shrugs like he’s trying to act casual and fails immediately. “You can go somewhere else if it wasn’t enough. I won’t be offended.”

I stare at him. For a second, I’m too shocked to even answer.

Then I almost laugh.

Not because it’s funny in a cruel way. Because he has absolutely no idea.

No fucking idea what he’s saying to the wrong person.

He thinks I’m standing here disappointed, like I need more, like a kiss from him could ever be filed under not enough.

He has no idea that if all we did was hold hands, that would be enough for me to live on for years.

Hell, if he just looked at me the way he did tonight and that was it, I’d still be stupidly happy.

And he kissed me.

I start moving toward him slowly, carefully enough that he can see me coming and step back if he wants to.

I give him time. Plenty of it.

He doesn’t move.

So when I reach him, I wrap my arms around him in the softest hug I can manage and pull him gently against me.

Very gently.

I keep one hand at the back of his head and run it through his hair again and again, already annoyed at him for even thinking I would react badly to this.

“If you’re doing this to change my mind, just know it won’t work—”

“Hug me back.”

He stops.

Then he does.

He wraps his arms around me and I smile.

“Now listen to me carefully,” I murmur into his hair. “I’m going to tell you a few things, and I need you to try to believe me.”

“Okay,” he mumbles into my neck.

“The fact that you kissed me and liked it does not necessarily mean you have to give more.”

He stays quiet.

I keep smoothing his hair down, slow and repetitive.

“You can want everything in theory and nothing in practice for a while,” I say. “That’s completely normal. Especially after what happened to you.”

He nods against me.

I hear him sniff once, then again, and I roll my eyes immediately and pull him back just enough to look at him.

I keep both hands on his shoulders.

“Hey,” I say. “Silas.”

He refuses to look at me properly.

“What happened to you is not something you just get over in one night. It was huge.”

I wait until his eyes finally lift to mine.

“You do not have to minimize it just because it wasn’t the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the world. Pain is pain.”

A tear slips down his cheek.

I wipe it away with my thumb before he can pretend it didn’t happen.

“You’re telling me if I had just wanted to sit here and stare at the wall, you’d be fine with that?”

“Yes.”

He squints at me. “Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you are dramatically underestimating how much I like you.”

“So what, you didn’t expect sex?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“You didn’t think the kiss meant that was where this was going?”

I shake my head.

“I thought the kiss meant you wanted to kiss me.”

He goes quiet.

He studies my face like he’s checking for a lie and not finding one quickly enough.

“What if I said I don’t want to be touched?”

“Then I wouldn’t touch you.”

“What if I said I do want to be touched, just not like that?”

“Then you tell me how.”

“What if I don’t know how?” he asks.

“Then we figure it out slowly.”

“What if I change my mind in the middle of something?”

“Then we stop in the middle of something.”

He keeps looking at me.

“What if I freak out?”

“Then we stop and I help you calm down.”

“So you’re really not sitting there thinking wow, what a scam, I wanted more?”

I laugh.

“No. I’m actually sitting here thinking you have no idea how easy I am to please.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him.

“This is fucking humiliating,” he mutters, trying to look somewhere else.

I let out a quiet breath.

“I think you forget we’ve known each other for three years,” I tell him. “You know an insane amount of embarrassing shit about me. I know an insane amount about you. There is nothing left that feels humiliating to me anymore.”

He lets out a weak little laugh through the embarrassment.

“Oh my God. That somehow made me feel worse.”

He laughs again, and I pull him back into my arms.

I hold him there for a moment, just because I want to.

Then I kiss the side of his head. “How about we wash up, lie down, and you ask me whatever you want about the whole Vox thing?”

He stays still, listening.

“Or we can just talk,” I add. “About anything. I don’t care. I just…” I tighten my arms around him once. “I miss talking to you so, so fucking much.”

That makes him stop hugging me just enough to look up at me.

“Really?”

I smile at him because I don’t know how that could possibly be surprising.

“Yes,” I say. “Obviously. I want Silabun back.”

He laughs properly at that.

“Fine,” he says.

We lie down together and for a little while, we just stay still without talking.

The room is finally quiet.

No people, no ship noise in our faces. Just us and the low hum of the AC.

Silas pushes himself up onto one elbow and looks down at me.

“How the fuck did all of this happen?”

I glance to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the Vox thing.” He sits up properly now, blanket pooled around his waist. “How are you you? How did I not realize anything? How long have you been hiding this?”

I push myself up too, sitting against the headboard a little.

“I didn’t know from the beginning, I swear,” I say. “It was only Minecraft at first. Always just Minecraft. I never searched for you, like you asked.”

That gets the smallest smile out of him.

Then I exhale through my nose.

“It started because of Leo.”

He drops his face into his hands immediately.

“Oh God. This man.”

I laugh softly.

“No offense,” he says, looking up again, “but your twin is genuinely one of the worst people I’ve ever met.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He shrugs like he’s not blaming me personally, which is fair.

“I saw one of his stories one day,” I explain. “He posted a Silas, and at first the name just caught my attention because, you know. I only knew one Silas. You.”

His eyes narrow.

“And?”

“And I stalked you.”

His whole face changes.

“You what??”

I panic immediately. “Only to see who my brother was dating. Then I saw your Minecraft username,” I continue quickly, “and I realized my twin was dating Silabun.”

That shuts him up completely.

Which is fair, honestly. I have just informed him that I knew who he was before he knew who I was.

Then his hand flies to his mouth.

I frown. “What?”

He points at me.

“Oh my God. You’re Brick Daddy.”

I go completely still.

He is laughing now.

“Oh my God,” he says. “And not just that. The Depeche Mode shirt you wore the first day at my studio. You knew about the cinnamon buns. The blue orchid. You fucking knew all of that.”

He keeps going because humiliation is tonight’s secondary activity.

“You know my sex preferences. My guilty pleasures. You know what I do alone in my own house—this is humiliating. I’m not doing this. Goodnight.”

He grabs the blanket and tries to disappear under it.

I let him.

I do not drag it down. I do not force him back out.

I just sit there next to the blanket lump that contains his shame and wait.

“Well… if it makes you feel any better, you know all of mine too. Everything.”

The blanket moves slightly.

“You get me and I get you,” I say. “It’s balanced.”

He comes back out with a dramatic sigh and stares up at the ceiling.

“I still have so many questions.”

“I’ll answer all of them,” I tell him. “Only the truth. Whatever you want.”

He sits up again and looks at me more seriously.

“Some of them are serious, though.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He hesitates for half a second.

“As Vox, you mentioned doctors and specialists and psychologists and pills a lot. Was that just some lie to seem mysterious or something?” He shrugs. “Because I also told you I’m the coolest person in the studio and that was a lie. Jett hits me and Poppy makes me look immature. People lie.”

That gets a small laugh out of me, but I still take a deep breath.

I don’t want to lie to him.

But this is the part that sounds worst out loud.

The part that makes people decide whether they need to be gentle with you or scared of you or just quietly keep more distance than they did before.

And I can take a lot of things from Silas.

Distance is the one that would actually kill me.

“It’s not…” I start, then stop.

He notices immediately.

“It’s not what?”

I stare at the blanket.

“It’s not flattering,” I say.

He snorts. “Good. I’m not asking because I think it’ll make you hotter.”

That gets the tiniest laugh out of me.

Then he goes quiet again.

“Tell me.”

I exhale slowly.

“My amygdala can become hyperactive, and then my prefrontal cortex doesn’t always catch up fast enough to regulate the response properl—”

He throws both hands up. “Woah. Victor. Dude. Tattoo artist. Not doctor. Please stop speaking ancient Egyptian?”

I smile.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I mean I have issues with regulation,” I say.

I shift a little to face him more.

I shift a little more toward him. “Basically, what they told me is that the part of my brain that reacts to danger can go off too fast sometimes. Like it thinks something is an emergency before the rest of me has had time to figure out if it actually is.”

“Okay…”

“And the part that’s supposed to calm me down and think clearly doesn’t always catch up right away,” I tell him.

He watches me carefully now, no jokes.

“I’m better now, obviously, but I still struggle. There are still moments where everything in me reacts before I’ve had time to think properly.”

Silas stays quiet.

“It’s just not as bad as it used to be,” I continue. “Back then, around seventeen, I had no idea what any of it was. I had no idea what triggered it, what made it worse, what calmed it down, when to leave a room, when to shut up.”

He shifts a little closer without meaning to, I think.

“Sometimes I’m still embarrassed by it.”

He looks up.

“By what?”

“All of it,” I say. “How obvious it can be when I’m not doing well. The fact that I need systems and patterns.”

I look away for a second. “It’s like… too much energy trapped in my body. Fight-or-flight response with nowhere useful to go.”

He narrows his eyes a little.

“Oh. Fight-or-flight I know,” he says. “That’s the cave man one.”

I laugh softly. “Right. The cave man one.”

“See? Keep using that language.”

I nod.

“So what did the medication do?” he asks.

“It didn’t fix my amygdala, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t, but thank you for making me sound stupid,” he says, laughing beside me.

“You called the nervous system caveman science,” I reply.

“Did I lie?”

I smile.

“Okay, I’m joking. Keep going,” he says. “I’m not making fun of you. I actually want to know.”

“Thank you.”

I look down at my hands.

“The medication lowered the volume, essentially,” I explain. “It gave me more space between feeling something and reacting to it. Therapy taught me what to do inside that space.”

His expression softens slightly.

“What kind of medication?”

“Different things at different times.”

“Like?”

I hesitate.

“SSRIs. Medication for sleep when that became dangerous. And, for a while, lithium.”

His expression changes immediately.

“Lithium?? Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that for bipolar people?”

“Mostly, yes. They thought I might be for a while,” I say. “Some of the episodes looked very similar from the outside. The lack of sleep. The impulsiveness. How quickly my thoughts were moving. Then the crash afterward.”

“But you weren’t?”

“Not in the end. I promise.”

He frowns slightly.

“How does that work?”

“It means the symptoms were real. The explanation simply wasn’t the right one. That happens with complicated cases. Sometimes it takes time to understand exactly what you are looking at.”

“That should be fucking illegal,” Silas says.

“I partially agree. But when you are seventeen, barely sleeping, severely anxious, depressed, and refusing to tell your doctors half of what is happening inside your head, they have to work with what they can see.”

“And what exactly looked like bipolar disorder?” he asks.

I stare ahead of me.

“I’m scared to tell you.”

Silas straightens slightly and turns to look at me.

“Why? I’m not going to judge you. I promise.”

“I’m afraid you’ll feel differently about me.”

“Victor.”

“You might start watching me.”

His eyebrows pull together.

“Watching you how?”

“For signs. Waiting for me to become that person again.”

He stays quiet for a moment, thinking.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

My eyes widen.

“No. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No. Never.”

“Then stop deciding what I’m going to think before I get the chance to think it. Jesus.”

He shifts closer, settling in like he is ready to listen for as long as I need.

“You said something before,” he says. “You get me, and I get you.”

“It isn’t the same.”

“No shit. Nothing is ever exactly the same.” He points between us. “But we’re both special editions of deeply inconvenient.”

A laugh catches in my throat, but it does not quite become one.

Silas nudges my knee with his.

“If you can handle me getting angry whenever I’m scared and acting like every nice thing is secretly a trap, I can handle whatever weird shit your brain used to do.”

I stare at him for a long moment.

Then I breathe in.

“When I was seventeen, I went nearly five days without sleeping.”

His face changes.

“Five? Why? How?”

“I don’t know. I would close my eyes for twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Then I would wake up feeling more awake than I had before.”

“Jesus.”

“Now that I think about it, it sounds insane to me too. At the time, I thought it meant I was finally functioning at my full capacity.”

I rub my thumb against my palm.

“I had always believed I was different. But then I started thinking I could see connections nobody else could see. Patterns in conversations. Patterns in numbers. Meaning in coincidences.”

My throat tightens.

“One night, I became convinced I had designed something that would change tattooing permanently.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t even remember,” I say with a quiet laugh.

His eyes stay on me.

“I covered every wall in my room with drawings. Hundreds of them. I tore pages out of books because I needed the paper. I drew over photographs. Furniture. The floor.”

“You… drew on the floor?”

“With permanent marker.”

“Wow.”

“I worked until my fingers split open. I knew they were bleeding. I simply did not care because stopping felt impossible.”

His gaze drops to my hands.

“My father came in and tried to take the marker away from me. I screamed at him. A lot.”

I swallow.

“I accused him of trying to sabotage me. I told him he was afraid I would become more successful than him. I said things I knew would hurt him because, in that moment, I genuinely believed he was my enemy.”

I pause.

“Important detail—he wasn’t. My father is one of the only people who stood beside me through all of it.”

“I’m glad,” Silas says quietly.

“The next morning, I did not remember half of what I had said. I only remembered him standing in the doorway.”

I look away.

“He had never looked afraid of me before.”

I release a long breath.

“That was the first time I looked at someone’s face and realized I had become absolutely frightening.”

He opens his mouth, but I continue before he can say anything.

“Another time, I emptied most of my savings in a single night.”

“On what?”

“Tattoo equipment. Machines, supplies, advertising. Anything I thought would help me expand.”

His eyes widen.

“Fuck. How much?”

“Thousands.”

“Victor, what the fuck? At seventeen??”

“Money I had saved. Money my parents had given me. Money that was supposed to pay for training.”

I press my lips together.

“Naturally, I regret all of it now.”

“What did you think you were doing?”

“Building an empire.”

Silas stares at me.

“What?” I say. “I told you things were bad back then.”

“I know. I know. Sorry. Keep going.”

“I literally thought I was going to open three studios within a year. I wrote contracts for people who had never agreed to work for me. I emailed tattoo artists I admired and told them they would regret not joining me before I became famous.”

“Well…” Silas winces. “That’s very fucked up, but at least now you actually are famous. Probably more than all of them.”

“I wasn’t then. And one of them responded.”

“What did they say?”

“‘Get some sleep, kid.’”

Silas snorts.

“That’s fair.”

“I know.”

I stare at the floor between us.

“But at the time, I thought he was threatened by me.”

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

“I also left home in the middle of the night once.”

His head snaps toward me.

“To go where?”

“Madrid.”

“From where?”

“Several hours away.”

“Did you drive?”

“Yes. Without having slept.”

“Victor, what the fuck?”

“I know.”

“No, seriously. What the fuck?”

“I know.”

I press my hands together to stop them from moving.

“I drove too fast. At one point, I became convinced a car behind me had been following me for over an hour.”

“Was it?”

“No. Of course it wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“It passed me. There was an elderly couple inside.”

He nods slowly.

“I exited the motorway anyway. I drove into an industrial area because I thought I could lose them there.”

My stomach turns even now.

“I almost drove into a barrier. I stopped less than a meter away.”

His face goes still.

“I sat there with both hands on the wheel, and instead of being afraid, I started laughing.”

“Why?”

“I thought it proved I could not die.”

I look at him, searching his face for any sign that he wants to leave.

“What?” he asks. “Keep going.”

I turn back toward the room.

“I believed normal consequences did not apply to me. I thought those things like death and pain and sleep were for everybody except me.”

I laugh quietly at how tragic it sounds now.

“I thought I had a purpose nobody else could understand. Sometimes I thought people were trying to prevent me from realizing what I was capable of.”

I rub both hands over my face.

“I genuinely do not know who I thought I was.”

His knee remains pressed against mine.

“I refused medication because I thought they were trying to dull me. I hid tablets under my tongue. I spat them into the sink.”

My voice lowers.

“Once, I locked myself inside the bathroom because I was convinced my mother had put something in my food. I watched her cry through the gap beneath the door.”

I release another breath.

“And the worst part is that I did not open it. The door, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“Because I thought the crying was manipulation.”

I lean back against the wall.

“And then, after all of that, there was nothing.”

Silas frowns.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

I look down at my knees.

“I went from believing I could build anything, survive anything, become anything, to being unable to get out of bed.”

He stays silent.

“I barely spoke. I lost interest in everything. Food, drawing, tattooing, other people.”

I swallow.

“I read the messages I had sent and could not understand why anyone still loved me. I was so, so disgusted by myself.”

Silas’s expression tightens.

“And that’s when they gave you lithium?”

“Yes.”

“Did it stop all of that?”

“Not immediately. But it helped stop the extremes. I started sleeping. My thoughts slowed down enough that I could examine them instead of automatically believing them.”

“And the scary shit?”

“It stopped.”

His eyes search my face.

“All of it?”

“Yes. The sleeplessness. The grandiosity. The paranoia. The belief that consequences did not apply to me. The crashes.”

I turn toward him.

“I have not experienced anything like that in years.”

“Do your doctors think it’ll come back?”

“I don’t think they do. I don’t particularly believe it will either.”

He watches me carefully.

“It was a difficult period at a difficult age. Years have passed since I had thoughts like that. I work without any problems now. I live an almost completely normal life.”

“Almost?”

I glance at the dartboard.

He follows my gaze and smiles faintly.

“Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

“Therapy still helps occasionally,” I continue. “The routines help too. But yes, it has become very controlled.”

“Okay.”

I wait.

That is all he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You do not have anything else to say?”

“Oh, I have a lot to say. Most of it is about you driving while awake for three days, which I am saving for when I have enough energy to properly yell at you.”

I laugh.

He stares at me.

“But I’m not scared of you.”

The laughter disappears.

“You should probably be a little concerned.”

“I’m concerned. That’s different.”

I look away.

“You take your medication, right?”

“Yes.”

“You sleep?”

“I do. Properly.”

“And I assume you tell someone when things start feeling wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Then what exactly do you want me to be afraid of?”

I look at him.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“The possibility.”

Silas studies me.

Then he reaches out and takes my wrist.

Not my hand.

My wrist, where he can feel my pulse.

“I think we’re both a fucking handful,” he says. “You get me. I get you. We’re both special.”

“Silas, you make us sound intellectually disabled.”

“We’re special in an expensive, difficult-to-maintain way.”

I shake my head, but I cannot stop smiling.

Silas’s expression softens again.

“If you can handle everything wrong with me, I can handle the fact that your brain used to convince you that you were Batman.”

“I did not think I was Batman.”

“You thought you couldn’t die and drove into an industrial estate to escape two pensioners. Come on.”

I look at him flatly.

He lifts one shoulder.

“Spanish Batman.”

I laugh.

“Oh. And therapy?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“On and off for years.”

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I remember your therapist’s name.”

I smile. “You do?”

He points at me like I need to shut up immediately.

“Wait.”

So I do.

He squints at the ceiling, acting like this is the hardest test of his life.

“It starts with an L—”

“Ssssh,” he says, holding his forehead dramatically. “Shut up. I know this.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Lena.”

“No,” I say, already laughing.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “LINDA.”

That makes me laugh harder.

“Luna,” I say.

He groans and drops back against the bed, annoyed at himself.

“Luna,” he repeats. “Right. Fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I remember her. I really hope you two had amazing conversations, by the way, because I used to wait forever for you to finish so we could get on Minecraft.”

That hits me.

He is lying next to me, half making fun of me, half listening, and instead of disappearing like I used to fear he would, he keeps moving closer into the truth.

“We did have good conversations,” I tell him. “Very expensive ones too.”

He snorts.

“Yeah, she better have been life-changing.”

“She helped.”

He turns his head to look at me.

“Good.”

Just that.

Good.

No look on his face like I’ve become something fragile or scary.

He is annoyed that my therapist used to steal prime Minecraft hours from him.

This is such a Silas thing to do.

That makes everything in me go quiet for a second.

I laugh. “You invented two completely different women.”

“Be nice to me,” he mutters. “I was emotionally invested in those therapy sessions against my will.”

That makes me turn and look at him properly.

“Against your will?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because every time you disappeared, I had to sit there like a stray cat waiting for Vox to come back online.”

I laugh again, softer this time.

He shifts a little closer, one knee bumping mine under the blanket like it means nothing.

It does not mean nothing.

Nothing tonight means nothing.

“I’m serious, though,” he says after a second, quieter now. “I’m glad she helped.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”

He makes a face.

“So your brain is bad at chill.”

The line is rude enough that I almost laugh.

“That is one way to phrase years of psychiatry, yes.”

He points at me. “See? That version I understand.”

Then, out of nowhere, he just moves closer and curls up next to me, resting his head right on my chest.

I don’t say a word.

I completely forget how to speak.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks quietly. “That you were Vox?”

I swallow.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It was a bit of everything. Mostly I was scared of losing you. I thought you’d think I planned all of it from the start. Like the whole thing was some weird plan to win you over.”

I pause.

“And I needed time to process it too. That’s not exactly a small thing to realize. The person you thought you were never going to meet suddenly turns out to be the person standing next to you all day. And your twin’s boyfriend.”

I run my fingers lightly over his arm.

“I was really scared.”

He’s quiet for a second.

“I mean… the way you’re saying it, I get it. It’s insane, but I get it. I don’t even know what I would’ve done if I were you. I would probably drown myself just to avoid telling you.”

We both laugh.

“Anyway,” he says, sounding sleepier now, “can we please talk about the rest tomorrow? I’m dying, and the reporters are gonna crawl up our asses first thing in the morning.”

I laugh.

“They’ll crawl up your ass. You’re the winner, not me.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. “You still won a whole magazine talking about you and showing you off.” He pauses. “Which, by the way, I’m keeping copies of.”

I smile.

“Why copies and not copy?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at me, completely serious.

“So I can read a fresh one when the other stops being readable from too many licks.”

I stare at him.

Then I laugh.

“You just admitted you want to lick me.”

“Nah, I didn’t.”

He shifts again and lies down next to me, facing me this time.

“Goodnight, Victor.”

“Goodnight, Silas,” I say.

I close my eyes.

A few seconds later, I feel him take my hand and place it right on the curve of his waist.

My eyes open immediately.

His are still closed.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “And pet me.”

I obey so fast it’s actually humiliating.

I close my eyes again and start moving my fingers gently over his skin, slow little strokes over his waist, probably enjoying it even more than he is.

Then he moves.

And suddenly I feel his soft lips on mine.

Just for a second.

My hand freezes from pure panic, and he nudges his hip against my palm like, wake up, hand.

I smile into the dark and start touching him again, softer this time.

I feel lucky far below the level of dignity.

I do not want tomorrow to ruin this. I do not want my own intensity to ruin this and make him close up again.

I want to keep earning this.

Slowly.

I want him to reach for me on instinct one day and not realize how much that means until after it happens.

That is the future I want.

He deserves that. He deserves touch that does not ask too much of him.

Tonight he put my hand on his waist and asked me for softness.

And I have never been more afraid to lose something I have only just been given.

---

I probably spent more time researching than actually writing this chapter😔 I’m not a doctor, but I did my best to make everything as accurate as I could.

I hope you still like Victor. Please tell me you do.

51) The Favorite Acosta

Silas’s POV

I’m touching something I know for damn sure I shouldn’t be touching.

Victor’s still out cold, breathing deep and even, no shirt on.

My head is smashed against his chest, cheek pressed into warm skin that’s weirdly soft.

Would he feel it if I bit him?

Just once.

His skin smells stupidly good. Too addictive.

Makes me feel like a straight-up pervert, but that scent hits me right in the gut and turns me feral.

The real problem isn’t where my head is. It’s where my hand is.

My palm is resting on his body, but what I’m actually cupping… isn’t his thigh.

It’s his dick.

Thick, heavy morning wood straining against his shorts.

Fuck.

I’m accidentally griping Acosta’s hard-on.

This feels illegal. I asked to see it, not to full-on grab it.

But damn…if he hasn’t moved my hand away, I’m not about to pull it away myself.

It’s been a long time since my hand was on a guy’s dick. The last time was back when I was nineteen, some random hot guy at a party.

Didn’t fuck, just jerked him off in the bathroom on a dare.

Felt hot at the time.

I don’t like admitting I’m not a virgin.

Yeah, there was a dick in my ass once, a real one, but I was crying and begging for it to stop the whole time.

Thought after that I’d never want to see another one again.

Yet here I am, weirdly calm. Calm and lowkey horny as hell.

Because it’s Victor.

After sexual assault, you really do think, okay. That’s it.

Sex is dead to me now. Touch is dead to me now. Desire is dead to me now.

Pack it up. Shut it down. Leave me the fuck alone.

No one is ever getting that close to me again unless I physically have no other choice.

It sounds obvious after something like that.

Like, of course I won’t want it again. Sex is ruined now.

That’s what you tell yourself because it makes sense. Something ugly happened, so now everything even remotely connected to it must be ugly too.

But sometimes that’s not true. Sometimes you do want it again, way sooner than you thought you would, actually.

Not because what happened did not matter or because you are magically over it, but because your body was never the problem.

It was the lack of choice. The fucking force. The fear.

The feeling that once something started, you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to.

That’s the part that ruins everything.

So when somebody finally stands in front of you and proves the opposite, your body notices.

Fast.

Faster than your brain, maybe.

’Cause sometimes all you need is just one patient person.

One person who does not rush. Who does not test your limits for fun, and does not treat your vulnerability like an opportunity.

One person who can want you and still stop.

That makes me start feeling normal again. I mean actually like myself.

Like the Silas that existed before everything got split into before and after.

I start wanting things I used to want before it happened, because now I know I have the choice to want them and still not fucking do them.

That changes everything.

I can want something and still say no or stop halfway.

That is such a huge difference it almost makes me angry nobody says it louder.

Because Victor has no idea how good I felt yesterday when I brought up sex and he basically said, I don’t want to.

What do you mean you don’t want to??

Now I want to.

Now I’m the one thinking about it. Now I’m the one getting curious.

That is what patience does.

It gives your body room to come back on its own.

And when it comes back, it comes back honest. Not out of pressure or out of fear.

Not because you are forcing yourself to “move on,” like I did with Leo Acosta.

I tried forcing myself to move on with him, just in case it was all in my head. Just in case I was the problem.

Yeah.

Great plan.

I was basically trying to drag myself back into sex at gunpoint, and that still wasn’t enough for that dickhead.

We were together for one fucking month and he acted like I was supposed to be dying to strip naked on command for a man who talked about sex like a fifteen-year-old boy who had just discovered jerking off.

Like, ayo, can we just fuck already, my balls are gonna explode, babe.

That kind of vibe.

I did try.

I tried harder than I should have.

I tried in ways that make me want to grab that Silas by the shoulders and ask what the fuck he thought he was proving.

I tried to act normal for somebody who had done absolutely nothing to make normal feel possible.

And instead of patience, I got whining.

So, so, so much fucking whining.

So yeah, no shit it got worse.

No shit the idea of sex started feeling less like desire and more like some humiliating test I was going to fail while a grown man sighed at me because his dick had feelings.

That’s what makes Victor hit so different.

He doesn’t act like wanting me means he purchased me.

And after being around somebody who acted like a month of dating meant I should be throwing my legs open with a smile, that feels almost obscene in its own way.

A man saying, no, we’re not doing that, is genuinely one of the hottest things anyone has ever done to me.

Finally somebody is not treating my body like a vending machine that ate his coins.

And yeah, healing is messy. It’s not one straight line.

You can feel amazing one night and weird the next. You can want something badly and still get triggered later.

But still.

You can come back from it fast when the person in front of you handles you right.

Because the right response is that powerful.

Victor shifts in his sleep.

I pull my hand away from his boxers and tuck it back on my own side, because I’m not letting him wake up and think I’m some horny little creep.

My whole body goes still.

He moves once, slow and heavy, then opens his eyes. They’re blurry for half a second, unfocused, and then they land on me.

On how close I am.

And before I can even think of something stupid to say, he just grabs me.

He hooks both arms around my waist and pulls me fully on top of him like I belong there, my legs ending up on either side of him, my body pressed over his, his hands locked around my middle.

My brain actually stops working.

No thoughts. No smartass little comment to save myself.

Nothing.

I swear even my blood stops moving for a second, and that’s when it hits me all at once.

How touch-starved I actually am.

I needed this. Exactly this.

Someone holding me close enough to feel it everywhere without taking.

Without making my body brace for impact.

I don’t react at all. I just stay there, exactly where he put me. My face ends up tucked into the side of his neck, half hidden there, his smell flooding my head. It almost makes me dizzy.

He smells warm and stupidly good.

I can feel his chest rising under me. Can feel his hands at my waist.

Something in me gives up.

Before I can overthink it, before I can kill the impulse and bury it under twelve layers of bullshit, I press one soft kiss to his neck.

Just one.

A quiet one.

Just a small, instinctive thing, like my body wants to tell him I like this without me having to say it out loud like a fucking robot.

Victor twitches under me, and for some reason that makes a small smile pull at my mouth.

So I do it again.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Slow, lazy, soft little kisses scattered around his neck, under his jaw, over that warm skin that smells so good it should honestly be illegal.

My hand moves to his chest without me thinking too hard about it, just lightly brushing over him, fingertips dragging in slow strokes.

He makes this low, half-awake movement like he’s sinking deeper into it.

His hands stay on my waist.

And then they start moving too, rubbing gently at my sides, back and forth, like he’s answering me in his own language.

Like he’s giving back exactly what I’m giving him.

My stomach flips.

This is insane. This is so fucking dangerous.

Because this, this right here, is how people get addicted.

Not to sex. Not even to kissing.

To softness.

To being handled carefully.

I keep kissing him anyway. Slowly.

Drunk on the feeling of being wanted without being hunted.

His grip tightens just a little when I kiss the same spot twice, and I swear to God I might actually black out from how badly that does something to me.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp hits on the door.

I let out a small groan and peel myself off Victor like this is not the worst possible timing in human history.

Then I drag myself to the door, half dead, half horny, fully offended.

The second I open it, I find his Spanish friend there again.

The one who seems to speak approximately four words of English and pure vibes. I still don’t know how he’s survived this long in an international setting.

Divine intervention, probably.

His mullet is messier now. His piercings have multiplied. His clothes somehow got even darker, which is impressive, because I’m pretty sure he was already dressed like a gothic threat last time.

Black tank top. Black baggy pants to the knee. Heavy black boots that look like they could absolutely kill me if he kicked me with them.

He blinks at me.

“Uhh. Victor,” he says. “Where is.”

I lean against the doorframe. “I ate him.”

He nods once.

“Nice. Breakfast is finish.”

I rub my eyes, trying to wake up enough to survive this conversation.

“Finished?”

He frowns. “No. Finish later.”

“So… not finished.”

He points down the hallway.

“Soon finish. Come.”

“I’m getting mixed signals.”

“Food go.”

“Where?”

“AWAY.”

“The food is escaping??”

He shuts his eyes.

I genuinely think I may be shortening this man’s lifespan in real time.

“Hey, Ciro.”

Victor’s voice lands directly behind me, rough with sleep, and I immediately forget at least half the jokes I had ready.

Fuck me.

Ciro starts talking fast in Spanish and Victor answers just as quickly, and wow.

Wow.

Okay.

Suddenly I support Spain.

Deeply.

I know absolutely nothing about the country, honestly. Couldn’t point to half its cities on a map if you put a gun to my head.

But if this is what they sound like over there, then wow.

Beautiful place. Rich culture. Huge fan.

Why don’t more people speak Spanish?!

He could be reading the ingredients off a cereal box and I’d still be standing here like wow, okay. Incredible. Say contains traces of nuts again, king.

I’m such a loser.

I’m absolutely making him read random shit to me in Spanish.

Anything. Everything.

Shampoo bottles. Medication warnings. Receipts. Airport signs. The back of a juice carton.

I want this man to pick up the most useless object in the room and read every single word like it’s a religious experience made specifically for me.

Ciro says something else, Victor answers, then gives him a quick goodbye and shuts the door.

“He called us for breakfast,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. “Sorry about that. Ciro has always been an English denier. He does amazing tattoos, though.”

I grin. “He looks like he does.”

Then we head to the bathroom to brush our teeth, and I try very hard to act like I didn’t just almost convert to Spain in the doorway.

At breakfast, I cannot stop looking at him.

It’s starting to get annoying.

Not for him. For me.

He’s at the other table with Thiago, and every time I tell myself to stop staring, my eyes go right back to him anyway.

My phone vibrates against the table.

I glance down, already irritated, and the second I see the notification my eyes widen.

LEO:

• hey babe.

• heard you’re rooming with the psycho.

Of course.

Leo.

My cheating ex.

ME:

• Die mad.

LEO:

• aw.

• still got that mouth on you.

• has he started staring at you like he wants to wear your skin yet?

My fingers go still around the phone.

I swallow hard.

That lands in a way I don’t like, mostly because if he knew where my brain was a few hours ago, he’d probably never shut up again.

He’s over here warning me about Victor wanting to skin me alive while I was lying there wondering if biting him would count as a crime.

ME:

• Fuck off.

LEO:

• ask him why someone ended up in the hospital.

• ask him why the last person he wanted changed cities.

I stare at the message.

Then read it again.

And the second time is worse. My heart starts beating too fast.

What the fuck does that mean?

ME:

• Ask your therapist why you’re so obsessed with competing with your brother over literally everything.

LEO:

• you think this is jealousy?

ME:

-Yeah.

-You really hate not being the favourite Acosta in the room.

LEO:

• Ask him about Adrian.

ME:

• No.

LEO:

• Why are you so determined not to know things?

ME:

• Why are you so determined to make your brother sound like a monster?

LEO:

• Because monsters don’t always look ugly.

• Sometimes they look like someone who’d burn the world for you.

Something cold slips quietly down my spine.

That one sticks. I hate that it sticks.

ME:

• Fuck off, Leo.

LEO:

• Gladly.

• Just don’t say nobody warned you.

I lock my phone immediately and drop it face down on the table.

I stare at my plate.

My appetite leaves the chat.

For a second everything feels wrong. Too loud. Too bright. The room presses in a little.

Leo has always known exactly how to say things in a way that worms under the skin and stays there, making itself comfortable, making you do the rest of the damage for him.

I hate that he can still do that.

I hate that one message from him can drag me out of my own head and dump me straight into this weird, twitchy feeling like I missed a step in the dark.

I lift my head and look over at Victor’s table.

And instantly the mood gets slapped in the face.

He’s trying, very carefully, to remove the tomatoes from his sandwich.

Each slice he pulls out, he sets neatly beside Thiago’s plate. Then one of the tomato pieces slips out of Victor’s fingers and lands directly in Thiago’s coffee.

Thiago jerks back and starts fake choking Victor.

Victor looks offended. Actually offended.

Wow.

The terrifying monster is currently losing a battle against a tomato.

Horrifying, really.

I can barely handle the contrast.

Five seconds ago Leo was in my phone talking like Victor has bodies buried under churches, and now I’m watching the so-called beast accidentally season someone’s coffee with a wet sandwich vegetable.

Truly sinister behavior.

Fuck you, Leo.

Seriously.

If there is anyone in this room who can spot a dangerous person by now, it’s me.

That’s what makes this whole thing so insulting.

He really thinks I’ll just swallow this.

That he can throw a few creepy little lines at me, say hospital, say changed cities, say monster, and I’ll immediately panic because Victor has the face for it.

Please.

I’m not stupid.

And I’m definitely not naive enough to confuse intense with dangerous.

Yes, Victor is intense. Obviously.

He feels like too much sometimes. He watches too closely.

He has that whole dark, severe thing going on that probably scares the shit out of people who don’t know him.

Fine.

But dangerous?

No.

And I need Leo to go fuck himself for acting like I wouldn’t know the difference.

Because here’s the part he never bothered to earn the right to know: I do know the difference now.

I learned it the hard way.

I know what bad feels like. I know what kind eyes with rotten intentions look like. I know what fake softness feels like.

I know what it feels like to be in a room with somebody and realize, too late, that they were never safe to begin with.

Leo never sat with me long enough to hear any of that.

He never stayed still long enough for me to explain what happened to me.

Never cared enough to understand why I can tell now.

Why I trust my instincts now.

Why I don’t need some bitter ex with a brother complex to translate danger for me like I’m too stupid to recognize it myself.

He thinks I’ll just believe him because the story sounds dramatic.

He thinks I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I do.

I know there’s something in Victor that can probably get ugly in the wrong hands or the wrong moment.

But I also know he explained that to me.

He didn’t hide it. He didn’t lie.

He didn’t feed me some polished fake version of himself and let me walk in blind.

He told me what he’s like. He told me why.

And more importantly, I know how he is with me.

Victor has been careful with me. Almost ridiculously careful, actually.

Half the time he acts like I’m the one who might bite him.

Which, okay, fair enough. That is becoming less and less of a metaphor.

But still.

I’m not over here knitting by a window and getting lured into darkness against my will.

I know what it feels like to have somebody near you and immediately start calculating exits.

I do not do that with Victor.

Even when he’s too intense.

And also, what exactly am I supposed to do with ’ has he started looking at you like he wants to wear your skin yet?’

Is that meant to scare me off?

Because I’m not proud of this, but fuck me if I don’t like them a little crazy about me.

I’m not asking a man to build a shrine out of my hair and lose touch with reality. But a little unwell? A little obsessive? A little too intense when it comes to me specifically?

Yeah.

Unfortunately, that does not exactly make me pack my bags.

If anything, it makes me want to lean in and ask follow-up questions.

Again, not proud. But honest.

Sorry, but if he wants to ruin his life over me, that’s between him and God.

He should be the one afraid of what happens if I ever get too comfortable.

If I ever stop holding myself back and dump every single want I’ve been keeping on a leash straight onto him.

If I really stop censoring every thought and every impulse and every feral little urge I keep shoving back down, then God help him.

I’m not sitting here shaking because Victor might lose control.

I’m sitting here thinking maybe he should pray I don’t.

I want the too-muchness.

The intensity that would probably send a healthier person running.

If I know what it feels like to be willing to go a little too far in my own head for the person I want, then yeah, I want to feel that reflected back at me.

If I’m standing here thinking I could get extreme about you in ways I’d never admit out loud, then I want to know you’re capable of meeting me somewhere in that same dark little hallway.

“I heard if you stare at them too intensely, they get pregnant,” Jett says from beside me, dragging me straight out of my thoughts.

I laugh. “What?”

“Yeah. It’s not confirmed yet, but you never know. Victor could end up carrying triplets because of you. Don’t take the risk if you’re not ready for commitment.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, and I look back down at my plate.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “That really helped.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “You’ve been eye-fucking him for, like, five straight minutes. At this point I think the babies already have names.”

I hate that I nearly choke.

Because unfortunately, he’s not even that wrong.

I grab my fork and try to act normal. I keep my eyes on my food.

Very disciplined.

This lasts about three seconds.

Then, like the weak little bitch I apparently am, I look at him again.

---

The next two chapters are ABSOLUTE CINEMA.

52) I Marked Him First

Silas’s POV

By the time evening rolls around, I’m already tired of this day in at least six different ways.

We spent the entire afternoon tattooing, feeding reporters passive-aggressive little soundbites, throwing jabs at each other every chance we got, and fighting over who could drag more people to their station.

Two deeply unserious men trapped in a very expensive rivalry.

So naturally, the cruise decides the perfect next step is a formal dinner.

Of course.

Because apparently it’s not enough that we’re trapped on a floating metal city full of rich people and cameras. No, now we also have to dress like we’re about to either get married, sign a business merger, or die in a murder mystery.

I’m in a fucking button-up.

A real one.

With actual effort involved.

I feel like a child being sent to an event his mother warned him not to embarrass her at.

If there isn’t champagne waiting for me at this thing, I’m leaving.

I don’t care if I have to swan dive directly into the sea. You cannot put me in formalwear and then hand me water like this is normal.

The elevator is already crowded by the time we get in.

Me, Acosta, and a bunch of random people who are probably heading to the same cursed dinner where we all pretend to know what fork means what.

Everyone smells expensive. Everyone looks polished.

Victor steps in behind me. Exactly behind me.

Close enough that I can feel him there even before he fully settles.

And immediately, because I was clearly not raised right, I decide to make that his problem.

The elevator is packed. Bodies pressed close. Shoulders brushing.

Nobody would think twice about a little contact…

So I lean back.

Just slightly .

Enough that my back presses into his chest a little more than strictly necessary. A little more than can be explained by well, we’re all cramped in here.

But who’s going to call me out on it??

It looks innocent.

That’s the beauty of it.

My face stays completely neutral. I keep staring ahead like I’m not doing anything at all. Like I’m just another exhausted professional on his way to a formal dinner.

Meanwhile, behind my back, my hands rest low, and my fingers brush just lightly enough over the fabric of his pants to be almost deniable.

It’s barely anything. Just a soft innocent graze. A tiny, private little act of violence.

I feel him shift behind me, and I smile.

God, I’m annoying.

We all file into the dinner room and head for our assigned seats like this is some kind of elegant cult initiation.

Of course there are assigned seats.

God forbid we be allowed to freestyle near the champagne.

I look over and spot Jett currently trapped between Thiago and Noah, and he immediately catches my eye and makes a silent ’ kill me’ gesture.

Yeah, right.

Poor thing.

Must be so hard sitting between the guy you were very happily sucking off yesterday and the guy you’re probably already planning a wedding with in your head.

Absolutely brutal.

I wouldn’t wish that kind of suffering on anyone.

My thoughts and prayers.

Then I make the mistake of looking forward. Victor is sitting directly across from me.

He looks so offensively hot I kind of want to throw a bag over his head just so the rest of us can eat in peace.

How exactly am I supposed to sit here and act normal around shrimp and shellfish when the thing I actually want to eat is sitting right in front of me in a dress shirt??

It feels unreasonable.

His sleeves are rolled just enough to show his forearms, and my eyes instantly get stuck there like the absolute embarrassment of a person that I am.

There’s something deeply unfair about how veiny his hands are.

I hate men.

That’s a lie.

I hate this one.

Also a lie.

I keep staring at him.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” a voice whispers beside me.

Fuck.

I turn fast, already convinced I’ve been caught thirsting in public like a complete animal.

There’s another artist sitting next to me whose name I absolutely do not remember, which is unfortunate because she has apparently chosen now to become part of my life.

“What?” I ask, trying to sound casual while putting salad on my plate like a man with nothing to hide.

She leans in.

“You want to do his first tattoo too, right? Like everyone else.”

I pause. Then grin.

Oh.

That. Interesting.

“What are you talking about?” I murmur.

She glances toward Victor with visible irritation. “Everyone wants the title. ‘The first person to tattoo Acosta.’ You know how many famous artists have offered to do something for free?? He always says no. Always . He just refuses.”

Her voice drops even lower.

“Honestly, I think he’s scared of the needle.”

I almost smile into my plate.

What an evil little bitch I am.

Because no, woman.

He’s already let someone mark him. He just didn’t tell any of you.

And that someone is me.

I did it before all of them.

Before the big names. Before whatever desperate tattoo celebrities are out there trying to get their holy little moment on the untouched skin of Victor Acosta.

Me.

I marked him first.

And suddenly, now that I know all these people have been secretly dying to get their hands on him, I feel this weird, ugly little pulse of pride move through me.

Because I didn’t just touch that body.

I made my mark on it.

Mine.

Not that anyone here knows that.

They also don’t know I watched him get hard under my hands in real time.

So yeah.

This conversation is doing something nasty to my ego.

But I’m not going to ruin her fantasy.

I turn to her with a pleasant little smile. “I hope he picks you.”

Over my dead body.

If Victor ever decides he wants another tattoo, then thankfully for him, I’m a professional.

He doesn’t need anyone.

I can take care of him.

As the night drags on, I start getting bored.

I look around the room.

Most people are done eating by now and have started doing that annoying formal-event thing where they drift around in little circles pretending to have fascinating conversations.

Very few people are still sitting.

Victor is one of them.

I smile to myself and unlock my phone with one purpose in mind.

ME:

• help

Across the room, Victor lifts his head and looks at me.

“What?” I mouth.

“Nothing.”

My phone buzzes.

VOX:

• hello to you too

• what happened

ME:

• i’m at a table with humans

Victor’s mouth twitches.

VOX:

• tragic

I bite back a smile and type again.

ME:

• and none of them are you, unfortunately.

• wish you were here

• you’d still be bored but at least we could do something together

VOX:

• what would we do if I was there?

I stare at the message for a second, then type before I can overthink it.

ME:

• i don’t know…

• i just know i’d rather be somewhere darker right now

• with the sea under us

• and my head shoved into some beautiful man’s neck while he whispers sweet nothings to me.

• shame we can’t…

I glance at Victor.

Discreetly.

He’s smiling at his screen, and that makes him even prettier, which is offensive enough on its own, but what really ruins me is the fact that it still doesn’t feel real.

No matter how angry I am somewhere deep down, I still can’t quite process that it was him all those years.

Him.

If I’m honest, some ugly little part of me had always assumed Vox was probably someone no one really wanted in real life.

Someone shut in. Weird, and definitely detached.

Some lonely ghost of a person who talked to me all day because I was the only one around.

He sounded like that sometimes.

Like someone who lived mostly in his own head. Like somebody who didn’t leave the house unless forced.

I never cared.

He entertained me. He got me.

He understood me in ways nobody else ever really did, and that was enough for me to like him that much.

Plus, he was funny as shit.

But now I know what he looks like when he talks to me.

And that is humiliating.

Because now when he messages me, I don’t just feel understood.

I melt. I feel chosen.

Special.

Pathetic, too.

But mostly special.

And it makes me want to know what other beautiful things he’s been hiding from me all this time.

I stand up.

Cross the room.

And drop into the seat beside Victor.

“Good evening, Acosta.”

“Blackwood,” he says, looking at me like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

A waiter passes behind us carrying champagne, and I immediately steal a glass from the tray.

“Champagne?” I offer brightly.

Victor looks at it, then at me, then reaches for it—

And I yank it back ridiculously fast.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, suddenly annoyed. “Why were you about to take that?! You’re on meds.”

I keep my voice low because I have no idea how public he is about that, and I’m not about to find out by shouting it over shellfish and string quartet music.

He smiles at me.

“You looked like you really wanted me to take it,” he says.

“So what?” I hiss. “If I told you to jump off the ship right now, would you do that too just because I said it?”

He looks at me with that small, maddening smile.

I wait.

He clears his throat.

“No. Sorry.”

“Good.”

I take a sip of the champagne myself and glance around the room.

“Anyway,” I murmur, “how long do you think it’ll take them to realize we left together?”

“We’re not leaving together,” he says.

He lifts a hand casually in front of his mouth and nods toward my plate.

“The bald guy in the white shirt is filming us,” he murmurs. “Watch what you say. And what you do.”

I look over without making it obvious, and sure enough, there he is, gathering footage of us.

Fantastic.

And we can’t even complain because we already signed the papers.

We knew they’d be filming. We agreed to it.

Which means if anyone catches even a hint that something is going on, it turns into a scandal neither of us needs.

I keep my expression neutral and swirl the champagne in my glass like I’m thinking about nothing deeper than bubbles.

“I’ll go to the room and get our jackets. Meet me on the top floor. The fewer people who see you leaving, the better,” he whispers.

He turns his head just enough to look at me.

For a second I hate how good he is at this. How quickly he shifts from soft to strategic.

How hot that is, unfortunately.

“That sounded so sexy,” I murmur behind my glass.

“Silas.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

I take another sip. “Don’t forget the cigarettes.”

The second he lowers his hand, I make a face like he just said something deeply irritating. Like I’m getting up because I can’t stand him for one more second.

Performance matters.

I push my chair back and stand.

Then I head for Poppy.

She’s wearing a long tight green dress, and her ginger hair is falling over her shoulders in soft waves.

“Hey. Why are you alone?” I ask, rubbing her shoulder as I stop beside her.

She looks up. “Hi. Actually, I’m waiting for Rosalia. She said she wants us to go for a drink.”

I glance around. “A drink as in… what?”

Poppy squints at me over the rim of her glass. “I don’t even know. She’s being aggressively friendly, but I genuinely can’t tell if she’s just girls’ girl or if she’s actually girls’ girl. You know what I mean??”

I immediately start laughing.

She looks at me like she’s considering murder.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, already failing to recover. “I just remembered that time Jett told a guy he liked his outfit and the guy went, undress me, daddy, and then five seconds later was like, oh no, sorry, I have a girlfriend, I didn’t think you’d actually want to. “

Poppy throws me a deeply tired look.

“Rainbow life is hard,” she says gravely, grabbing a shot off a passing waiter’s tray.

I grin.

“I’ll keep you updated,” she says, wiping at the corner of her mouth. Then she narrows her eyes at me. “Where are you going?”

I glance left.

“Uh. You know. Back to the room. Sleep.”

“Right,” she says immediately, pretending to believe me. “Cool. Tell him to email me once you’re done so we can sort out the guest spot details.”

She smiles at me with this disturbingly innocent expression and starts walking away.

“See you.”

Evil.

I watch her leave, then I turn and head for the elevator before anyone else decides to become perceptive in my vicinity.

I stop by a bar nearby and grab a beer because I’m a perfectly normal person who is absolutely not about to sneak off into the night with his rival.

I’m chill.

Very chill.

I’m just getting some air.

People seriously need to stop looking at me like I’m five seconds away from making out with my enemy in some dark corner of the ship.

It’s insulting. Also none of their business. Also not technically the plan.

I step out of the elevator again, casual as hell, and look around for Victor without making it obvious.

Then I start down one of the corridors slowly, trying not to look like I’m looking for anyone.

And then a hand grabs me and yanks me sideways into a narrow gap that barely fits both of us.

I turn fast, beer sloshing in the bottle, and find Victor there, one finger already raised to his mouth.

“Hi,” he whispers.

Why is that hot.

“Why are we hiding?” I whisper back.

“There’s a reporter from the competition here,” he says. “He’ll pass in front of us any second.”

I nod.

Then immediately stop listening because my focus lands on his mouth instead.

He looks at me.

Then down.

“What’s that?” he murmurs, practically against my lips.

“Beer,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand. “Fuck. Did you want something? I didn’t even ask. I can go back and get you—”

“No. Stay here, please.”

I go completely still.

That might actually be the neediest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life, and fuck me if it doesn’t go straight through my ribs.

I think my brain temporarily leaves my body.

I make the mistake of shifting like I’m about to step out anyway, and right at that exact second the journalist appears in front of the opening.

Panic grabs the wheel.

I grab Victor’s hood with both hands, pull it up over his head, drag him in front of me like a shield, and kiss him in the messiest way, trying to look convincing.

Just two nobody idiots hooking up in a dark corner of a ship.

His lips are warm against mine, and I can actually feel the shape of his smile there.

The bastard.

One of his hands lands on the back of my neck, gripping just enough to catch a little in my hair, and that’s it.

I’m gone.

I lean into him harder, my palm sliding to the back of his head to bring him closer, deeper, forgetting for a second that this started as a cover story.

Then I pull back slowly.

“He should be gone,” I whisper.

Victor slips out first, checks the corridor, then reaches back and pulls me out after him.

“Good save,” he says.

I wink at him like I’m not still a little dizzy from that kiss.

Then we keep moving, deeper and deeper into the quiet part of the deck.

And damn.

The ship stops feeling like a floating formal event for rich weirdos and starts looking like what it really is.

Salt-covered metal.

The corridors get narrower. The lights get fewer.

We pass heavy gray doors with no signs, and pipes running along the walls like we accidentally walked into the ship’s organs.

“Victor,” I say, grinning a little, “I just realized something cool. This place looks like we accidentally broke into the guts of the ship.”

He laughs quietly and keeps going.

Even the way he walks is hot.

I hate it.

He moves like something is weighing him down in the sexiest way possible.

I speed up to walk closer.

“I really hope you know where you’re going.”

He keeps moving like he’s done this ten times before.

“I do.”

“Very comforting. This place smells like electrocution.”

He turns into an even narrower corridor, darker than the last one, almost hidden from the main passage, and then we see a heavy metal door.

Gray.

Victor gets there first, grabs the handle, and pulls.

Nothing.

He tries again, sharper this time.

Locked.

I stop behind him, still holding the beer, and smile.

He makes that little click with his tongue, the one that means something has offended him.

“Wait.”

He tilts his head, looks around the frame of the door, then at the wall beside it, and shifts half a step.

I have no idea what he’s looking at until I see him focus on something I, like an idiot, had already dismissed as a shadow.

Maybe my mother was right.

Maybe I do need glasses.

Off to the side of the door, half hidden behind two service carts and a stack of folded metal chairs, there’s a narrow gap I absolutely would have missed.

Victor pushes one of the carts just enough to make room for a person to squeeze through.

We see a ladder.

A narrow metal one. Almost completely vertical.

That thing looks like it leads either to freedom or a very specific kind of death.

Victor turns back to me looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“This is it.”

I look at him.

Then at the ladder.

Then back at him.

“You son of a bitch. This is perfect.”

He ducks first and slips through the narrow opening.

I follow, way too excited, squeezing past the cart, smacking my elbow lightly against metal, and swearing under my breath.

The ladder looks even worse up close.

“I’ll go first and see if it’s safe,” Victor says.

Then he starts climbing.

He climbs back down a little, just enough for me to see his face again through the dark.

“It’s perfect,” he says quietly. “Give me the beer first. I’ll put it up there.”

“Are there bodies up there?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “But there could be. It’s isolated enough.”

I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“Perfect. So either we’re about to have the best night of our lives, or you murder me and no one finds me until this ship docks in another country.”

I hand him the beer and zip my jacket all the way up, suddenly aware of the fact that we are very much not supposed to be here.

Victor sets the bottle above, then leans back out through the opening.

And gives me both his hands.

“Hold me,” he says. “I’ll keep you steady. Watch your steps.”

For a second I just stare at him.

“Are you crazy??” I ask, looking up at him. “If you let me go, I will literally die.”

It comes out half joking.

Half not at all.

Victor doesn’t laugh. He looks straight at me.

“I won’t let you go,” he says. “I promise.”

Fuck.

My pulse spikes hard. He says it like there is no universe where I fall if he’s got his hands on me.

He leans a little farther down.

“I’ve got you,” he says, lower this time. “Trust me.”

That’s the moment that really kills me.

Because this is insane.

This is objectively the kind of situation people with survival instincts avoid.

Hidden service passage. Nearly vertical ladder. Middle of the night.

One slip and I’m dead.

And yet all it takes is him saying trust me in that voice and suddenly my body goes, yeah, okay. Fine. Him.

Fuck it.

I grab one of his hands.

Then the other.

His grip closes around mine instantly, and just like that my whole life is sitting in Victor Acosta’s hands.

Actually sitting there.

No exaggeration.

If he slips, I slip.

If he lets go, I fall.

And horrifyingly, that doesn’t make me panic as much as it should.

Because it’s him.

I put one foot on the ladder.

Then the next.

Victor keeps both hands locked around mine the entire time, keeping me centered while I climb.

He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t tell me to hurry.

It feels illegal. It feels dangerous. It feels so good I almost hate myself for it.

At the last step, I hesitate for half a second, and his grip tightens immediately.

“I’ve got you,” he says again.

And then he pulls enough to get me over the edge.

Enough to make me stumble into the top of the opening, and suddenly his hand leaves mine and lands at my waist instead, steadying me the second my feet hit properly.

I straighten slowly, and look around.

Holy.

Shit.

---

Guys, I am literally IN ITALY right now!!!! Gio and Rava’s home😭

I will post LOTS of pics on insta :)

These next few days I’m going to be out pretty much ALL day with literally zero time to write, so I’m sorry in advance if I fall behind on the schedule or run out of drafts.

Just remember that I spent the entire winter uploading every other day, and now I finally got to leave my house for a bit too :(

I’ll do my best to stay on schedule, and if I do fall behind, I’ll be back as soon as I can. PROMISE.

I upload less often because the chapters are literally two to three times longer than the ones in Ride or Die.

The next chapter is SOOOOO cute and amazing and ughhh sexy

53) - WE KISSED HERE -

Victor’s POV

Silas looks around like he’s enchanted.

The place is almost completely dark. Barely any light reaches us up here except what the moon spills over everything in thin silver.

Without it, this deck would just be black. Dead black.

The only things I can hear are the sea below us and faint music drifting up from some lower deck.

Around us, there’s nothing but rusted metal, grime, old machinery, forgotten junk.

Silas looks at it like I brought him to buried treasure.

“This is perfect,” he says. “Good fucking job, Victor.”

He grabs the beer bottle first, then immediately fists the front of my belt and drags me with him like I’m on a leash.

I grin.

Of course he finds the exact right spot. A little shelter tucked between metal crates and abandoned equipment, hidden enough that the wind cuts around it instead of through it.

“Sit,” he says.

So I do.

My back hits the metal wall behind me, and I bend my knees up slightly to either side.

Silas comes down right between my legs like that’s where he belongs.

He settles his back against my chest, shifting once, getting comfortable, planting his black boots between my legs, then drops his head all the way back into the space between my neck and shoulder.

Making himself at home on me.

I can smell him everywhere.

His hair. His skin.

It’s that impossible clean scent that is just him and makes keeping my hands to myself harder than it has ever been in my life.

I want to squeeze him.

Just wrap both arms around him and keep him there until morning.

Instead, I stay still.

Silas takes the beer bottle and pops it open with his teeth.

My eyes widen instantly.

I catch his jaw on instinct, gentler than the panic in me feels, and turn his face toward mine.

“Smile,” I tell him, half horrified.

Without hesitation, he grins at me, all teeth.

I mean to check quickly and let go.

I do not.

I stay there a second longer than I should, holding his jaw, looking at his mouth, because he has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen in my life and suddenly that feels like a real emergency.

I could ruin my life over a smile like that.

I let him go.

“Good,” I say. “I wanted to make sure you still had all your teeth after that.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He takes a sip of beer. “Get a cigarette now.”

I pull out the last cigarette from the pack.

The upside down one.

I slide it between my fingers and bring it to his mouth. I cup the flame until it catches, and for one brief second the orange light washes over his face and makes him look even less real.

His cheekbones. His mouth. His lashes.

Everything on him sharpened and softened at once by fire.

He takes the first drag and lets out a low groan. His head falls back against me in relief and he hands me the cigarette.

I take a deep drag and exhale the smoke away from him.

“We should probably quit,” he says, staring upward.

I flick ash aside. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs. “Because I want to live.”

Then he turns just enough to look at me, and I swallow hard at the sight of him. He’s ridiculously beautiful.

“We’ll make it a goal,” he says. “If I quit, you give me Pickle. If you quit, you get to keep him.”

I laugh.

“So nothing changes for me? I just get to keep my own dog?”

He thinks about it for a second.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

I put my hand on his forehead and nudge him back against me again.

Then, very slowly, with a level of hesitation that feels almost humiliating, I lift my hand and slide it into his hair.

I expect him to swat me off. Tell me to fuck off. Make some smart comment.

He doesn’t.

So I start moving carefully, smoothing it back, stroking through it little by little like I’m handling something nervous and half-feral that might still bite me if I get too confident.

He lets me.

He shifts slightly, getting even more comfortable, and every line of him presses back into me with casual cruelty.

He has no idea what that does to a person.

Or maybe he does. Maybe that is what makes him Silas.

Everything around us is filthy. There’s rust, oil, salt, old metal.

The kind of hidden deck nobody is supposed to romanticize.

And yet with him here, tucked into me like this, it feels better than any beautiful place I have ever seen.

Maybe because it is ours right now.

He takes another drag, then holds the cigarette out for me again without even turning around, like he already expects me to be there.

I think he knows I will always be exactly where he left me.

I take it from his fingers.

Our hands brush.

“Please don’t fall asleep,” I murmur, and twist slightly just to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Not even close. I’m actually having the time of my life.”

I laugh under my breath. “How? We’re not even doing anything.”

Silas shifts against me, and tips his face up just enough that I can catch the shape of his profile in the dark.

“We’re on a filthy deck where if they find us, they’ll probably throw us into the sea, while everyone else downstairs is talking about branding and sponsorships and probably building strategies about how your studio is going to destroy mine and vice versa.” He shrugs a little. “I’m good.”

I nod.

He shifts a little closer, and I wrap both arms around his waist, pulling him in until there is no space left to misunderstand.

I was the one who told him not to fall asleep, but at this point I might be the one in danger of it.

Not because I’m tired. Because this feels too much like peace, and peace is rare enough in my life that my body barely knows what to do with it when it finally appears.

In two days we will have to split apart again. I tighten my hold on him without meaning to.

Two days.

Then what?

Back to distance. Back to acting like you’re just my rival again. Back to pretending I know how to live without you.

I am going to lose you again before I have even had the chance to win you.

How am I supposed to go back to the clean, stupid language of rivalry when the truth is so much uglier than that?

You are not my rival. You are my everything.

The center of every thought I keep trying to drag somewhere more reasonable and failing every time.

It feels like I’ve been drowning for years, and right when I finally found land, someone leaned out and said, sorry, no parking here. Go drown again.

I want to stay here forever.

Just me, you, and the stars.

He takes another sip of beer. When he goes to set the bottle down, it knocks lightly against something metal.

He pauses.

Then he reaches for it and lifts it into the moonlight to see what it is.

Some thick little bent piece of iron. A chunk of scrap. I’m not even sure.

He lowers it again, but I take it from his hand immediately.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Shut up.”

I bend it carefully in the dark, mostly guessing, trying to shape it by feel.

I have no real plan. No real visibility either.

I just want very badly to make something for him, even if it’s ugly.

When I think I’ve done enough, I hand it back to him.

He holds it up toward the moon.

“Oh my God,” he says. “Victor, this looks like a ballsack.”

And then he absolutely loses it. Just starts laughing like crazy.

I laugh too, mostly because he is laughing, If it makes him look like this, then it was worth it.

“What happened to these balls?” he asks through a grin. “Why are they so tragic?”

“Give it back.”

“No, wait, I’m studying them.” He turns it in the moonlight. “Jesus Christ. They look heavy.”

I groan. “That was supposed to be a heart.”

“A heart??” He looks at me, horrified. “Oh, babe, no. This is deeply testicular.”

I bury my face for half a second against the side of his head, laughing.

“It is not…”

“It absolutely is.” He keeps inspecting it like a critic at a gallery. “Honestly, I’m flattered. Most guys get flowers or chocolate hearts, you know? You got me a fucking nutsack. Very romantic and creative.”

I can’t stop the smile spreading on my face.

“Wait. Are these modeled after yours?? Because the size is very flattering, Acosta.”

He’s laughing way too much.

I should make him more. Maybe a whole set. Keychain. Bottle opener. Something bigger next time.

“You’re such a strange man,” he murmurs, still grinning. “But I love that you made this for me. Even if it looks like you want me to suck on your nuts 24/7. Next time just say it. No need to sculpt your desires in metal.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, still laughing.

I take the metal thing back from him and glare down at it.

“It was a nice idea,” I mutter.

“It was,” he says immediately, softer now, then ruins it again two seconds later. “Thank you for this heavy nutsack.”

I laugh into his hair.

“That’s not a nutsack,” I say, laughing in protest. “It’s a heart.”

Silas looks at the bent scrap of metal in his hand like he’s deeply considering its future.

“I’m naming this nutsack…” He pauses dramatically, pretending to think. “Eduardo. Sounds like someone with balls.”

“Okay, enough.” I laugh and grab it back from him. “I’m taking it.”

He turns toward me so fast he looks genuinely offended.

His eyes are wide open.

“No. You can’t fucking do that. You made it for me.”

He lunges for it, but I pull my hand away.

“You son of a bitch,” he says. “Give me Eduardo back.”

“No.”

“Victor.”

“No.”

He tries to grab my wrist, and I dodge him again, stretching my arm farther away. That only makes him worse. Now we are actually fighting over a twisted piece of metal on a filthy hidden deck.

We slide across the floor, half tangled, wrestling, laughing hard enough to lose all coordination. He keeps trying to pry my fingers open, but he’s laughing too much to put any real strength into it.

“Give him back,” he says through a grin.

“Never.”

I turn, using my body like a shield, curling around the stupid metal heart so he can’t reach it.

Silas immediately climbs over me to stop me.

We roll again, my shoulder hitting the floor, his weight shifting over me, both of us trying and failing to get any control over the situation.

I finally manage to pin him under me.

He’s still laughing, breathless now, chest rising and falling fast under my hands.

His hair is a mess. His mouth is parted. His face is flushed from laughing and fighting with me.

“If you don’t give me my nutsack back,” he says, still panting, “I’m going to start moaning loudly.”

I laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

He smiles.

“Have you learned nothing in all these years?” he murmurs. “Give it.”

“No.”

And then he actually does it.

A loud, obscene moan straight from his soul.

I clap my hand over his mouth instantly, shocked into movement before I can even think.

“Mmph—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, laughing under my breath. “Fine. I’ll give it back.”

Then both of us freeze.

There’s a flashlight moving somewhere near the stairs. The beam cuts through the dark in quick, searching swipes.

We both turn toward it at the same time, my hand still clamped over his mouth, my other hand still holding both his wrists pinned down near his chest.

Shit.

“Come here,” I whisper. “Now.”

I pull him up fast and we slip back into the little hollow between the metal crates and abandoned junk, the same hiding place as before, only now everything feels tighter.

He presses his back to my chest again as soon as we’re inside it, fitting himself against me, still shaking with silent laughter.

We stay still.

Breathing hard.

Listening.

The flashlight drifts somewhere nearby, then away, then back again.

I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. My own breathing won’t settle. Neither will his.

There’s a metal wall right beside us, and before I can ask what he’s doing, Silas reaches down, grabs some little gear-shaped piece of junk from the floor, and starts scratching something into the wall.

“That’s vandalism,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

He just keeps carving, focused.

Then he finishes, wipes his dirty fingers against his trousers, and leans back into me like nothing happened.

He takes his phone out, switches to the front camera, and drags me closer so we both fit in next to the evidence of our vandalism.

The proof. Our stupid little crime scene.

He snaps one photo. Then another. Then three more.

Every single one is going to look like shit.

Too dark and blurry. A little crooked. Definitely unflattering.

But that almost makes it better, because they are real.

I pull out my flashlight and angle it carefully toward the scratched metal.

— WE KISSED HERE —

I stare at it. Then at him.

“We didn’t kiss here,” I whisper.

He looks up at me in the dark, still breathless and far too pleased with himself.

“Then don’t let me look stupid, Acosta,” he whispers back. “Kiss me already.”

Everything in me goes still.

Then all at once, not still at all.

I grab him by the neck with both hands, and I pull him into me.

Our mouths meet hard.

He pushes me down and climbs on top, pinning me with his weight.

His hands grab my jaw hard, fingers digging in, forcing my face up so he can own my mouth.

His kisses get heavier. Wetter.

Then I feel a soft, shaky little moan straight into my mouth. Just a small sound, almost like he couldn’t hold it back.

Fuck.

Is he really doing this?

Silas shifts his hips and presses down harder against me.

I can feel the obvious outline of his dick rubbing slowly over mine through our pants.

He does it again, slower this time, grinding in a lazy circle, and another low moan slips into my mouth.

I can’t believe Silas is doing this on top of me.

He breaks the kiss for half a second, lips still brushing mine, and lets out a quiet, needy sound before he dives back in, tongue fucking my mouth while his hips start moving more deliberately.

He’s pressing his hard dick against mine on purpose, like he wants me to feel exactly how turned on he is.

“Mm…” he moans into my mouth again, deeper this time.

I smirk against his lips and slide one hand down to grip his waist, pulling him harder against me.

“You like that?” I murmur. “Let me hear you again.”

Silas lets out another soft moan and starts grinding on me.

I break away from his mouth and attack his throat, sucking hard, biting, marking him up.

The wrecked sounds he makes only make me rougher. Suddenly he grabs my hair and pulls me off.

“I want you to go down on me,” he whispers in a needy tone.

I’m panting, staring up at him, heart hammering.

“Here?” I rasp.

Silas nods.

“Yeah. Right now.”

I don’t know what to say. I was not prepared for this scenario. I didn’t think I would ever live through it.

Definitely not like this.

I stroke my hand over his waist. I force my voice to stay quiet.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Silas.”

His face changes immediately.

He looks offended.

Fuck.

“I’m not proving anything,” he says, like I have just insulted his intelligence. “I’m literally just horny.”

Then he kisses my neck.

Not carefully.

He kisses me like he is trying to shut up every responsible thought I have ever had, and for a second it works.

Fuck me, it works so well I almost forget my own name.

My hand tightens on his waist before I can stop it.

His mouth stays there, dragging over my skin.

I want to drop to my knees.

Obey.

Give him whatever he wants before he has to ask twice.

It is sick how badly I want to do it.

If I let it show at full size, I might never recover from the shame of being known that well.

Silas pulls back just enough to speak against my mouth.

“Stop overthinking it,” he murmurs.

I breathe in, and all I get is him.

“I know what I’m asking for,” he says. “I want it now, and I want it from you.”

I nod.

“Without holding back,” he adds.

My eyes lift to his.

“Suck me properly.”

I drag a hand over my face.

I physically have to take my hand off him and rub my face.

I want this so much I am afraid to do it.

I swallow hard.

“You can stop me whenever you want,” I say, because I need it said. “Or tell me if something doesn’t—”

“Victor.”

I shut up immediately.

“Yes?”

His gaze fixes on mine.

“Stop talking.”

For one second, I just stare at him.

Then I smile.

“Yes, Silas.”

And then I kiss him again.

Not like before. Before, I was asking.

This time I kiss him like I heard him.

I understand that treating him like glass when he is begging to be wanted is not kindness.

It’s just another way of not listening.

He makes a small sound into my mouth, more frustration than softness, and it goes straight through me.

His hands catch in my shirt. Mine go back to his lower back, firmer now.

I’m not gonna hold back.

I can do that. For him, I can do anything.

Silas pulls at me impatiently, mouth messy against mine.

I nearly laugh because he is irritated that I am not moving fast enough.

Of course he is brave and bossy at the worst possible time.

The first time he gives me this much of himself, he does it like he is picking a fight.

I love that.

I lean in and drag my tongue slowly up his neck.

“Tell me,” I whisper against his skin. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

His fingers twist tighter in my hair.

His voice comes out filthy, and completely shameless.

“I want my dick down your throat, Victor.”

I laugh into his mouth.

“Been waiting for you to beg for it.”

Silas pulls back just enough to breathe. “I hope nobody catches us. Unbutton me.”

The second I touch his belt, some part of me braces for resistance.

There isn’t any.

Fuck.

Silas really does want to be touched.

I undo the belt slowly, and slip my hand inside his underwear.

The moment my fingers wrap around his thick dick, I pull it out and squeeze.

He leans in and kisses me.

That’s all I needed.

One honest plea out of his mouth and my whole body stops pretending it knows how to be patient.

I start stroking him nice and slow, spreading his precum all over the head with my thumb.

He presses his forehead to mine, already overwhelmed by the pleasure, and a needy moan escapes him.

“Keep it down unless you want the whole ship to hear you.”

Silas bites his lip but still lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a groan.

“Shut up and jerk me harder,” he mutters, trying to sound cocky.

I grin and kiss him again, both of us laughing breathlessly into it while I keep jerking his dick.

I suddenly grab his hips, flip him around and shove his back against the wall.

Then I drop to my knees in front of him, still slowly pumping him.

I look up at him with a filthy smirk. “Eyes on me the whole time,” I say.

I don’t waste another second.

I lean in and drag my tongue slowly from the base of Silas’s dick all the way up to the leaking tip, tasting every inch.

The second I reach the head I wrap my lips around it and suck hard, moaning filthy around him.

Holy fuck.

He’s bigger than I expected.

I pull off for a second just to look at it, then dive back down, taking him deeper, sucking wet and sloppy.

I’m groaning, licking, swirling my tongue and letting the metal piercing drag along the underside of his dick with every movement.

I’ve wanted this for so long and now that I finally have him in my mouth I can’t get enough.

Silas lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a deep groan. His hand tightens in my hair.

I pull off with a wet pop, breathing hard. “What?”

“I can feel the piercing,” he says, amused. “Right on the back of my dick.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he grabs my head with both hands and shoves me back down on him.

He forces me down until my nose presses against him and starts fucking my throat hard and deep.

I moan around his thickness, loving every second of it. I relax my throat and let him use me, the wet, obscene sounds of him sliding in and out of my mouth filling the small space.

Every time he pushes deep the piercing presses against the underside of his dick exactly how he likes it.

“Just like that, Victor. Fuck—”

I groan around him, completely obsessed, letting him fuck my face without holding back.

I keep my gaze up on him the whole time, showing him exactly how much I’m enjoying being used like this.

This is it.

This is exactly what I wanted.

I’m going to worship him so good he’ll never even think about another man.

He’s shaking now.

His legs tremble hard, his abs are tight, and his grip in my hair is almost brutal as he forces me up and down on his dick.

Up and down. Up and down.

“Victor,” he moans. “Please—don’t you dare stop.”

My own dick is aching so badly it hurts, but I don’t touch myself.

I don’t want to.

I just want to suffer while I make him feel good.

I want to make him feel so fucking good he forgets everything else.

He’s losing it because of me. This is exactly where I belong.

I suck him harder, sloppier, swirling my tongue around his dick, pressing against every sensitive spot.

I do filthy little tricks with the piercing.

Flicking the ball right under the head, dragging it slowly along the thick vein on the underside, then pressing it firmly as I take him all the way to the back of my throat.

I don’t want to stop. I never want this to end.

Silas’s sounds are driving me fucking insane.

Shaky whimpers keep spilling out of him, each one hitting me straight in the gut.

“Victor,” he moans, wrecked. “I’m gonna cum, fuck—”

He tightens his grip in my hair, nails digging into my scalp.

God, I’m so down bad for him. I’ve never wanted anyone this much.

The way he tastes, the way he’s shaking, the way he’s using my throat.

I’m completely addicted to him.

I keep working him with my tongue, sucking greedily, when suddenly my own body betrays me.

Shit.

A desperate moan rips out of my throat. My head starts spinning. My legs feel weak.

I try to keep bobbing up and down but I’m getting sloppy, losing rhythm.

My own dick is pulsing hard, and I haven’t even touched myself.

No fucking way.

Silas’s dick twitches hard on my tongue. His thighs shake violently and his nails scrape my scalp as he groans my name.

The second I feel the first thick spurt of his cum hitting the back of my throat, I lose it completely.

I’m cumming hard in my pants without a single touch.

Just from sucking him, and from hearing him fall apart because of me.

I keep swallowing every drop, moaning and shaking.

I’m actually cumming just because he is.

When he stops cumming, I slowly pull off, gasping for air.

My whole body feels wrecked. My legs are shaking so badly I can barely stay on my knees.

I’m breathing harder than he is.

Silas leans back against the wall, looking down at me.

His eyes widen when he really sees the state I’m in.

“Victor…” he breathes, still panting. “Did you just cum?”

I try to answer but I’m too fucked out. My face burns with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” I mumble, voice shaky. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, that’s never happened to me before. I—”

“Shut up,” he says, smiling. “You give the best head, and you cum in your pants just because you liked it that much?”

His smile gets wider, almost predatory.

“Fuck, Victor. That’s actually insane.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. He leans in closer, lips brushing my ear.

“I should tie you up so you can’t run away from me,” he whispers.

“I want you like this. Needy. Pathetic. Cumming just because you’re pleasing me. It turns me on more than you know.”

He bites my bottom lip.

“So don’t apologize. Be proud. You just showed me how bad you want me, and I’m never going to forget it.”

---

hey guys we’re back please vote 😔 that was my first smut after months I’m still rusty please be nice.

54) My D Is Not Weird

Silas’s POV

I can’t look at Victor the same after what just happened at our hidden spot.

He’s like the Head God.

That wasn’t a blowjob, that was a goddamn coronation.

How the fuck does someone get that good at sucking dick??

I thought I knew what head felt like.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

This mouth did shit I didn’t even have names for.

That man was trying to pull my soul out through my dick.

I’ve had a decent head before, once, but this was worship.

And him cumming too??

Fuck me.

Do I thank him? Do I propose??

’Cause that’s crazy. Jett would never believe me.

If Victor asks me to go again I’m tapping out.

Because I’m scared my dick might actually fall in love and never listen to me again.

I’ve never felt so worshiped in my entire life.

I don’t even think I’ve ever felt this… cherished.

I felt safe.

And maybe that shouldn’t feel so massive. Maybe for some people it isn’t.

Maybe for some people that’s expected. But for me it feels almost unreal.

For so long, I trained myself not to want this whole thing.

Not to need softness. Not to crave intimacy.

Not to imagine a real relationship with a man that didn’t leave me feeling cornered and ashamed.

I got so good at acting like I was above it all. Like I didn’t need romance or tenderness.

But Victor keeps ruining that.

He keeps showing me things I had already crossed out in my head.

He keeps making them feel possible.

It feels like standing in front of a locked door all your life, only to realize it was never locked. You were just too hurt to turn the handle.

And now he’s there on the other side of it, not dragging me through, not forcing anything open, just waiting. Letting me come closer when I can.

I don’t know what exactly this is yet. I just know I don’t want to run from it.

Which is exactly why I need to find out what the fuck Leo was talking about this morning.

Who the hell is Adrian, and why did he tell me to ask Victor about him?

That message has been sitting in the back of my head all day.

Small enough to ignore if I stay busy. Sharp enough to cut the second I stop.

And now I’ve stopped.

The thing is, knowing Victor, I already know I’m probably not going to get a normal answer.

Not a clean one, anyway.

Not some easy, tidy explanation wrapped in a bow like oh, funny story, here’s the context, don’t worry about it.

That is not how this man works.

Victor does not hand people the simple version of anything. He either says too little, says it in some deeply loaded way that gives me ten new questions, or looks at me like he’s deciding whether I can survive the truth before he opens his mouth.

But right now, a normal answer isn’t even what I want.

What I want is honesty. Real honesty.

Not the version people use when they’re trying to keep you calm while quietly deciding what you can handle.

I just want to know if he’s someone I can trust.

And if I’m asking for that, then I should probably start there myself.

I should give him something real first.

Not because he earned it more than I did.

Because I’m fucking tired of circling things and acting like trust is supposed to appear out of nowhere without anyone bleeding for it a little first.

So fine.

I’ll trust him with something.

I finish brushing my teeth and head back into the room already trying to line the words up in my head, trying to decide how to start, how much to say, how not to make it sound like I’m standing there with my ribs pried open in my hands.

Then I walk in and Victor is sitting on the bed shirtless.

And I get irritated immediately.

Because for one full second, his chest completely derails my train of thought.

It’s distracting in a way that feels personal.

I stop in the doorway and just look at him, offended.

Seriously?

I’m trying to have a character-building moment here and he’s sitting there built like that??

It’s like he’s daring me to look.

Not now, you fucking animal. Stop.

But my brain’s already betraying me.

Look at the size of those tits. Fuck.

Perfect handfuls. I bet they bounce if I—

STOP.

I clench my jaw. This is exactly why I can’t stay serious around him.

I’m trying to figure out if the man in front of me is a goddamn criminal, maybe even a killer, and my dick is trying to take the wheel while I’m mentally motorboating his chest.

Why the fuck are you like this, Victor?

Why do you have to lie there looking like a whole meal when I’m trying to have a serious moment?

Put some clothes on, you smug bastard.

Stop shoving those fat, juicy pecs in my face like you want me to bury my head between them.

I am two seconds away from drooling like a horny idiot because his chest looks edible.

Goddamn it.

One day I’m gonna fuck the seriousness out of both of us.

But not today. Today we behave.

…Maybe.

I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my thoughts are pure filth.

I walk over to his side of the bed and sit down in front of him, between his legs, my back turned to him.

Then I pull my shirt off.

For a second, I just hold out the scar gel for him without looking back. I expect him to take it from my hand immediately.

He doesn’t.

So I turn my head and look at him over my shoulder.

“I put it on every night,” I tell him quietly. “It’s silicone gel. If you can… rub it in for me. Please.”

His expression shifts.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say.

And I mean it.

“I have a hard time doing it properly on my own. I’d appreciate the help.”

There’s a pause.

Then he nods. “Okay.”

I hear the cap open.

He squeezes some into his hand, and a second later I feel him touch my back.

Very gently.

So gently I almost stop breathing.

He starts spreading the gel in slow, careful strokes, working from the top down, and the whole room seems to go quieter around it.

The lights are low, too dim for him to see everything clearly, but I can still feel the attention in his hands.

I can feel the way he’s focusing, the way he’s trying not to hurt me, trying not to press too hard, like even this small thing matters to him enough to be careful with.

And it does something strange to my stomach.

“It was last December,” I tell him, feeling his fingers rubbing the cream gently over the scar. “Right before New Year’s.”

“How bad was it?” he asks quietly, like he really wants the details.

And I think maybe I’m ready to give them to him. Maybe I’m ready to tell him the humiliating truth.

“January was the worst month of my life,” I say. “I couldn’t even stand up on my own. I literally needed people to move me. Turn me. Lift me. There were days when even breathing felt like too much movement.”

My eyes are already stinging by the time I get the words out.

“The first time they got me standing, I thought I was going to pass out. Two people on either side of me, one behind me, and my legs still felt fake.”

His hands keep massaging the cream into the scar, slow and careful, and it relaxes me enough that I almost smile.

“They were all so happy because I stayed up for maybe ten seconds before my knees gave out.”

I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it.

“Ten seconds. Everybody in the room acted like I’d won a fucking marathon.”

My eyes fill more.

“I couldn’t shower alone. I couldn’t get dressed alone. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom alone at first.” My mouth twists with a shame that still hasn’t fully left my body. “Do you know what that does to you? When every tiny private thing stops being yours?”

He doesn’t answer. Thank God he doesn’t answer.

“One time my dad had to help me pull on my underwear because my hands were shaking too hard and I couldn’t bend properly and I was so exhausted I almost threw up. And he acted normal. He tried to do everything he possibly could for me.”

My eyes close.

“I remember staring at the wall and thinking, this is it. This is the part where people stop being your family and become your nurses forever.”

Victor slides closer behind me. I can feel the heat of him now, not just his hands.

“My mom would help wash my hair,” I say quietly. “She tried so hard not to make it weird. She’d talk about stupid little things. Someone from the neighborhood. A recipe. Some dumb shit my sister Grace did. Just talking and talking while I sat there trying not to cry because she was washing me like I was five.”

The tears start before I can stop them. One, then another.

I wipe my face angrily.

“Fuck.”

Victor’s hands leave the scar and start stroking me instead.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Let it out.”

“No, it’s embarrassing.”

“It isn’t,” he says calmly. “Get it out of you.”

I scrub at my eyes.

“You can’t even imagine how bad it all was. You don’t understand what it’s like watching fear in your siblings’ eyes when you know all the adults told them to be brave for you.”

I laugh through tears.

“They made me drawings. So many fucking drawings,” I whisper. “You have no idea. Apparently artistic trauma runs in the family. Hunter drew me with this massive scar down my back and then gave me angel wings for some reason, which was honestly rude. It made me feel like I was already dead. Grace drew me standing up and wrote YOU WILL WALK BETTER SOON in huge pink letters.”

My mouth wobbles.

“They taped them all over the hospital room. The walls. The cabinet. The tray table.”

I adjust a little where I’m sitting between Victor’s legs.

“And Jett…” I inhale sharply. “Jett basically moved into the hospital. I’m not even joking. The nurses knew him by name. He slept in those awful chairs for days because he just wanted to stay close to me.”

My lips shake.

“He stayed when everybody else went home. He’d say he wasn’t tired and then I’d wake up at three in the morning and he’d be folded in half with his jacket over his face pretending he wasn’t freezing.”

I scrub at my cheeks.

“He was there the first time I had a panic attack because my foot felt numb for too long and I thought that was it, that was the moment everything was going to get worse and nobody had warned me because they thought I couldn’t handle it. He kept asking the doctors if there was anything he could do. He talked to me constantly so I wouldn’t get bored.”

Victor’s hand leaves my neck only to wipe a tear from my jaw with his thumb when I turn a little.

“And Poppy…” I let out this shattered little laugh. “That’s where she learned how to make the origami you two used to do together at the studio.”

That gets the smallest smile out of me through the tears.

“She slept there too. So many nights. Not every night, because Jett kept yelling at her to go home and rest since she was sick back then. Jett was basically taking care of both of us.” My throat tightens. “Honestly, even now I don’t think we can ever thank him enough for everything he’s done for us.”

More tears fall.

“I felt guilty all the fucking time. Guilty because my parents looked ten years older by New Year’s. Guilty because my siblings were drawing little hearts around my hospital bed and spending hours either at my grandma’s, or at the hospital, or stuck in after-school care because of me. Guilty because Jett and Poppy put their lives on pause and I still woke up some mornings wishing nobody would visit at all.”

Victor’s fingers press into my shoulder, grounding me.

“There were nights I didn’t sleep more than twenty minutes at a time. Nights where my back ached so deep I thought I was never going to get out of that bed again.”

I swallow hard.

“I hated mirrors too,” I admit. “So, so much. For months. Everybody talks about scars like they’re sexy once enough time passes. Symbol of survival. Battle wound. Whatever. But when I first saw mine, I thought I looked butchered. I couldn’t believe I had that on me and that other people were going to see it.”

He inhales softly behind me.

“I know I’m supposed to call it strong or brave or some inspirational poster bullshit. But all I saw was this long violent line splitting me in half. The first time I saw it, I just burst into tears. My mom tried to tell me it would fade. Jett called it hot in a deeply unhelpful attempt to support me. Poppy threatened to stab anyone who ever made me feel weird about it. But I just looked at it and thought, I cannot believe I have to live with this thing on me.”

Victor leans in and presses his mouth, barely there, to my shoulder.

The gentleness of it nearly wrecks me.

“The whole of January was a nightmare. I cried over dumb shit. I cried because I dropped a spoon once and couldn’t pick it up myself. I cried because Grace drew me with defined abs I absolutely did not have anymore and I was weirdly touched by the confidence. I cried because one of the nurses changed my sheets while I was in the room and I wanted to disappear.”

A wet laugh leaves me.

“I cried because everyone kept saying it could’ve been worse. And they were right. So much worse. I know that. I know how lucky I got. I know I’m walking, I know I healed, I know all of that. But when you’re in it, when you can’t do a single fucking thing by yourself, lucky is not a word you want to hear from people who can leave the room when you can’t.”

Victor wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer against him, his head dropping to my neck.

“I never wanted to die,” I tell him. “But I wanted it to stop so badly that I understood how people disappear into that feeling.”

Victor’s lips brush the side of my neck.

A silent answer. A silent thank you for saying it.

“I never told anyone that, obviously, because I hate sounding like I’m whining all the time. So I made jokes. I flirted with nurses. I told my siblings I was basically half robot now, which was a lie. I let Jett and Poppy bully me into eating. I smiled for so, so many pictures. I said I was fine way too early because I was tired of hearing myself not be.”

I take a shuddering breath.

“And when I started getting better, everybody looked at me like I was some kind of miracle even when I did the simplest thing. I sat in a chair by myself and people were crying. I walked a few extra steps, made it to the bathroom, and suddenly the whole family knew about it. It was sweet. It really was. But inside I felt awful, because all I could think was that these things used to be nothing.”

My voice cracks.

“This used to be effortless. This used to be nothing. This used to be my normal, you know?”

He nods.

“Adam didn’t make any of it better either,” I add.

Victor’s hands stop for half a second on my back.

Then I laugh once, bitter. “Hell, I woke up after surgery feeling invaded twice.” My mouth twists. “I was literally sitting there like, come on. I didn’t even deserve one respectable first time?”

Victor goes very still behind me.

Then he moves.

He leaves my back and comes around in front of me so fast it almost startles me. He kneels there for a second, staring at me with this expression I can’t fully read.

“Adam was your first time?”

I blink at him.

“Did I say first time?” I mutter. “I got mixed up.”

His face doesn’t change.

I look away.

“I prefer saying I haven’t done it yet,” I say after a second. “That sounds better.”

Victor stays quiet.

“That thing with Adam doesn’t count.” My throat tightens. “I don’t count it. I’m not giving it that. I’d rather say I’m a virgin than say my first time was…” I shrug one shoulder. “You know. That .”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And that’s when I notice he’s zoned out a little.

Not in a bored way. Not in a distant way.

In that intense Victor way where it looks like half of him is still in the room and the other half is somewhere dark, impossible to interrupt.

Then he leans back against the headboard, one shoulder pressing into the wood, and opens his arms.

“Come here,” he says.

I look at him for a second.

Then I go.

I crawl over and curl up beside him, laying my head on his chest. He wraps both arms around me immediately and pulls me in close, one hand smoothing over my shoulder, the other moving up and down my back with ridiculous tenderness.

He kisses my hair. And suddenly I feel bad.

Not scared. Not embarrassed exactly.

Guilty.

“You don’t have to do this,” I mumble against his chest. “I’m okay now. I live on my own, you saw. Well, at first my dad was fully against it because he was terrified I’d fall or something, but especially in the beginning they came by all the time. Our houses are close.”

Victor keeps holding me. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

I lift my head and look at him.

He’s right. I never told Vox any of this.

Little things slipped out sometimes.

My back hurts so bad today.

I hate when people touch my back.

Small scraps. Never the actual story.

He was one of the most important people in my life. The shame was just bigger.

I shrug a little.

“I was embarrassed,” I tell him. “We had so many conversations about sex and about my first time and I didn’t want you to know what happened to me that night.” I swallow. “I thought I could escape it forever since I assumed I was never actually going to meet you in real life. I really didn’t want Vox seeing me vulnerable like this.”

Victor’s arms tighten around me.

His hand keeps moving over my back, absurdly soft.

“I liked how I was with you,” I admit quietly. “With Vox, I mean. I liked that I could be… whatever version of myself I wanted. Funny. Mean. Flirty. I didn’t want to become that sad story.”

Victor says nothing.

“I’ll allow it,” he tells me. “I hate that too. So much. It’s like people stop talking to us and start talking to the thing that happened to us. They kept doing it to me in Spain, so I decided to stop talking about my problems.”

I giggle.

There it is again.

Victor looks down at me. “What?”

I stare at his mouth.

“Say that again.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

“That word.”

“What word?”

I sit up, swing one leg over him, and settle on his lap with my knees on either side of him.

“The word you just said.”

“I said many words.”

“Yeah, congratulations. Pick the one with the weird d.”

He looks offended immediately, but then his mouth curves a little.

“My d is not weird.”

I bite my lips together.

No.

No, absolutely not.

I am an adult.

I can survive this sentence.

I cannot.

I start laughing.

Victor’s face goes flat. “Silas.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, already failing. “I’m sorry. That was not my fault. You walked directly into that one.”

“My pronunciation,” he says, very stiffly, “is not weird.”

“Oh, it’s a little weird.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

He stares at me.

I lean down and kiss him on the mouth, still smiling.

“Say decided again.”

Victor’s eyes narrow.

“No.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Victor.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear it.”

“You are making fun of me.”

“Yes,” I say. “But with affection.”

He looks at me like he is considering throwing me off the bed.

Then he exhales through his nose.

“Decided,” he says very carefully, like he is actively fighting for his life trying to pronounce it right.

I lose it.

I drop my face against his shoulder because I cannot handle how serious he looks.

“You’re saying it like the Greek delta,” I tell him, still laughing. “Like th in this. You’re not hitting the d. You’re softening it.”

“No. I am saying it correctly.”

“You are saying it beautifully wrong.”

“I am going to sleep.”

“Okay. Say d.”

He stares at me.

“D.”

“No. Not th. D.”

“I said d.”

“No, you said the soft thing again.”

“That is how I speak.”

“And it’s cute.”

He blinks.

I blink too.

Shit.

That came out too fast.

I clear my throat and point at him to regain authority.

“But wrong.”

He smiles a little, placing his hands on my thighs.

“Cute but wrong?”

His eyes drop to my mouth for one second.

The room heats up immediately.

Actually, no.

My whole body lights up immediately.

Stupid room.

Stupid mouth.

Stupid man.

I point at him harder.

“Focus. D. Like a harder d sound. Not th. More like nt. You need to hit it with your tongue. Duh. D.”

He watches my mouth while I say it.

Which is very unnecessary. Very not helping the lesson.

“Stop looking at my mouth like that,” I say.

“I am trying to learn.” His hands stay warm on my thighs, his thumbs barely moving. “I am a dedicated student. And you are a perfect teacher.”

“You’re a whore.”

He laughs again, and this time I can’t stop smiling.

God.

This is so stupid. I want to eat him alive.

I play with the hair at the back of his neck while I study his face, because apparently that is something I do now.

Sit on Victor Acosta’s lap and stare at him like I have any right to be this close.

My whole life, people have talked about my eyes like they were handcrafted by God himself.

Blue eyes. Wow. Crazy eyes. You have the prettiest eyes. I know, thank you, move on.

I am used to being the one people look at first.

But now I’m sitting here feeling like the best eyes in the room are not attached to me.

They are in front of me.

Brown.

Warm and focused in this terrifyingly quiet way that makes my chest feel stupid.

I do not just want to look at them.

I want them looking back at me.

Only me, ideally.

Which is insane.

Possessive, ugly, embarrassing little thought.

Still true.

I really, really do not want to imagine him looking at somebody else like that.

I clap once.

He jolts slightly.

“Back to class. Say middle.”

“Middle.”

I gasp.

“Oh my God.”

“What now?”

“You did it again.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You said mithle.”

He stares at me, insulted. “I said middle. You are making things up.”

“I am not. Say it again.”

“Middle.”

I start laughing and almost tip over to the side.

Victor grabs my arm automatically to steady me, which only makes me laugh harder because now he looks offended and concerned at the same time.

“I hate you,” he says.

“I’m sure,” I say, still laughing. “I’m so sure. You’re definitely not obsessed with me.”

“That was before this.”

“Oh, so my language class is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Weakness found,” I say, tilting my head.

His eyes narrow.

“If you do not stop, I will speak only Spanish.”

I pause.

“You wouldn’t.”

His eyes change.

Fuck.

He says something in Spanish.

Fast.

Too fast.

And the worst part is, it sounds good.

Like English is him walking and Spanish is him leaning back in a chair with one hand around a glass and way too much confidence.

His whole voice changes. His mouth changes. His face changes.

He looks far too comfortable suddenly, and that is personally offensive to me.

I stare at him. He keeps going.

I understand absolutely nothing. Not one fucking thing.

Well, maybe one word.

No, actually, not even that.

He looks very pleased with himself.

I move closer on his lap and tap his thigh.

“What did you say?”

He answers in Spanish.

“Victor.”

More Spanish.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You’re weaponizing your native language now.”

He smiles.

I point at him.

“No. Stop that. You’re being an asshole.”

He says another sentence in Spanish.

I stare at him.

“Are you insulting me in Spanish?”

He shrugs.

Spanish again.

“Are you flirting with me?”

His smile gets bigger.

“You are, aren’t you?”

He does not answer. Of course he does not answer.

Smug motherfucker.

I grab the pillow again and hit him with it.

“You’re fucking cheating. This is not fair.”

He laughs and catches my wrist.

I try to pull back. He does not let go.

“Say sorry,” I tell him.

He says something in Spanish.

I narrow my eyes. “That did not sound like sorry.”

“It was not.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

He smiles. “You understood that?”

“I understood your face. It did not sound nice.”

He leans a little closer.

“You like my face.”

I glare.

“Wrong. I tolerate your face.”

“You kissed my face.”

“I TOLD YOU I was under stress,” I say, kissing him again before I can stop myself.

His mouth curves against mine.

“You kissed it many times,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Extreme stress.”

“With tongue.”

“Near-death experience, Victor.”

He laughs again, so I shove his shoulder.

He barely moves.

Of course.

Built like a wall and twice as irritating.

I sit back slightly, trying to regain whatever tiny scrap of authority I still have left.

“Fine,” I say. “Say something in Spanish and translate it.”

He considers me.

“No.”

I frown. “No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you will use it against me.”

“I would neeever.”

He gives me a look. A very clear look.

A look that says, You are Silas Blackwood. Of course you would.

I roll my eyes.

“Okay, I might. But come on. Say something.”

Instead of answering, he says another sentence in Spanish.

This time, it does not sound like he is making fun of me.

It’s softer.

Like he’s saying something real and using Spanish to hide it from me for two extra seconds.

I look at him carefully.

“What was that?”

He watches me.

“I said I like when you laugh.”

I look away immediately.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You probably said I look like an angry pigeon.”

“I can say that too, if you want.”

“Don’t.”

He smiles. My face feels hot.

This is humiliating. That is below the belt.

That is walking into my chest with shoes on.

I hate it.

I hate that something as simple as that can make me feel weird.

Warm weird. Like I am in some kind of relationship.

Which I am not.

Obviously.

Because if anyone found out I was with Acosta, the Acosta , the rival studio, the man half the industry wants to either praise or punch, we would both lose sponsorships immediately. No question.

Sponsors love drama until the drama becomes inconvenient, and two rival artists kissing in private while the whole industry is watching??

Yeah. That is inconvenient.

And that is before adding the lovely possibility that some of them might be homophobic on top of it.

Very romantic.

Nothing says intimacy like potential career damage and corporate cowardice.

So no.

We are not in a relationship.

We are just sitting on a bed, with me on his lap, while he plays with my wrist and tells me in Spanish that he likes when I laugh.

Totally casual.

I tilt my head back and glare up at him, desperately trying to say literally anything else before my brain starts chewing on that.

“One day,” I say, “your English will be perfect because of me.”

He looks down at me.

“One day your Spanish will exist because of me.”

“Fuck you. My Spanish exists.”

“Say something.”

“Hola.”

He waits.

I wait too.

His brows lift. “That is… it?”

“Why? Is that not enough?”

He laughs and reaches up, playing with a piece of my hair.

“You are hopeless, Silabun.”

I freeze for half a second.

Then I point at him.

“No. Wait. I know another one.”

His mouth twitches. “Do you?”

“Yes. Hola and puta.”

He bursts out laughing.

Like, full laugh.

“Of course you know that one,” he says.

The Spanish lesson ends because Victor starts winning, and I do not support that.

Now we are just sitting here, and I think it is probably time to sleep.

It’s our second to last night together.

After this, he probably has to go back to Spain, and I have no idea what we are doing. No idea what this is supposed to look like when we are not trapped in the same suite with a shared bed and no real escape route.

Do we text? Do we pretend nothing happened? Do we become one of those insane secret things?

No idea.

I rub my arm to get rid of the goosebumps because, on top of everything else, it is cold in here.

Victor notices immediately.

God forbid I shiver once in peace.

He reaches for the duvet and starts pulling it around me. Not just handing it to me like a normal person. No. He actually tucks it around my shoulders, then my sides, trapping me inside like I am a burrito.

I look down at myself. Then up at him.

“What the fuck is this?”

“You were cold.”

“Now I’m trapped,” I say, laughing.

“You are not trapped. You can escape whenever you want.”

I try to move one arm.

I cannot. He smiles.

I glare. “Does it look like I can?”

“It does not look like you want to enough,” he says. “You barely moved.”

Then he climbs into bed beside me and pulls me carefully against him, still inside my duvet prison. His arm goes around the outside of it, holding me to his chest like I am some ridiculous little package he has decided belongs there.

I feel like a human cinnamon roll.

This is not me. This is undignified. This is pathetic.

This is exactly the kind of thing I would bully Jett for if he told me someone did this to him, but then I would maybe cry later because I was jealous.

Everything goes quiet.

It’s like my brain finally stops pacing for two fucking seconds and goes, This is nice. We can stay here.

Victor’s chin brushes near my hair, and I feel his chest move when he breathes.

I stare at the dim lamp across the room.

“This is stupid,” I mutter.

“Yes.”

“I look stupid.”

“You do,” he says, with a small laugh.

I turn my head slightly. “The fuck? Don’t agree.”

“You asked.”

“I did not ask. I stated.”

His chest moves with a laugh against me.

I am going to bite the duvet.

God. That sound.

I thought someone would have to yell at me or scold me to make me want to drop to my knees, but apparently all Victor has to do is laugh quietly and my body starts considering disgrace like it is a reasonable career path.

Nobody says anything for a while.

There’s only the sound of the ship moving through the water, and his hand in my hair.

Gentle.

Again and again.

I let him. For now.

Because I am generous and trapped.

Also because it feels good.

I close my eyes for one second.

Then my brain, the disgusting little saboteur, decides to wake up.

“Victor.”

“Mm?”

I open my eyes again.

“I imagine you know we can’t tell anyone about this.”

His hand stills in my hair. He does not pull it away. Just stops.

“What we are doing?” he asks.

I huff out a laugh.

“Yeah. This.” I try to gesture between us, but I am still wrapped, so it comes out pathetic. “Whatever the fuck this is.”

His arm tightens slightly. “I know.”

“No, I need you to actually know.”

I shift a little, trying to turn toward him. He loosens the duvet prison just enough to let me face him.

Extremely generous jailer.

“I mean nobody,” I say.

His eyes stay on mine.

“Okay. Nobody,” he repeats.

“Not your friends. Not Ciro. Not Rosalia. Not Thiago.” I pause. “Okay, maybe Thiago. You can maybe tell Thiago something. He doesn’t seem like a gossip person.”

Victor huffs under his breath.

“Oh, believe me, he is,” he mutters. “But he can keep his mouth shut if I ask him to.”

I nod slowly.

“Okay. But nobody else should know.”

I take a deep breath.

“And I’m not telling Jett yet either.”

That one feels weird when I say it. Like a tiny betrayal.

Jett knows everything.

Usually before I even tell him. Sometimes before I even know it myself. I never really keep real secrets from him. He knew about Vox. He knows all the ugly little details.

Victor watches me carefully.

“Not Jett?”

“Unfortunately, no.” I sigh and drop my head back against the pillow. “I love him, but my boy leaks information like a broken pipe.”

Victor’s eyebrow lifts.

“He would tell someone?”

“Not on purpose. That’s the problem. Jett would never sit down and go, hello everyone, Silas is secretly making out with the enemy. But he would say something stupid by accident. His face would do something. His mouth would start before his brain arrives.”

Victor’s mouth curves a little.

I look at him.

“You cannot look amused. This is a security briefing.”

“I am listening, Silas.”

“Good.”

I wiggle my hand out of the blanket just enough to point at him.

“No one can know. Not until we know what this is. After that, we’ll see. Because these freaks do not play around. This could easily destroy my career and yours if we are not careful.”

His face sobers.

He nods.

“And,” I add, voice sharper now, “people would probably think I fucked my way into first place the other day.”

His expression changes immediately. Almost offended.

“Do not say that about yourself.”

I roll my eyes because I cannot process it normally.

“Oh my God. Calm down, guard dog.”

“I am calm.”

“You look like you want to fight an imaginary comment section.”

“I would,” he says. “If they said that.”

“Exactly. Guard dog.”

His gaze stays fixed on me.

“You earned that win.”

“Obviously I did.” I shift under the duvet, trying to sound casual even though something warm is spreading in my chest because he said it like he would go to war over it. “My back hurt for the rest of the day after that. And Rava’s design was fucking epic.”

Victor closes his eyes for half a second and smiles, like my confidence does something to him.

Then his hand moves from my hair to my back, rubbing gently.

I look at him like a complete pervert while he does not even know it.

“Anyway,” I say, more aggressively than necessary. “The Linea Ink thing.”

Victor’s eyes open immediately.

In a second, he is going to tell me to let him sleep, and honestly, I would deserve it a little.

But also, it is not my fault someone is finally sitting in bed with me and talking instead of trying to make me say, yes, okay, fine, it’s time, undress me right now and fuck me sideways.

Not that I would be exactly offended if he did.

But still. Let me enjoy some human contact.

God.

I am about to do the thing I have been avoiding for way too long.

His guest spot. At my studio.

The thing he froze after everything went to hell.

“What about it?” he asks.

I pick at the edge of the duvet.

“You know. You paused it.”

“Yes.”

“Because of me.”

“For both of us,” he says quietly. “Not only for you. I did not want to be somewhere I was not wanted.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, because anything else would be a lie.

I wanted him there and I did not want him there at the same time.

Very healthy.

I wanted him in my studio because I wanted him close. I didn’t want him in my studio because I wanted him close.

Those are unfortunately two different problems.

“Do you want me to cancel it?” he asks. “I can apply to another studio.”

“No.”

The answer comes out so fast both of us notice.

Fuck.

I look away immediately.

His silence is way too loud.

I point blindly at him from inside the duvet. “Do not. Let me think for a second.”

He actually laughs at that, and I hate that it makes me smile. I hate that I want to keep making him laugh.

This is how people get fucking attached.

Gross.

“After New Year,” I say, before the softness can eat me alive.

Victor’s eyes lift to mine.

“What?”

“You can unpause it after New Year.”

Neither of us says anything for a moment.

He looks at me like he thinks I am messing with him.

I swallow.

“The guest spot,” I clarify. “You can come back after New Year. If you still want it.”

“I want it.”

“Then I’ll probably accept you back,” I say.

His brows pull together slightly. “Probably?”

“Yes. I’ll think about it.”

His mouth does that small almost-smile thing.

I add, “If it benefits me.”

“It benefits you.”

“Oh?”

“I will bring new clients.” His hand moves slowly over my waist. “I will buy your equipment.”

I start laughing. “You don’t have to do that. I have money. We’re basically rich and richer.”

“I am the richer,” he says.

I turn my head and look at him, offended.

“Fuck you. I will reject your guest spot.”

He looks genuinely confused. “But you already accepted me.”

“Probably accepted.”

His expression shifts, and then he leans just a fraction closer.

“You want me there,” he says.

“Professionally, obviously,” I say, reaching up to move a piece of hair away from his face. “As an artist.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“Yes.”

“Because you’re good for business,” I say, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck.

His hand stills at my waist.

“I understand.”

“And because your work is not completely embarrassing.”

“And personally?”

I lift my head and look at him. He holds my gaze, patient but not pretending.

I smile and kiss his mouth.

“I guess I could use you for a few make-out sessions behind closed doors too.”

He exhales against my lips, and that almost ruins me.

So I kiss him again.

Just because I can.

“And a lot more than that,” I add against his mouth, “if you swear you will only do it with me. I hate sharing.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I realize what I said.

Damn. Okay.

Maybe some thoughts should stay inside the house.

I pull back a little.

Not fully, but enough to look at him.

His face has gone very still.

Great.

I scared him. Of course I scared him.

Because who says that?? Who says that while wrapped like burrito after one night of honest conversation and kissing?

Me, apparently. Me and my diseased possessive little brain.

“I mean—”

“I hate sharing too,” he says.

I stop.

The room goes quiet.

I expected some painfully mature Victor answer like we do not need to define that right now, Silas, or I will respect whatever you decide, because apparently his hobby is being emotionally responsible at the most inconvenient times.

But no.

He says it like the idea of someone else touching me makes something in him go just as ugly as it does in me.

My smile spreads before I can stop it.

All teeth.

“Then our only problem,” I say, “is not getting caught while we’re at it.”

---

Hey, just so you know, the chapter is intentionally written like that. The pacing is supposed to feel continuous, and Silas keeps talking on purpose because I wanted to show that he’s finally starting to feel comfortable :)

Spoiler for the next few chapters: get ready for a lot of possessiveness from both of them hehe.

Anyway. BYE. I LOVE YOU GUYS❤️

55) Bad Luck

Victor’s POV

I think Adam deserves worse than what he got. I really do.

I’m not the bigger person. I don’t want to be the bigger person.

People like him don’t deserve forgiveness. They deserve to be punished. Painful.

The kind of punishment that makes sure they never do it again.

I want him gone. I want him erased.

I want him to feel every single thing he made you feel, but ten times worse.

I want to break his hands so he can never touch anyone again.

I want to make him scream until his voice is gone.

I want to leave him alive just enough so he has to live with what he did to you every single day.

Because why the fuck should I sit here eating breakfast with my friends, laughing, pretending everything is normal, while he’s out there somewhere probably hunting his next victim?

While he’s still thinking he got away with it?

It makes me sick. It makes me want to do things I know I shouldn’t.

I’m so attached that the thought of you in pain makes me want to tear my own skin off.

If the world will not punish rapists like him properly, it should not be surprised when someone eventually does.

I look back down at my plate and start picking the tomatoes out of my sandwich again.

“Dude,” Thiago says through a mouthful of omelet, “why do you even eat that sandwich if there’s something in it you don’t like?”

“Because I like the rest of it,” I say.

“Fair.”

He keeps looking at me anyway.

“Hey, we haven’t talked at all because of this cruise. How are you doing? I miss you. I’m coming to Spain after this, by the way. Wanna race?”

I laugh a little at the sudden attention.

Sometimes I forget I’m supposed to speak to other people too and not just to myself or Silas.

Thiago is one of the best things that ever happened to me in terms of friendship.

He dragged me out of my room more times than I can count when I was at my worst, and my parents adore him for it.

He is one of the only people who talk to me like I’m a normal person even when I’m acting like a locked door.

“You sure you want to race?” I ask him. “Last time you almost stopped talking to me because I won.”

“And it’ll probably happen again,” he says. “But then I’ll go to your house, eat your mother’s food, sleep in your bed, and forgive you.”

We both laugh.

“Unless…” he adds.

I look up. “Unless what?”

He gestures with his fork toward the table across from us.

Toward Silas.

Silas, who is currently talking to some guy I’ve never seen before.

A lot of tattoos. Neck too. Piercings everywhere.

“The prince of Las Vegas,” Thiago says, shoving more bread into his mouth. “Am I the only one who thinks you’d totally work? Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he likes you, Vic.”

I look at Silas.

He doesn’t say anything. He just catches me staring, gives me a wink, and turns away.

“Yeah,” Thiago says, watching him too. “He totally likes you. See that? Now he’s pretending he doesn’t care. Smart.”

I start pushing a tomato around on my plate with my finger.

I want to kill him.

Not Silas.

The other one. The one standing too close.

He’s looking at Silas too greedily.

“Be careful though,” Thiago says. “The other day when I went to get tattooed at Linea, he told me he kissed someone at a concert and seemed pretty happy about it. Don’t become an obstacle for his own love life.”

I look at him, completely still.

“I was the one he kissed at the concert. How exactly would I become an obstacle to my own fucking self?”

Thiago stares at me for a second.

Then he laughs and reaches over to mess up my hair.

“You don’t have to lie, Vic. I know you’re jealous.”

I glance around quickly, then lean closer.

“It was me, idiot,” I whisper. “I’m not lying. Depeche Mode. Precious was playing.”

Thiago makes the loudest shocked sound I’ve heard all week.

Half the table looks over.

“Oh my God??” he blurts. “Asshole, you didn’t fucking tell me?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“In that case,” he says immediately, now also whispering way too dramatically, “you should know the guy next to him is Nico and, DUE TO MY IGNORANCE, I sent him over there to introduce himself because he kept saying he’s admired and liked Silas for a long time.”

I stare at him.

Thiago winces.

“Watch him,” he says. “He’s a rodent. He will absolutely eat your man alive.”

Your man.

I turn and look at Silas’s table again.

And now that I know, I can’t unsee it.

Nico is standing too close. One arm braced near the table. Head tipped just slightly down toward Silas.

His whole body angled inward like he is trying to create a private space where there isn’t one.

And Silas is just sitting there, listening. My heart starts beating faster.

I hate how fast my body reacts when I realize another man is looking at him like that.

“Why did you send him over there?” I ask.

“Because you keep me out of everything,” Thiago says. “I didn’t know there was something going on. Now stop looking at me like that. Just go get rid of him. I’m telling you, he’s persistent.”

I keep staring.

Silas leans back in his chair a little, and Nico leans in further to make up the distance.

I want to put my fist through the table.

I know that type. The smooth type.

The kind who acts harmless because he knows coming on too strong too early gets doors shut in his face.

So instead he stands there all casual confidence and fake ease, trying to slip under the radar long enough to become a problem.

And maybe I would be less affected if it were anyone else.

Maybe I could even laugh.

But it’s Silas.

Silas, who has one of those faces that makes men grow delusions in real time.

Now someone else is standing there enjoying his face from too close a distance and my appetite is gone.

I look back down at the mutilated sandwich in front of me.

“You okay?” Thiago asks.

“No.”

A smarter man would remember that Silas can handle himself.

A smarter man would breathe through it, finish breakfast, and refuse to turn a random tattooed flirt into a psychological event.

Unfortunately, I am not a smarter man.

I’m me.

And me means my brain starts doing ugly things the second I care too much.

I see Nico get up to refill his plate, and I follow a few seconds later with mine in my hand.

He’s standing at the buffet piling food onto his plate like he’s stocking a bunker.

I stop behind him, close enough to make him notice me without making it obvious I came here for him.

He glances back once.

Then again.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re Acosta from Spain. Diana, right?”

I nod and smile. “That’s me.”

He grins and shifts to the side a little so I can stand next to him.

“I’m Nico. From San Diego.”

“Hey.”

He starts loading his plate with what looks like a million tiny sausages, then glances at me again.

“Listen, um. This might sound weird.”

I look at him and wait.

He keeps pretending to focus on the food, but I can already feel it coming.

“You know Blackwood, right?” he says. “The guy who beat you.”

I tighten my jaw.

“I’ve noticed you guys talk a lot,” he says. “Can I be honest with you?”

I give him the nicest fake smile I have.

Warm enough to make him comfortable. Open enough to make him sloppy. Friendly enough to make him think he found exactly the right person.

Because now I want the truth.

Not hints.

I want him to say exactly what he wants from Silas so I know what kind of problem I’m dealing with.

“Of course,” I say easily. “Tell me whatever. Blackwood and I talk despite the rivalry.”

I laugh a little to help him relax.

He laughs too.

Good. There it is. The ease settling into him. The confidence.

He thinks I’m safe now.

“It’s just—fuck, man.” He leans a little closer. “I’ll say it bluntly. I want to do stuff to him like… so bad.”

I set the knife down.

Very carefully.

And breathe in through my nose.

Don’t let him see the panic. Don’t let him see the irritation.

Let him keep talking. Let him keep thinking you’re the exact kind of guy he was hoping for.

I smile again, swallowing my temper so hard it burns.

“Stuff him, huh?”

“Yeah, bro.” He laughs under his breath like he’s telling me something charming. “He’s so mean. I want to shut him up with my dick and then do naked cuddles after.”

I shut my eyes for a split second.

That irritating little tick hits me instantly, the one I get when I’m trying to force bad images out of my head and they keep multiplying anyway.

Silas under this thing. Silas letting it close. Silas hearing that stupid voice say filthy things in his ear.

I take another breath and keep putting food on my plate like I’m completely fine.

“How exactly are you planning to pull that off?” I ask with a laugh that makes me want to throw myself overboard. “You can’t just walk up to him and say hey, let me fuck you.”

Even hearing those words in my own voice makes my skin crawl.

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I’ve got a plan.”

He laughs.

I make myself laugh with him.

“Actually,” he says, “I was hoping you could help me.”

Of course you were.

He takes another sausage.

Another. Another.

“You worked with him, right? I didn’t want to ask his other friend, the one with the bleached hair. No offense, but he looks kind of dumb.”

“Jett is not dumb,” I say sharply.

Nico looks at me.

I realize it immediately.

The slip. I clear my throat and force a shrug.

“At least I don’t think so. I don’t know. We don’t talk much.”

He laughs again, thankfully too arrogant to really question it.

Good. Stay stupid.

“What I want,” he says, “is for you to tell me what Silas likes. Like exactly. Not just oh, he smokes. I mean what cigarettes? What does he drink? I want to make a move at the party tonight and seem useful.”

Useful.

I smile at that.

Useful.

As if that is all this is.

As if he’s trying to help a stranger with directions instead of trying to build a seduction kit for the person I have been losing my mind over for longer than he can probably imagine.

He came to the right person, though.

That part is true.

Because nobody here knows Silas the way I do.

Not his habits. Not his moods. Not his tastes.

I know what cigarettes he reaches for. What drinks he gravitates toward. The exact brand of orange juice he likes. The kind of men he’d laugh at. The kind he’d let close.

Now I know exactly what he wants. And I know exactly what I’m going to do.

I fill my glass with the last of the orange juice and glance at him.

“You came to the right person,” I say.

He perks up immediately.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nod toward his plate. “He only smokes Marlboro Gold. And he loves fresh orange juice.”

Nico grins. I want to puke.

“Perfect.”

Perfect.

I nod back and pick up my plate.

You want access.

Fine.

Let’s see what happens when I decide I want you gone.

I am telling the truth. That is what makes it so clean.

Silas smokes Marlboro Gold. Silas likes fresh orange juice.

I gave Nico accurate information with a friendly smile and no hesitation.

I helped him.

Technically.

Now he only has to find any.

I glance at the clock above the breakfast bar while Nico keeps talking, but I am no longer listening.

The morning shift changes soon. Not immediately.

There is still enough time for the same employees to remember my face if I start buying everything now.

That would be careless.

One man walking into every shop within the same hour and clearing out the exact same product might become memorable.

Especially on a ship, where staff talk.

No.

I will take some now.

Not all.

Enough to look ordinary.

Two packs from the duty-free shop before breakfast ends.

Maybe three. Nothing dramatic.

Something a smoker could reasonably buy for himself.

Then I will wait.

The employee behind the counter finishes at two. I noticed her name tag yesterday when Silas sent me to get cigarettes.

Elena. She works mornings. The older man with the glasses replaces her in the afternoon.

He has never seen me buy them.

I can go back after the shift changes and ask for the remaining stock.

Not all at once, obviously. People become curious when you say all.

I will ask how many cartons they allow per guest.

That sounds different. Like I am thinking about taxes or bringing gifts home rather than quietly removing every pack of Marlboro Gold from Nico’s reach.

If the man asks why I need so many, I can laugh and say cigarettes are expensive in Spain.

True enough.

People trust explanations that involve money. They stop looking for emotional motives once they can replace them with greed.

Then there is the smaller shop near the casino.

Different staff. Different system, probably. They might not even share inventory records with duty-free until the end of the day.

I should go there before dinner, but not directly after the main shop. Space the purchases out.

An hour, maybe two.

Change my shirt. Not because I need a disguise. That would be insane.

Just because people remember clothing before faces. A black button-down in the afternoon. The grey sweatshirt later.

Small differences. Ordinary differences.

Nothing anyone would notice unless they were already suspicious.

And why would they be?

I am buying cigarettes. Adults do that every day.

The lounge bar probably keeps emergency packs behind the counter too.

Not many. Four or five, maybe. I saw somebody buy one there last night.

The bartender working then was blond. Tonight it will likely be the woman with the red nails.

I can ask her after the party starts, when the bar is busy and nobody has time to wonder why one person is buying several packs.

Busy staff do remember problems not transactions. I will be quick and forgettable.

The pool bar might have some too, but that is riskier. Nico could think of it early. He has the desperate enthusiasm.

Desperation can make people thorough. I should deal with the pool bar first.

Then duty-free. Then the casino shop after the shift change. Then the lounge once the evening staff arrives.

Different hours. Different faces. Different receipts.

No one employee sees the quantity. No one gets the full picture.

By the time the inventory system notices the same brand disappearing across the ship, the party will already have started.

And Nico will already be searching.

That is better.

A plan is always better than anger.

Anger is loud. Planning is quiet.

Planning lets me stand beside a man I deeply dislike and smile while he tells me exactly how he intends to touch the person I—

The person I care about.

I look down at the plates. My knuckles have gone white around the fork. I loosen them one by one.

The orange juice will be easier.

It expires.

They will not question somebody requesting several bottles for a suite full of guests. Especially if I mention the studio team. Twelve people. Long meetings. Private breakfast tomorrow.

I can place the first order under my room.

The second under Thiago’s.

He will complain, but he will help if I tell him the alternative is me speaking to Nico again.

Or I do not involve him at all. Better.

Thiago asks too many questions when he gets nervous, and once he understands what I am doing, his face becomes incapable of lying.

He might look at me like I am carrying a body every time anyone mentions juice.

No.

I can ask room service for a breakfast delivery tomorrow and request extra bottles tonight. Then take whatever is still available from the buffet before it closes.

The kitchen staff and the room-service staff are different.

Neither needs to know what the other gave me.

There will still be orange juice on the ship, obviously. I am not delusional enough to believe I can drain an entire cruise vessel.

But fresh juice? The kind Silas actually likes?

That is manageable.

People think ships are enormous until they need one specific thing. Then suddenly they are trapped inside a floating building with six shops that all sell the same twenty products.

I know the building now. Nico does not.

He will probably begin with duty-free. Everyone does.

He will find the shelf empty and ask an employee whether there are more in storage. The employee will check and tell him somebody bought the remaining cartons earlier.

Somebody.

Not me. Not in his mind.

Just some inconsiderate smoker preparing for the apocalypse.

Then he will try the casino shop.

Sold out.

The pool bar.

Sorry, we had some this morning.

The lounge.

We only have Reds.

Maybe he will buy those anyway because he does not understand that Silas would rather steal mine than smoke the wrong cigarette.

Maybe he will walk into the party carrying a pack Silas does not like and a glass of machine orange juice, smiling like he accomplished something.

I almost want that.

Silas will take one look at the cigarette and say, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

And Nico’s little plan will die in his hands.

See? No threats. No reason for Silas to call me insane.

Just bad luck. A series of unfortunate inventory problems.

It is not my fault Nico waited until the last minute to buy something popular.

It is not my fault another guest got there first.

I take a sip of orange juice.

Nico is still talking.

Something about the party. Something about what he might wear. He thinks he is planning.

That is almost insulting.

A plan is not deciding to flirt with someone and asking another man what cigarettes to buy.

A plan is noticing the breakfast attendant leaves at ten thirty.

I smile at him again.

“Anything else I should know?” he asks.

I pretend to think.

“No,” I say. “That should be enough.”

He nods, satisfied.

Poor thing.

He believes he is leaving this conversation with an advantage.

What he actually gave me was a deadline. Tonight.

That means I have the entire day. More than enough.

He walks back toward the table, carrying his mountain of sausages.

I watch him go. Then I check the time again.

Nine forty-two.

The duty-free shop opens at ten.

I should not be the first customer. First customers are remembered, especially when the store is empty.

Ten seventeen would be better.

Enough foot traffic to blur me into the morning.

Two packs. Maybe a lighter.

Something unrelated, so the purchase does not look focused.

At twelve thirty, the pool bar. At two fifteen, duty-free again.

New employee.

Casino shop before four, when people start returning from lunch.

The lounge after six, wearing something different.

Then I will put everything inside the bottom drawer in our suite, underneath my clothes, because Silas has no respect for privacy and will open every visible bag while looking for something he lost.

He cannot know yet. Not because I think he would stop me.

Because he would laugh. Worse, he would understand immediately.

He would hold up thirty packs of cigarettes, look me directly in the eyes, and ask if I bought the entire ship because another man wanted to give him one.

And I would have no believable answer.

So the stock stays hidden. I will carry one pack tonight.

Only one.

When Silas eventually asks for a cigarette, Nico will have nothing.

I will reach into my pocket before he finishes the sentence.

Not too quickly. That would expose how closely I listen.

A second of hesitation. Then the pack. Casual.

I’m just removing an option. People remove options constantly.

They reserve tables. Buy the last ticket. Close doors. Arrive first.

I am simply arriving everywhere first.

56) Jacuzzi

I wrote this while listening to the Blood Rave remix of I Shoot And I Miss 😭 It had me in such a weird mysterious mood so please don’t judge if it’s a little over the top LMAO. I got completely carried away.

Silas’s POV

I am going to kill someone.

Every second that passes makes it harder not to snap at somebody. I don’t even care who anymore. I just need someone to give me one stupid reason.

We’re all at the club, and apparently some people walked in here so fucking touch-starved they physically cannot keep their hands to themselves.

Seriously.

Is there some kind of medical condition where you have to touch Acosta’s chest every thirty seconds or you die?

Because if there is, someone should call a doctor for one specific girl.

My eyes are glued across the room, on him.

Victor.

Sitting on that couch like a king, legs spread, looking far too relaxed.

And that long-haired girl with the perfect body is glued to his side, laughing at everything he says, leaning in so close her tits are on his arm.

She’s touching him, flipping her hair, smiling at him.

Why the fuck isn’t he looking at me?

I thought tonight was going to be different. I thought this was my night.

That I’d have his eyes burning into me the whole time, only me.

I was gonna tease him, make him jealous, make him watch while other guys wanted me.

I wanted him desperate. I wanted him crazy for me.

Instead I’m stuck here with Nico yapping nonstop in my ear like a broken record, spitting bullshit I don’t give a fuck about, while across from me that girl is eye-fucking Victor in front of everyone.

How are you not looking at me? Someone literally wants me.

You know that. You heard him.

You should be staring holes through the side of my face.

You should be wondering what he’s saying. You should be annoyed.

Jealous. Anything.

Instead you’re sitting over there listening to her.

Why?

What is she saying that’s so fascinating? Did she discover the cure for cancer? Is she solving world hunger?

Jesus.

She slowly reaches up. Her fingers are long.

She brushes a loose strand of hair away from Victor’s forehead before tucking it neatly behind his ear, her hand lingering against his cheek for a second too long while she smiles up at him like she’s trying to hypnotize him with her face alone.

…

What the fuck?

Victor doesn’t smile back, doesn’t lean in. His expression stays almost painfully neutral.

So why is he just… sitting there?

Why is he letting her touch him?

Move. Tell her to stop. Do literally anything.

I know you don’t like people touching you.

So why her? Why now?

My jaw tightens.

Fine.

If that’s what we’re doing tonight…

Fine.

I turn back to Nico with a smile that feels fake even to me.

I reach over without asking and steal his drink instead, taking a slow sip.

Apparently we all share things tonight.

Drinks. Personal space. Common fucking sense.

I keep the glass near my mouth as I glance over the rim.

Just for a second.

Victor’s eyes find me.

Three seconds. Maybe four.

I straighten my shoulders without thinking. Adjust my shirt.

Come on. Come on.

Get annoyed.

Look again.

Walk over here.

Do… something.

His gaze leaves me.

Back to her.

My eyebrows pull together before I can stop them.

That’s it? That’s all I fucking get?

My phone buzzes.

I open it immediately.

VICTOR:

• You think I don’t see you?
• They’ll figure us out if you keep going.

I stare at the messages. I press the little heart on it.

Petty. Perfect.

Then I lock my phone and put it face down on the table.

They’ll figure us out if you keep going.

As if I am the problem.

He’s letting the entire room have small pieces of him while I have to sit here and behave.

That is what makes me want to throw something.

Everyone gets to enjoy him except me, and it’s eating me alive.

And it is the same for him. I know it is.

I rub both hands over my face and exhale hard.

Get it together.

You are in public. You are surrounded by people.

You cannot have a full emotional breakdown because Victor Acosta gave you three seconds of eye contact and then went back to being socially acceptable.

Unfortunately.

I lower my hands and look at poor Nico, who, for some reason, is still trying to win something from me.

Respect? Attention? A conversation? A small piece of my soul?

No idea.

He is leaning closer again, talking over the music, smiling like I have been contributing to this interaction in any meaningful way.

I really have not.

I have nodded maybe… twice and stolen his drink once.

Still, as long as I do not move from this seat and we are in front of other people, I do not care.

That is the rule I make for myself.

No private corners. No dark hallways.

No using him because Victor is across the room acting like restraint is a personality trait.

Fine.

I can sit here. I can be normal.

I can smoke. That will help.

Probably. Maybe.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my cigarette box.

Empty.

Fuck.

The universe has chosen violence.

“Bad luck,” Nico says, almost shouting into my ear over the bass.

I turn my head to look at him.

He leans closer so I can hear him, his shoulder brushing the back of the couch.

“I smoke those too.”

I stare at him. He points at the empty box in my hand.

“Same ones,” he says. “Marlboro Gold, right?”

My fingers tighten around the cardboard.

“What?”

Nico laughs like this is casual.

“I’ve been all over the ship looking for them,” he says. “Every shop. Even that tiny place near the casino. Nothing. Not one pack left anywhere. I swear they just disappeared. Yesterday there were plenty. Today nothing.”

I stare at him.

Then at the empty box.

Then across the room.

I remember opening one of Victor’s drawers earlier in the room because I was looking for his charger.

There were packs inside. A lot of them.

At the time, I barely registered it. I thought maybe he brought extra because we smoke the same ones, or maybe for his crew.

But there were too many. Victor too many. Rows.

I stare at the table in front of me.

Nico keeps talking, but his voice gets quieter in my head.

There were at least fifteen. Maybe more.

And Victor had been gone a lot today. He disappeared after breakfast.

Came back.

Left again before lunch. Then again in the afternoon.

At some point I asked where he was going and he said, “Nowhere.”

Which is never the answer of someone going nowhere.

Another click.

I lift my eyes toward him again. Still not looking at me.

That motherfucker.

Nico sighs and checks his phone. “I can probably find some tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

My mouth starts curling before I can stop it.

Because no. He will not.

Not unless Victor decides he can.

I think back to breakfast.

Nico talking to him near the buffet.

I saw it from across the room and assumed it was some stupid networking thing. Victor does that sometimes.

But now I remember Nico coming back to the table weirdly pleased.

Jesus Christ. My pulse starts beating a little faster.

Unfortunately, what I feel is a slow, filthy heat sliding down my spine.

Because he did not only want Nico to fail. He wanted Nico to become useless.

He wanted him to come to me empty-handed after spending hours searching for the exact things I like.

And then Victor would be there. With the right pack.

The only solution left.

He wanted to engineer an emergency small enough to look accidental and then make himself the only person capable of fixing it.

My tongue presses against the back of my teeth.

That is so deeply fucked up. I want to sit on his face.

Nico is still scrolling through his phone.

“This is seriously weird,” he mutters.

I nod slowly, eyes fixed on Victor across the room.

“Very.”

Victor finally looks over. Just once.

His expression does not change. Mine probably does.

Because now I can see the shape of the whole thing. He looks calm because the plan worked.

Nico has nothing. Victor has everything.

And I am standing here thinking about him. That was probably part of it too.

God.

He knows me disgustingly well.

I turn back to Nico.

“Strange,” I say.

“What?”

I tilt my head.

“It’s almost like someone went around and bought all of it.”

Nico gives a short laugh. “Yeah. Exactly.”

I look back at Victor. His eyes stay on mine now.

“Who even does that?” Nico says.

I smile into my glass.

“Probably someone with issues.”

Nico laughs. I do not.

Because the more I think about it, the worse it gets.

Victor did not lie to him. That’s probably his favorite part.

He told Nico the truth. Gave him exactly what he asked for.

Let him leave feeling clever and prepared, then spent the rest of the day making the information useless.

My stomach twists pleasantly.

I hate myself.

Any sane person would look at this and think controlling.

Concerning. Red flag. Possibly criminal.

I look at it and think he wanted me so badly he made the whole ship run out of my cigarettes.

That is not romantic.

It is also somehow the hottest thing anyone has ever done.

I look down. My dick is actually twitching.

I want to reward him. I don’t even know why.

I want to drop to my knees right here and thank him for making sure the only hands that can give me what I need are his.

I don’t know what this is, but I definitely want more of it.

I want him to keep going. I want him to make it so I always turn back to him.

Always. For everything.

I want him to be the only one who can give me what I need.

Cigarettes. Touch. Dick. Attention. Everything.

I want him that unhinged.

Apparently I do not only want someone protective. I want someone strategic about me.

Someone who does not just stand between me and a problem. Someone who makes sure the problem never gets close enough to require a scene.

That is hotter.

I like the thought of Victor making other men fail before they understand they are competing.

I smile and stand up from the couch.

I tug my shirt back into place, smoothing it down.

“I’m going to find my friends,” I tell Nico. “Nice meeting you.”

He starts to say something, but I am already walking away.

I do not wait.

I cut through the crowd toward the bathrooms, keeping my pace normal even though every part of me wants to move faster.

The music is brutally loud out here, the bass hitting through my ribs, and lights are flashing across faces I do not care about.

I can feel Victor’s eyes somewhere behind me.

Actually, maybe I am imagining it. I hope I’m not.

By the time I reach the bathroom hallway, I’m burning.

I push open the door, walk straight to the last stall, and lock myself inside.

The walls vibrate faintly with the music outside, but everything sounds muffled now.

Distant. Like I stepped underwater.

I take out my phone. Victor’s name is already near the top, so I click it.

I do nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing.

I simply take a photo of the empty space beside me…

It is not my fault that the angle also catches the obvious shape of my boner pressing against the front of my pants.

Pure accident. A tragedy, really.

I send it.

ME:

• we need to talk

I stare at the message.

Delivered.

My pulse is everywhere.

For one second, I consider deleting it. Then I remember the cigarettes.

No.

He deserves this. He deserves to know I figured it out.

He deserves to wonder what exactly I am planning to do about it.

I lean back against the wall and wait.

My phone stays silent. I look at the screen again.

Nothing.

“Come on,” I whisper.

The longer he takes, the worse I get.

Maybe he is pretending not to understand.

We need to talk.

Wow. Very professional.

Nothing says calm discussion like sending somebody a picture of your erection from a bathroom stall.

My phone vibrates. I look down immediately.

VICTOR:

• Which bathroom.

My mouth curls.

Nice. No pointless questions.

I type back.

ME:

• last stall

Then I put the phone away and I wait.

Ten seconds. Maybe twenty. Time becomes useless.

Then I hear the bathroom door open.

Slow footsteps. Definitely him.

I unlock the stall but keep the door almost completely shut. Just enough to see through the thin gap.

A shadow moves closer, then his hand appears.

That is all I need. I grab his wrist and yank him inside.

He barely has time to react before I slam him back against the closed door and kiss him as hard as I can.

There is no hello. No explanation.

He makes a startled sound against me, low and cut short, and I kiss him harder.

His hand shoots up and wraps around my throat, fingers tight, not enough to choke but enough to control me.

He squeezes and I let out a filthy moan, straight into his mouth. My hips press forward on pure instinct, grinding against him while I keep kissing him.

He pulls me in with enough force to make my breath break, and suddenly I am the one being pinned closer, chest against his, his mouth turning the kiss into something even rougher.

Better.

There he is.

I grip his jaw and keep him exactly where I want him, kissing him with all the anger and amusement and filthy approval I have no intention of saying out loud yet.

Victor bites my lip, hard. I gasp and he takes the chance to suck on my tongue, one of his thighs sliding between mine so I can feel how hard he already is.

He’s so fucking hungry for me.

I pull back only far enough to breathe. His face is inches from mine.

“You,” I whisper, still breathing too hard, “are seriously fucking disturbed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmurs against my lips.

I laugh once, breathless.

I grab his hair and yank his head to the side so I can bite his neck right under his ear. He hisses and then his hand is back around my throat, squeezing tighter while he kisses me so deep my knees almost give out.

This is what I needed.

This crazy, aggressive, can’t-get-enough version of him.

I want him obsessed. I want him as lost in me as I am in him.

I push him harder against the door.

“The shops are all empty.”

“Popular brand.”

Victor’s hand tightens around my throat in response and he yanks my head back so he can crash his mouth onto mine again. We’re both breathing like animals.

I keep kissing him like I’m starving. My hand slides down slowly, over his stomach, past his belt, until my palm presses hard against the thick outline of his dick through his pants.

Victor’s breath stutters against my lips.

I start stroking him slowly through the fabric, teasing, edging him with long, firm strokes while I keep devouring his mouth.

He moans silently and the sound makes my own dick throb.

“You want it?” I murmur right against his lips, still rubbing him slowly, never giving him full pressure. “Tell me.”

Victor nods hard, breathing heavy, hips pushing into my hand for more.

I smile against his mouth satisfied, and give him one tighter stroke before I stop completely, leaving him aching.

“Get rid of her,” I whisper, lips brushing his. Then I kiss him again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against his while my hand stays right there, to keep him desperate.

He grips my jaw harder, but I don’t give him more.

I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, both of us panting, lips swollen, hair completely fucked up.

“Come to the room and take it.”

I squeeze him one last time through his pants, then let go completely and step back.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Victor.”

I unlock the door and walk out without looking back, leaving him hard, frustrated, and completely obsessed.

Exactly how I want him.

I finally set up the jacuzzi I’ve been eyeing since the second we walked into this suite, and now I’m soaking in it.

The whole room is dark except for the violent purple light glowing up through the water, staining the walls, the glass, my skin. Everything looks unreal.

Victor still hasn’t shown up. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough.

Maybe he somehow missed the very obvious situation in the photo I sent him.

Maybe he didn’t feel my dick pressed against him in that bathroom.

No. Impossible.

His fans probably dropped fishing hooks from the ceiling and physically dragged him back into the party.

That is the only reasonable explanation for why he is not already here.

I take another sip of my drink and sink lower into the hot water.

Then, right on cue, the suite door opens.

Victor walks in.

I smile immediately and set my glass back on the edge.

“You’re late.”

“You’re impatient,” he says, taking off his jacket.

“I’m wet and bored. Just take your clothes off and get in already.”

His mouth curves.

Pleased. Far too pleased.

“Yes, Silas.”

My whole body reacts just from hearing him say my name like that.

After the cigarette thing, something in my brain has become genuinely unwell.

I crave him more. No idea why.

Maybe because I found out exactly how far his mind is willing to go when he wants something.

Maybe because jealousy apparently looks good on him.

Maybe because the image of him quietly emptying half the ship just to make himself my only option has been sitting in my head all night.

I want to do things to him. A lot of things.

I might not be ready for actual sex yet. Even thinking too directly about that still opens the wrong door in my head, and the memory waiting behind it makes my stomach turn.

But I want Victor to understand that I want him. All of him. Mind and body.

The beautiful parts. The strange ones. The obsessive little machinery running behind his eyes.

The whole fucked-up package.

He walks closer until he is standing directly across from me.

Then he starts taking off his clothes.

Slowly.

He lifts his shirt first, dragging it over his head and exposing that ridiculous body of his.

Broad shoulders. Defined chest.

Stomach tight enough to look carved instead of grown.

Then his pants. I swallow hard.

His thighs look like they could crack my skull open like a watermelon.

I would like to test that theory one day.

For science.

Victor sits on the edge and lowers his feet into the water. Then the rest of him follows, disappearing beneath the steam and purple light.

The glow hits his face in the worst possible way. Or the best.

His features turn darker. His eyes almost black from this angle, hair falling slightly out of place from taking off his shirt.

I have to actively stop myself from grabbing him.

I smile at my own thoughts and take another drink instead.

“You’re keeping the underwear on?” I ask lightly.

Victor looks down even though nothing is visible through the moving water.

Then back at me.

“I left it on for you,” he says. “So it wouldn’t be weird.”

I stare at him. Completely still.

Then a slow smile starts pulling at my mouth.

God. I love seeing him respectful.

The more respectful he is, the more I want him to do deeply disrespectful things to me.

It’s like a disease.

I slide both hands beneath the water.

One quick movement, and the last pieces of fabric are off me.

I lift them out between two fingers, dripping water onto the edge of the jacuzzi, then let them fall carelessly onto the floor.

Nothing left.

“Oops,” I say.

Victor’s eyes stay on my face. That is almost worse than if he looked anywhere else.

“I guess it’s your turn.” I tilt my head. “Unless you’re embarrassed because it’s small.”

He grins.

The bastard leans back and braces both arms along the white edge of the jacuzzi like he has all night.

Completely comfortable. Completely unbothered.

I look at his hands first. Veins standing out along his forearms. Fingers spread against the surface.

Then I look at his face, like, well?

Victor lifts one shoulder.

“Take it off yourself and check.”

I freeze, staring at him.

“You want me to take it off for you?”

“Yes.”

We lock eyes.

I don’t even pretend to think about it. Dignity is gone.

I move closer, hands settling on his waist under the warm water, squeezing once. His hands come up to my chest as I slowly start dragging his underwear down.

I keep pulling, and the resistance from his hard dick makes me smile. Maybe I was a little wrong earlier.

I pull the fabric free, lift it out of the water, and let it fall somewhere behind him.

It lands on the floor with a wet slap.

He leans in, smiling right against my mouth.

“That was deeply unprofessional of you, Blackwood.”

“Emptying four shops for your supposed rival is also unprofessional,” I murmur against his lips.

“Five.”

“What?”

“Five shops. Not four.”

I grab him and shove him back against the edge of the jacuzzi, climbing right on top of him.

My hands slide into his now-wet hair and pull him as close as possible. My heart starts racing the second I feel our dicks brush under the water.

I’m basically sitting on his balls. I can feel them against my skin.

The bubbles hide everything, but they do absolutely nothing to hide what the contact does to me.

My hands move to his throat while his slide down my waist, slowly traveling lower to the small of my back.

“Lower,” I tell him while I kiss his neck.

His hands obey, sliding over the curves of my ass and then grabbing both sides hard.

He squeezes and kneads and I can tell he’s been wanting to do this for a long time.

I turn and kiss him wet and deep, not to distract myself from where his hands are like I used to, but because I just want more of Victor.

I slip one hand under the water and wrap it around both our dicks, stroking us together in slow, tight strokes.

“You like that?” I murmur, never taking my eyes off his face.

I want every reaction.

He nods, trying to kiss me, but it comes out pathetic because he’s drowning in the pleasure.

That might be the hottest thing I have ever seen.

Victor Acosta, who plans every movement like his life depends on control, suddenly unable to coordinate his own mouth because I am sitting on him in hot water.

And I can make it worse. I push him back further.

“Climb up here,” I say, nodding toward the wide edge of the jacuzzi behind him.

He obeys, using his arms to lift himself up until he’s sitting on the ledge.

The second his dick is fully out of the water I swallow hard and look away, staring at the purple-lit wall instead.

No.

Maybe I should just leave. I can’t suck all of that.

I’ll choke. I’ll look pathetic. I’ll embarrass myself so fucking hard.

I haven’t had a dick in my mouth in ages. What if I’m shit at it now?

What if I gag too much and he laughs? What if I can’t even take half of it?

Then it hits me. This is Victor Acosta.

In a little while the whole industry is going to dedicate an entire magazine to him.

People will treat that thing like holy scripture.

They’ll stare at the pages like they’re looking at a god.

Half the world would kill for five minutes of his attention.

They’d pay just to have him touch them once.

They’d get on their knees for a single glance.

And right now that same man is sitting in front of me.

Naked.

A slow, filthy smile spreads across my face.

I turn back to look at it properly.

It’s thick. Slightly curved to the right.

Then my eyes catch the tattoo. The one I gave him.

That one piece of ink on otherwise untouched skin.

My body is covered.

Arms, chest, hands, legs, pieces of me marked everywhere.

Victor is almost completely clean.

Except for that one place. Except for my work.

The blue… orchid.

I go still.

Because I finally understand.

Blue fucking orchid. My favorite flower.

My flower.

He turned it into something permanent on his body.

That insane man. He put my flower on himself.

The crazy bastard got my favorite flower inked on his skin.

Without a second thought I spit on his dick.

I watch it drip down, then wrap my hand around him and spread it slowly, stroking from base to tip until he’s shiny and slick.

My mouth waters.

“Respectfully, I need you to be less respectful for five minutes,” I say, then I finally lean in and take him between my lips with pure hunger.

The second the head slides over my tongue I moan around him.

He’s thick. So thick my jaw stretches immediately, and the weight of him on my tongue makes my own dick throb hard under the water.

I take him deeper, inch by inch, until the head pushes against the back of my throat.

My eyes water but I don’t pull back.

I stay there, throat fluttering around him, hands gripping his strong thighs and squeezing hard.

“Fuck, Silas…” Victor groans.

I swirl around it, tasting the precum, then spit on it again and spread it with my hand.

I push my head down as far as I can, sucking hard on the way up, then drop back down deeper.

I stroke what I can’t fit, twisting my wrist, while my other hand keeps squeezing and rubbing his thigh.

“You’re so fucking good at this, Silas,” he breathes. “Your mouth feels incredible. Don’t you dare stop.”

I take him even deeper.

The head slides into my throat and I gag once, but I force myself to stay there, nose almost touching his stomach.

My throat squeezes around him and I moan through it, the vibration making him curse again.

When I finally pull up I gasp for air, strings of thick spit connecting my lips to his dick.

I look up at him, eyes glassy, and immediately dive back down, sucking faster, messier.

Victor’s head falls back for a moment before he forces himself to look down at me again.

His thighs are shaking under my hands. His stomach flexes every time I take him into my throat.

“Silas—” he warns, voice breaking. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up.”

I don’t stop.

I suck him sloppier, more desperate, while my hand strokes and twists around the base.

The wet sounds fill our room.

Victor’s hand suddenly tightens in my hair and he pushes my head down hard.

My throat opens around him as he forces me deeper, holding me there for a few seconds while I gag wetly around his dick.

He’s controlling every movement and I let him.

Every sound he makes goes straight to my own dick.

I want this to be the best head he’s ever had.

I want him to remember this every single time he looks at me.

To see my face and instantly picture me under his dick.

I pull back for air, still licking the underside while I try to catch my breath.

Victor’s hand comes up and gently pushes my wet hair out of my face, stroking it back.

Then he grabs my jaw from underneath, and turns my head so I’m forced to look up at him.

I stare at him, dizzy, lips shiny and swollen, completely gone from how much I’m enjoying this.

His thumb slowly drags across my wet bottom lip, wiping some of the spit, then strokes my cheek almost tenderly.

A second later his thumb presses into my mouth and rests on my tongue.

I suck it without thinking, eyes locked on his, cheeks hollowing.

“Good boy,” Victor murmurs. He watches me suck his thumb for a few more seconds, then pulls it out and immediately pushes my head back down onto his dick.

God.

The more he praises me the more I want to keep going.

Victor doesn’t hand out compliments easily. When he does, it hits different.

It makes me greedy. It makes me want to earn every single word.

Victor lets out a soft, broken whimper above me.

Fuck.

I take him deeper immediately, choking a little on purpose.

I pull back just enough to speak, still stroking him slowly.

“You like that?” I ask.

Victor only nods, breathing hard. I keep my hand on his abs and look up at him.

“Use your words. I know you can.”

He swallows. “Yes… I love it. Fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

A filthy little smile pulls at my lips.

“Then cum all over my face.”

He nods again, almost desperate.

I stop taking him deep and focus only on the head, sucking just the tip, swirling my tongue over the most sensitive spot underneath, teasing him with wet, deliberate strokes.

Victor’s thighs tremble. His hand stays in my hair but he doesn’t push me down this time.

When he’s right on the edge I pull off completely, still looking up at him, waiting.

He wraps his hand around his dick and strokes himself twice.

Then he starts cumming.

Thick, hot ropes land across my face. One hits my cheek, another stripes over my nose and forehead, more landing on my lips and chin before dripping down my neck.

His other hand grips my jaw hard. He holds my face steady while his cum keeps landing across my skin. Then he starts turning my head slowly, left and right, making sure he covers everything.

He keeps stroking, painting me while low moans and those soft, broken whimpers keep leaving his throat.

I look straight up at him the whole time, a slow, filthy smile spreading across my face even as more cum lands on me.

Then I stick my tongue out, letting a few drops fall on it, completely shameless.

When it’s over and I see him lying there exhausted because of something I did, something weird twists low in my stomach.

Satisfaction.

I did that to him. I made Victor Acosta look wrecked.

And that thought makes me more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.

I grab the towel beside me and wipe my face, then look at him.

“Victor.”

“Yeah?” he says, dragging a hand over his forehead.

His cheeks are still red. His breathing hasn’t settled. He looks like somebody unplugged him and forgot to warn him first.

“Let’s have sex.”

---

Hey guys. I feel so weird writing smut about them😭

Be honest… was it good? I want your honest opinion. I wrote that whole thing at the beach.

Also… I have something to tell you.

Unfortunately, that was my last drafted chapter😭 I don’t have another one ready to post.

I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to keep up with the schedule anymore, especially now that my chapters have become HUGE and every single scene takes me so many hours to write because I’ve suddenly developed the uncontrollable urge to analyze everything.

Would you maybe prefer more frequent updates with shorter chapters instead? I genuinely don’t know.

BUT… the good news is that we’re getting really close to chapters that I think you’re going to love. They’re funny, domestic, hot, and just… 🥹❤️ I really hope I can write them the way they exist in my head.

Also, we’re officially in the second Guilty Pleasure paperback now, which is so fun to think about. The first paperback is already looking like it’ll be around 500 pages.

Mind you… they still haven’t said I love you. They still haven’t had sex. They still haven’t even made their relationship official.

…I’m going to stop talking now because I just stressed myself out💀

And one more thing…

Do you think this is actually going to work out? Do you think Silas will be able to have sex tonight?

57) Don’t Play Brave

wrote this while listening to Guilty Pleasure by faaruka heheheheh

Silas’s POV

All the color in Victor’s face starts draining so fast I almost laugh, except I am serious and he looks genuinely horrified.

“No.”

I frown. “What do you mean, no?”

“No.”

“I want to have sex with you.”

“Silas.”

“I’m serious,” I say quickly.

I feel ready.

I feel like I want to do it, and I want to do it now while I want it because I don’t know when I’ll change my mind again.

“Silas, you don’t have to rush it. I promise. We don’t have to.”

“We don’t have to,” I say, holding his eyes. “But I want to.”

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

The jacuzzi keeps humming behind us. Purple light moves over the water, over his skin, over the steam between us.

Everything feels too hot and too quiet at once.

I know what he is thinking. I hate that I know.

He is wondering if I’m trying to force myself through something just to prove Adam didn’t ruin me.

If I’m going to disappear halfway through and say nothing because I am too stubborn to admit something hurts.

I get it. I would worry too.

But I also know myself enough to know this is not that.

I want him.

Not the idea of healing.

I want Victor.

I want the voice that stayed with me for years without ever seeing my face.

I want the man who talked to me about sex before he even knew we would exist in the same room.

I want the person who never made me feel stupid for asking the weirdest questions, never made it dirty in a way I did not choose, never treated curiosity like permission.

I already know he will handle me well.

He never said those things just to get me into bed because back then there was no bed to get me into.

There was only a screen.

Only Vox and late nights.

I know I will not regret this with him. So I want to give him my first time.

Or at least my first real try. That feels more honest.

“Listen to me,” Victor says.

He reaches for me, both hands settling on my shoulders.

I look at him.

“Anything you feel,” he says slowly, “ anything , if it feels strange or wrong or too much, you tell me . You can stop me at any point. Do not play brave.“

“I’m not playing brave.”

His eyes search mine.

“I want it,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I climb out first, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around myself while water runs down my legs.

Victor gets out after me. Also naked.

I dry off fast, probably badly, then toss the towel aside and sit on the bed with nothing on.

Nothing.

No clothes. No blanket. No water hiding me. No steam.

Just me. That alone feels like progress.

I suddenly think about my back. The scar.

The long, ugly line running down my back.

I imagine him over me and suddenly noticing how damaged I look.

Imagine him getting soft because reality is less pretty than the fantasy.

My stomach drops.

Before I can think better of it, I turn and switch off the big light.

Victor looks at me.

“I prefer low lights,” I say.

He nods immediately without questioning it.

“Okay.”

He comes to the bed slowly, like he’s the nervous one.

My heart starts hammering when I realize this is real.

I’m going to have sex.

Maybe.

I’m going to have sex with Victor.

Then my heart hits even harder when I remember Victor is Vox.

He climbs onto the bed and moves over me slowly, giving me too much time to run.

I shift beneath him, then just stare up at him awkwardly because I suddenly have no idea what people are supposed to do with their hands.

Or face.

Or legs.

This is where porn lies.

Nobody talks about the logistics of being a human person with no useful instructions.

Victor stops above me, one hand braced beside my head.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I’m naked on a bed with you above me. Obviously I’m thinking.”

His mouth twitches, but he does not smile fully.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I don’t know where to put my hands.”

His face softens.

God, fuck him.

“Anywhere,” he says. “On me. On the bed. On yourself. Wherever you want.”

“That was too many options.”

“On me, then.”

I lift both hands and put them on his shoulders.

His skin is warm.

Okay. That helps.

He lowers slightly, not fully pressing into me yet, just close enough for me to feel the heat of him. His knee slides carefully between mine, and I breathe in a little too sharply.

Then I slide my hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck.

“Kiss me,” I say.

He does.

Not soft in the boring way. Soft in the careful way.

His mouth touches mine like a question, and I answer by pulling him closer because I need him to understand I am not going to break just because he wants me. This is not what I’m afraid of.

The kiss deepens naturally.

My body starts remembering the jacuzzi. The rooftop.

The way wanting him can feel safe and filthy at the same time.

Victor’s hand touches my side, and I tense.

Just reflex.

He stops immediately.

“Silas.”

“I know, I know.” I breathe out. “Keep going.”

He does not.

“You tensed.”

“I said keep going.”

“I heard you. Do you mean it?”

I stare at him. That is the difference. That is the whole fucking difference.

Adam would have taken the words and ignored the body.

Victor reads both and waits for them to agree.

I swallow hard.

“Yes,” I say, quieter now. “I meant it.”

Victor’s hand moves again.

Over my side.

My ribs.

My waist.

He watches my face the whole time, like my expression is the only language that matters.

“Still okay?”

“Yeah.”

I drag him down and kiss him harder because I cannot handle him being careful without doing something about it.

His body settles more over mine. I go still again, but this time it is not panic.

It is the shock of liking this. The weight of him.

The feeling of being covered without feeling trapped.

Victor starts to move away, probably because I went quiet.

I lock my legs around him before he can.

His eyes lift to mine.

“I’m still here,” I whisper. “I like that. Don’t move.”

He nods once. Then stays.

My hands slide into his hair.

“I want the lamp off too,” I say suddenly.

Victor reaches without hesitation and turns it off.

Now the room is almost completely dark except for the purple glow spilling faintly from the jacuzzi.

Better.

I don’t want to hide from him, but I want to choose what he sees slowly.

“You’re going to make me emotional if you keep being decent,” I mutter.

His mouth brushes my cheek.

“I’ll try to be worse.”

“Please do.”

That earns me a quiet laugh against my skin.

It helps. It makes the room feel less terrifying.

More us.

Victor kisses my neck, and I tip my head back. The movement exposes more of me, and for a second I feel proud of myself like an idiot.

Look. I can do this. I can want this. I can be here.

His hand slides lower along my back and pauses near the scar.

My entire body locks. The door in my head almost opens.

Victor stops.

“We don’t have to touch it.”

“No.” My voice comes out too fast. “No, I want you to. Just… I’m scared it’ll turn you off. It’s not sexy.”

“Saying that should be illegal,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“You thinking there is any part of you I could hate.”

My throat tightens.

His hand moves to my cheek, and his thumb brushes under my eye even though I am not crying.

Rude.

“You do not have to show me anything tonight,” he says. “But do not insult my taste.”

I let out a broken little laugh.

“That was your romantic response?”

“Yes.”

I laugh again, and it comes out less broken this time.

He kisses me once.

“If you want me to touch it, I will. If you don’t, I won’t. Either way, I want you.”

I turn slightly before I can talk myself out of it, giving him access to my back without fully rolling away from him.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Victor’s hand finds the scar in the dark.

Gentle. So gentle it almost pisses me off.

His fingers trace one small section, not the whole thing, like he is asking permission from my skin too.

I breathe. Nothing happens. No memory swallows me.

No nausea. I exhale shakily.

He kisses my shoulder, then another place near the scar.

Not the scar directly yet. Beside it.

I almost smile.

Then he kisses the scar itself, so lightly I barely feel it.

Oh.

He is not turned off. He is not tolerating it.

He is touching it like it belongs to me and therefore deserves the same attention as every other part of me.

My eyes sting. Absolutely not.

I blink hard. Victor notices.

“We stop?” he asks.

“No, keep going.”

He does.

His hand slides lower, still slow, until his palm rests on my ass.

I smile into the pillow and a soft little sound escapes me.

He kisses the back of my neck while he keeps touching me there, and the combination makes me want more.

I can feel his dick resting against me, and the fact that I’m still okay makes something proud settle in my chest.

Progress.

“Hey, Silas?” His voice is careful, almost hesitant. “I need to ask you something.”

I turn my head back to look at him, suddenly anxious.

“What? Do I have something? What is it?”

He laughs softly at my panic. “You don’t have anything. You’re perfect. I just… I want to be sure instead of assuming. Do you have a preference? Bottom or top?”

I turn my face back into the pillow for a second.

I have the option?!

I can top Victor Acosta if I just say the word??

That is on the menu?

This night keeps improving in extremely illegal ways.

A laugh gets stuck somewhere in my throat, but it does not come out. Mostly because underneath the joke, something warmer is happening.

He is asking.

Not assuming that because I am inexperienced, or nervous, or the one who got hurt before, I automatically have to be one thing.

He is actually asking what I want.

The idea of Victor under me makes my entire brain trip over itself.

Still, I like the way he’s taking care of me right now.

I’ve never felt this kind of careful attention before and I want to sit in it a little longer before I take control.

Tonight I do not want to lead. Tonight I want to be cared for.

I shift slightly under him and answer honestly. “I want you to top,” I tell him. “For tonight.”

“For tonight, huh?” he whispers right against my ear, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I still want my turn eventually.”

He smiles. “Of course. Just say the word.”

He turns me over so we’re face to face. His body settles over mine carefully.

“I want us like this,” he says quietly. “So you can see every movement. No guessing.”

I nod, a little emotional that he’s thinking about all of it for me.

“You know I’m not completely new to this, right?” I murmur against his mouth, bratty and quiet. “I’ve… handled things on my own before. So theoretically this shouldn’t be that shocking.”

He huffs a soft laugh but stays focused. “Still. If anything doesn’t feel good, you tell me right away.”

“I will.”

He warms the lube between his fingers and slides his hand between my legs.

The first touch is careful, circling. I let out a small, teasing sound just to mess with him a little.

“Still good?” he asks.

“Mm. Keep going.”

One finger presses in slowly. I exhale and give him a look.

“See? Not breaking. Told you.”

He shakes his head, smiling, but watches my face the entire time.

He works me open with slow movements, more lube, constant check-ins. Every time I make even the tiniest noise he slows down or stops to kiss me.

A second finger joins. The stretch is stronger.

I tense for a second on purpose just to see his reaction, then relax again.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” I say, a bit breathless and still bratty. “You’re being so careful it’s almost cute. I can take more.”

“We’re not speeding up just because you’re impatient,” he answers firmly, but his eyes are soft.

He keeps working me open, adding more lube whenever it starts to feel dry.

His free hand strokes my hair, my chest, my thigh.

Once I’m ready, he shifts a little higher between my legs, holding both of my knees against his sides to steady himself.

“Hey… don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but I think we should change positions. I want to sit on you.”

The truth is I want it because then I get to decide the speed and the rhythm.

I won’t have to wait and see what he chooses.

It’s not that I don’t trust him. I trust him enough that I could sit right under the middle of a dartboard and tell him to aim for the bullseye.

I just need to do this my way right now. At least until I can unclench a little.

“Okay,” he says.

Thank God.

No wounded pride. No fragile little ego because I do not want him above me for the first real try.

That helps more than I want to admit.

Victor moves immediately, sitting back against the headboard. He adjusts the pillows behind him and keeps one hand out, not pulling me, just offering.

I climb over him again, and the second I settle in his lap, my stomach flips.

His dick is already hard even though he came not that long ago.

It takes me at least half a day to recover after I finish. I wasn’t kidding when I said they must have built him in a lab.

I grab the condom he left on the bed.

“Can I do it?” I ask, looking at him.

“Don’t even ask,” he answers, voice soft. “I’m incapable of saying no to you.”

We both laugh a little.

My fingers feel weirdly steady when I tear the wrapper open.

I’m actually doing this.

Victor watches me, but he doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t try to hurry me along.

He just lets me do it myself.

I get it on him and sit back slightly. Victor brushes his thumb over my knee.

“Hey.”

I look up at him, waiting.

“Since we’re doing this, I think you should know I’m clean,” he says. “I got tested. Everything. I’m completely fine.”

He glances down at the condom between us.

“I still carry those anyway. Just in case. I don’t want to take chances with you.”

I nod.

“Okay.”

“And I’m not saying that because I expect you to trust me blindly,” he adds immediately. “If you ever want to see the results, I’ll show you. If you want me to get tested again, I will.”

I stare at him.

Victor’s eyebrows pull together.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Just because you mentioned it… I’ve gotten tested too. You know.” I swallow. “After him.”

I feel sick just remembering that day.

How anxious I was waiting for those results, how convinced I’d somehow hear something that would make everything even worse.

I swallow again and reach down to trace Victor’s tattoo, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.

“The results came back clean,” I tell him. “Thankfully, I didn’t have anything.”

Victor brushes his fingers through my hair, and I can see both the sadness and the relief on his face.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry you ever had to wonder if you were.”

I blink hard. This is so humiliating.

I’m sitting here completely naked, trying not to cry because someone told me he doesn’t want to give me an infection.

Romance is alive and well.

I pour lube into my hand and start stroking it over his dick, coating him thoroughly, preparing him for me.

I take my time, partly because we actually need time and partly because my brain needs to catch up with the fact that this is happening.

Not in a late-night conversation with Vox through a screen.

Not alone in my room, imagining things I could shut down the second they got too close.

This is real. Victor is under me naked, refusing to force me.

And that is where my thoughts go wrong for a second. Because technically, he could.

Technically, he is stronger.

Technically, I am above him now, but if he suddenly decided to stop being Victor and become something else, there is only so much my body could do.

I hate that Adam left little traps in normal places. I swallow and force air into my lungs.

Victor is not Adam. Not even close. Not in the same universe.

Victor built this whole room around my safety without making me feel like a project.

He has done nothing wrong. Nothing.

He does not deserve me thinking about broken people while I am in his lap.

I want to have sex. And I want it to be with Victor. I want Victor to be the new thought.

When I think of sex, I do not want Adam’s face first.

I want Victor’s.

I wrap my hand around his dick and guide it myself until the head is resting right against my entrance.

I take a deep breath.

Victor’s hand comes up and settles on the side of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, eyes locked on mine. “You’re in control. Don’t stress. We can stop even after we’ve started. Treat this more like an attempt than something you have to perform.”

I nod. Too many times.

My heart is racing, but his hand on my neck stays steady.

I take another slow breath and start to push down.

The first pressure is strange. My body doesn’t open for him right away the way I thought it would.

I sink maybe a fraction of an inch and then stop, breath catching.

It definitely feels bigger than it looks.

A small, uncertain sound leaves my throat.

Victor’s hands settle on my hips, holding me.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “We can stay right here as long as you need.”

I nod, eyes fixed on his, and try again.

I press down a little more. The head starts to stretch me open and the burn makes me freeze.

It’s not sharp pain, but it’s intense. My thighs tremble and I stop completely, still only partially taking him.

“Sorry,” I whisper, voice shaky. “It’s tighter than I expected.”

“I know.” His thumbs stroke slow circles on my hips. “Breathe for me. In through your nose. You’re doing fine.”

I do what he says. Deep breath in. Slow breath out.

The tension in my stomach eases a fraction.

I rock down again, very carefully, and this time the head slips inside with a wet, slow stretch.

Both of us inhale sharply at the same time.

I stay completely still, hands braced on his chest, just adjusting to the feeling of him inside me.

It’s overwhelming in a quiet way.

My body keeps trying to clench around him and every small pulse makes me breathe harder.

Victor keeps stroking my hips and watching my face.

“Talk to me,” he says softly.

“It’s a lot,” I admit. “Feels weird. Not bad… just a lot.”

“We can stop.”

“No.” I shake my head quickly. “Just give me a second.”

I stay there, letting my body get used to the stretch.

Every few seconds I shift a tiny bit, up a fraction, then back down, testing.

Each small movement makes the burn soften a little more.

Sweat is starting to gather at the small of my back. My breathing is still heavy and uneven.

Victor’s hand slides up my side and rests over my heart for a moment, feeling how fast it’s beating, then returns to my hip.

“You’re safe,” he reminds me quietly. “Nothing happens unless you decide it does.”

I nod again, more steadily this time, and push down a little further.

Another inch.

The stretch deepens and I have to pause once more, forehead dropping against his for a second while I adjust.

We’re both breathing hard now, me from the intensity of taking him, him from holding still so carefully.

I lift my head, look him in the eyes, and sink down another slow fraction.

His dick is finally starting to settle deeper inside me, and even though it still feels strange and tight and almost too much, I keep going, bit by bit, because I want this, and because he’s letting me do it exactly at my own pace.

My forehead stays resting against his, and every moan that leaves him goes straight into my mouth.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’re doing so fucking well.”

I smile a little when I realize that, for now, I’m actually doing fucking well.

I’m doing it.

I’m finally making my first time mine with someone I actually want this badly, and I haven’t fucked it up.

Jett is going to cry if he ever finds out.

Actually, no.

He’s going to cry first and then make some horrible celebratory cinnamon roll and write CONGRATS ON THE SEX in icing.

I look down between us for half a second, then away again.

My stomach flips.

It’s actually pathetic how happy I am right now.

The hard part is over. The part I was scared of.

Nothing terrible happened.

The room didn’t change. Victor didn’t change. I didn’t disappear. I’m still here. I’m still me.

I can do this.

I actually…

Fuck.

I’m going to fucking cry because I’m proud of myself.

Absolutely not.

I focus and lower myself a little more, hearing the soft wet sound.

I feel full.

I kiss him just to get the relief out of me somehow.

He wraps an arm around me and grabs my hair while smiling against my mouth.

“You’re doing more than perfect,” he whispers against my lips, and I smile, dizzy from how much his voice calms me down.

Something about the sound just gets to me.

I lift myself slightly so I can settle back down again, and that’s when I feel a pain low in my back.

I breathe through my nose. It’s fine.

Obviously my back is going to feel weird sometimes. I had fucking spinal surgery.

Breaking news. I’m not made of rubber anymore.

Doesn’t mean anything.

I adjust my knees slightly, trying to find a better angle.

There. Better.

I think.

“Everything okay?” Victor asks, rubbing my waist.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine,” I breathe, trying to calm my heart down.

I can do this.

I’ve been waiting forever to try this position. Maybe my body just needs to get used to it.

I smile awkwardly, almost embarrassed.

I try once more. A little more this time.

My lower back catches again. My muscles lock before I can finish the movement.

Victor sits up a fraction.

I shove a hand against his chest.

“No, no, please. I just need a minute.”

“Silas, just tell me what’s wrong. What we’re doing isn’t mandatory. Don’t forget that.”

I try again because I refuse to accept that I don’t work properly.

Maybe it just needs practice.

Maybe if I keep doing it for long enough, it’ll go away.

Yeah. That can happen.

I can’t just not be able to have sex because he left me broken.

Life wouldn’t do that to me. I’m a good person.

I don’t hurt people.

I take care of my siblings. I remember everyone’s birthday. I tip too much when the waiter looks tired. I let Jett eat half my food.

“Hey.”

“I said I’m fine, Victor.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m fucking cold.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Can you not??”

I realize I snapped at him by accident.

He looks at me, frozen, like he’s trying to figure out what he did wrong.

Because he genuinely didn’t do anything wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And that makes me break completely.

“I’ll help you get down,” he says.

“I don’t want help.”

“Silas, please.”

Then he reaches for me anyway, one hand gentle at my waist, the other closing around my arm, and I let him.

I climb off him, drowning in so much fucking embarrassment that I genuinely want the mattress to open up and swallow me.

The second I’m off, I drag the sheet over myself.

Which is fucking ironic. He’s seen everything already.

He was literally inside me two seconds ago and now I’m hiding under a sheet like a virgin.

Victor gets up without saying anything, pulls his boxers back on, doesn’t make a single fucking thing out of it, then walks around to my side of the bed and holds my clothes out to me.

My arms are crossed over my chest.

I don’t move.

Because I know myself.

The second I uncross them, the second I do literally anything right now, I’m going to make some pathetic little crying sound again.

And I hate it.

I hate it so fucking much.

Victor gets the message.

He sets my clothes down beside me without saying anything and sits back against the wooden headboard.

Thinking.

I fucking hate that too. I hate how thoughtful he looks.

I can almost hear whatever annoyed thoughts must be running through his head because, okay, yes, he told me we could stop.

He told me we didn’t have to do anything. He said it like ten fucking times.

But come on.

Who the fuck likes being stopped halfway through sex?

Nobody.

This is humiliating.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

Mostly because I need to know what I’m dealing with.

Victor looks at me.

“I’m trying to figure out what you need.”

That hurts more than it should.

He’s sitting there trying to solve me like there has to be some answer hidden somewhere.

My eyes fill properly this time.

“Well, unless you have a spare spine somewhere, I don’t think you can help.”

His face drops.

Fuck.

I look away.

“I can look into it.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“Not a spare spine. I mean… positions. Ways to support your back. Pillows. Anything that takes pressure off it.”

I stare at him.

He’s actually fucking thinking.

Like right now.

His brain has already left the disaster and started making a list.

“We can ask someone.”

“No.”

“Okay. We don’t have to.”

“I’m not going to a doctor and saying, hi, doctor, which way can I fuck without my spine exploding?”

His expression stays completely straight.

“I’ll ask, then.”

That almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Then I’ll research it.”

My shoulders start shaking. I squeeze my arms tighter around myself.

I hate this. I hate this so, so fucking much.

I just wanted to have sex like a normal person. That’s literally it.

I wanted to feel good the way everybody else around me gets to feel good without thinking about vertebrae and fucking posture and whether one wrong movement is going to make them feel eighty years old.

But no.

Obviously somebody horrible had to find me first.

Obviously somebody had to get to me before Victor did.

Obviously somebody had to leave me with this fucking aftermath right when I finally found the person I genuinely wanted to move forward with.

And now Victor either has to leave me or suffer through it with me.

Great options.

A tear slips down my face. I wipe it away immediately.

“I think you should just leave me.”

“I think I should decide that for myself.”

I lift my head. He’s being serious.

I look straight ahead again.

“I don’t want the weight of constantly wondering if I’m keeping you here without sex. And I don’t want to keep thinking maybe you’re staying because you feel bad for me. So I’m telling you myself.”

I swallow.

“Just leave me.”

“That isn’t up to you. Whether I stay or leave.”

“Well, sure, but I might never get better.”

I start fucking with the edge of the sheet because if my hands stay still I’m going to break again.

“I might never manage to have normal sex. Maybe it’ll always be complicated.”

Victor doesn’t interrupt.

“And I don’t want you paying for it too when none of this is your fault.”

His face hardens.

Not at me. At the sentence.

“Paying for it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

“Yes, you fucking do.”

“I really don’t.”

“You have needs, Victor. Come on.”

His head lifts.

And suddenly he looks genuinely offended.

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“Who the fuck told you sex is just sticking your dick somewhere and calling it a day?”

I blink.

The sentence is so aggressively Victor that for half a second my brain completely shuts down.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, I just—”

“Because if that’s genuinely what you think sex is, then we have a completely different problem.”

I stare at him for a second.

Then I give him this fake little smile because I don’t know what else to do and get up to put my boxers on.

I don’t want to feel naked anymore. Not until I shower.

I pull my black shirt over my head.

“I think you deserve better.”

“No. No, no, no. Please.”

He gets up too.

Now he’s right in front of me.

We just stand there looking at each other for a second.

And then… he drops to his knees. Right in front of me.

I freeze.

His eyes don’t leave mine.

Mine are probably fucking huge because why does he look destroyed?

He looks like I’m holding something sharp against his throat.

“Silas, please.”

His hands settle against my thighs.

Gentle.

“Don’t shut me out of this.”

I swallow hard.

“I can live without sex. I promise you. Even if you never feel ready again, I can still be here. I’ve done it for years.”

Fuck.

The tone in his voice is almost worse than the words.

He sounds like he’s begging.

Like he’s trying desperately to hold onto me and doesn’t give a shit if he looks pathetic doing it.

“I just want to be with you. I want Silas. I want to help you carry it until it gets lighter. And if it never gets as light as you want, then I want to learn the weight.”

I wipe away a tear angrily before it can fall onto him.

Fuck him. Seriously.

Fuck him for saying things like that while I’m already barely holding myself together.

“Leave out whatever you want,” he says. “Leave out sex. Leave out Adam. Leave out all of it.”

His hands slide a little further around my legs.

“But please, don’t leave me out too. Let me be useless next to you instead of perfect outside the door.”

I turn my face away because I can feel it breaking. I don’t want him to see it.

I don’t want Victor spending half his life trying to calm me down after failed attempts to feel normal.

I don’t want him building his life around fucking workarounds for me.

I don’t want him worshipping pain just because the pain is attached to me.

And I definitely don’t want to take someone as intense and beautiful as him and make him live in my aftermath.

But I also don’t want him to leave.

God help me.

I don’t want him to leave. I don’t even want him to move his hands.

Victor looks up at me for a long second, still holding onto my legs like I’m his fucking god.

“This is not you pulling me down.”

His arms tighten around my legs.

“This is where I wanted to be.”

I shake my head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do not care what I should do.”

A broken laugh escapes me. Of fucking course that’s his answer.

And then, hesitantly, I reach down and touch his hair. Still damp from the jacuzzi.

My fingers slide through it slowly, and for some reason that tiny movement calms me down more than anything else has.

I run my fingers through his hair again.

Victor looks up at me.

There’s something so fucked up about this image.

Him on his knees. His arms around my legs. Me crying and petting his hair like he’s the one who needs comforting.

Maybe we’re both a little fucked. Maybe that’s why this works.

Eventually he lets go and gets back up.

Then he sits on the edge of the bed directly in front of me.

“Sit.”

He pats the empty space beside him.

I hesitate. Still embarrassed.

Still feeling like I managed to humiliate myself in seventeen different ways in less than ten minutes.

But I go anyway. I sit beside him.

Victor lifts a hand slowly, touches the back of my head, and guides me toward him until I’m resting against him.

I let out a shaky breath.

Then wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“Very sexy,” I mumble.

Victor kisses the top of my head.

“I’m obsessed with you.”

A small laugh slips out of me.

“Clearly.”

He kisses my hair again.

I sit there for another second.

Then I let myself fall backward onto the mattress and stare up at the ceiling.

Victor falls back too.

Except he turns onto his side. Toward me.

I can feel his eyes immediately. Just fucking staring.

I last maybe five seconds.

I turn onto my side and look at him too. There’s this weird expression on his face.

Happy and sad at the same time.

Soft.

“What?” I ask.

Victor shrugs, still looking at me.

“Nothing.”

I smile.

“Say something.”

His eyes move over my face again, like he’s taking inventory.

Then he smiles.

“Your hair looks terrible.”

I shove him immediately.

“Shame on you. On our last fucking night.”

I turn away from him dramatically. He laughs behind me.

I start laughing too because he’s such a fucking idiot.

Seriously.

The man drops to his knees and gives me an emotional speech that nearly changes the chemical structure of my brain, and five minutes later he’s insulting my hair.

Romance.

Victor pokes my back with one finger.

I ignore him.

Another poke.

“Stop.”

“Forgot to add something.”

“What?”

“That I still want you even when your hair looks like shit.”

I snort.

“And when you’re being a bitch.”

I turn around so fast he laughs again.

“You’re horrible.”

“And yet.”

I don’t even let him finish.

I move closer and wrap my arms around him, shoving my face into his chest and squeezing him hard.

“Asshole,” I mumble into his shirt.

His shirt smells annoyingly good.

Everything about him has to be inconveniently attractive.

His arms come around me immediately.

He rubs my back slowly.

“I’m an asshole who enjoys your company very much.”

“Lucky me.”

“Extremely.”

He hooks one leg over mine and drags me even closer until there’s basically no space left between us.

I don’t complain. Obviously.

“I’ll always want you around,” he says into my hair. “Even when sometimes you don’t particularly want yourself around.”

Fuck me.

My fingers tighten in his shirt.

“So don’t tell me to leave again because you think you’re doing me some kind of favor.”

His hand moves up my back.

“Okay?”

I nod against his chest. My eyes are wet again.

Annoying. Very fucking annoying.

“You’re my Silabun.”

He squeezes me tighter and kisses the top of my head.

And suddenly I feel it.

That weird familiarity. Like I’ve known him forever.

Not Victor Acosta the tattoo artist.

The person who existed in my life for years before either of us even knew what the hell we were building.

And maybe that’s why this feels so different.

Because whatever this is didn’t start with sex. It didn’t even start with attraction.

It started with stupid conversations.

Minecraft.

Screenshots.

Insults.

Staying up too late.

Knowing when the other person sounded off even through text.

Years of being there without realizing that one day we’d actually fucking need all of it.

We built the relationship first without meaning to.

The rest can come later.

However it comes. Whenever it comes.

“Also, if I’ve learned anything about you after all these years,” Victor says, still running his fingers through my hair, “it’s that you think too fucking much.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know. That’s why I’m qualified.”

I smile against his chest.

“So tomorrow, when you inevitably replay tonight six hundred times and decide everything went wrong, I want you to remember what actually happened.”

I go quiet.

“You chose the person yourself. You started this because you wanted it. You told me what you wanted. You changed your mind about the position because you wanted more control, and you didn’t apologize for it.”

His arm tightens around me.

“Which I’m very proud of, by the way. You asked for more control instead of pretending you didn’t need it. You showed me your scar even though you were scared I’d look at you differently. You let me touch it. You talked to me about getting tested after Adam even though I know you hated having to talk about it.”

I stare at his shirt.

“And you let someone see you completely naked.”

Victor sighs dreamily.

“Which, personally, I consider an enormous achievement for humanity. Historic night. I don’t think you understand what I went through.”

I start laughing.

“What you went through??”

“Yes.”

“Poor baby.”

“Thank you. Finally some sympathy. Despite the enormous psychological burden of having to look at the hottest naked man I’ve ever seen—”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

“—I managed to remain respectful.”

I laugh into his shirt.

His hand starts moving over my back again, slower now.

“All of those things happened tonight, Silas. You don’t get to erase them because one part didn’t go the way you imagined. That’s way too much progress for you to wake up tomorrow and call tonight a failure.”

Fuck.

I smile a little against his chest because…

Yeah, okay.

I hadn’t thought about it like that.

And he knows me annoyingly well, because tomorrow I probably would’ve reduced this entire night to one sentence.

Failed attempt.

Ignored every time I asked for something and got it.

Every terrifying little thing I did voluntarily.

I would’ve looked at the ending and used it to rewrite the entire night.

“Huh,” I mumble.

Victor looks down at me.

“What?”

I squeeze him slightly.

“I’m just realizing you might actually have a point.”

He goes completely still.

“Wow. Can you repeat that?”

“No.”

“Please. I want to record it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Silas Blackwood admitting I have a point. This is bigger than seeing you naked.”

I immediately lift my head.

“Okay, don’t get fucking carried away.”

Victor smiles.

“There he is.”

“It should also be noted,” I mumble into his shirt, “that I still technically made it pretty fucking far. I got almost all of it in. That’s huge, right?”

His mouth twitches.

“Very.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

I drop my face back against him, but now I’m smiling.

Holy shit.

I was so busy thinking about my back that I completely forgot to acknowledge the fact that, in that way, my body didn’t say no.

I actually did it. Victor was inside me.

And I was okay. More than okay.

I wanted him there. Fuck.

That counts for something. Actually, that counts for a fucking lot.

I want that documented.

Preferably notarized.

I feel like I should call someone. Who the fuck would I call?

“Hi, Mom. Great news. Remember Victor Acosta? Yeah. Massive success. Anyway, how are the kids?”

Honestly, after everything I’ve been through, I deserve one obscenely attractive Spanish man.

As compensation. Bare minimum, actually.

Victor’s mouth twitches.

“You were perfect.”

I can hear the smile in his voice.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too.

Then he goes quiet for a second. Suspiciously quiet.

I lift myself onto one elbow and look at his face.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I raise my eyebrows.

His mouth twitches.

“Don’t get mad.”

“Oh, excellent start.”

“I was just thinking—”

He grins.

My eyes narrow. Then widen.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Victor.”

“What?”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

He laughs.

He absolutely fucking is. His face is red.

Which is so ridiculous that I start laughing before he even says anything.

“You look like a tomato right now.”

“Fuck off.”

“What is it??”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Victor.”

He looks away.

That makes it worse. I’m fully laughing now.

“Come on, what did you think?”

He looks back at me.

“Well…”

I immediately know this is going to be stupid.

“Even if penetration somehow never worked out again…”

I stare at him.

He pauses.

“…I’d still probably keep you for the oral.”

My jaw drops.

Victor starts laughing immediately.

“You are fucking unbelievable.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“That mouth does miracles.”

I shove his shoulder.

“Oh my God.”

“You have a gift.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m just saying, from a purely practical standpoint—”

“Practical?”

“—you remain an excellent investment.”

I burst out laughing. Actually laughing.

“Fuck you.”

Victor’s grin gets wider.

“There. See?”

“What?”

“You’re laughing.”

“You just told me you’d keep me around for blowjobs.”

“No.”

He grabs me and pulls me back against him.

“I said I’d keep you around anyway.”

He kisses my forehead.

“That is just a bonus.”

I laugh into his chest.

“You’re such a piece of shit.”

“Apparently you like that considering you’re still hugging me.”

“I’m fucking vulnerable.”

I smack him again.

He catches my hand before I can do it twice. Then kisses my knuckles.

The stupid smile drops from his face slightly.

He kisses my forehead too. Softer this time.

“Seriously though.”

My smile fades a little. He looks straight at me.

“I want you even if all we ever do is sit around, eat garbage, argue, and you bully me for the rest of my life.”

I stare at him.

“That sounds terrible.”

Victor smiles.

“I’m excited.”

I hate how fast my throat tightens.

“You have incredibly low standards.”

“Only for you.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

I smile.

And then I tuck myself against him again.

---

Just a little reminder that it was supposed to be very slow and awkward :) I did not suddenly forget how to write sex scenes, I hope you guys got that :) It’ll eventually get… less careful.

Also this song reminds me so much of them 😭

58) Pickle Is Family

DO NOT SKIP THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER I POSTED TWO.

Silas’s POV

“So,” Victor says after a while, still playing with my hair, “I have an idea for how we should spend our last night here.”

I’m half lying on top of him, face pressed into his chest.

“It better be something good that doesn’t require crying,” I mumble.

He laughs under his breath.

“We shower.”

“Strong start.”

“Then you sit down and let me put the gel on your back and massage it while you play Minecraft.”

I lift my head.

“And then?”

“And then I join.”

I stare at him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You want to?”

“Are you insane? Obviously I want to. Get up.”

I grab his hand and pull.

Victor barely gets a chance to breathe before I’m dragging him off the bed.

Twenty minutes later, we’re both showered, teeth brushed, hair still damp, and back in bed.

I’m lying flat on my stomach with my shirt shoved up to my ribs.

Victor is literally sitting over my ass.

His thighs are on either side of my hips while his hands move slowly over my lower back, working gentle pressure into the muscles before spreading the gel across the scar.

I have my laptop open in front of me.

Technically.

In reality, I’m about three seconds away from falling asleep face-first into the keyboard.

His thumbs press into either side of my lower back.

I make a noise, and Victor stops immediately.

“Pain?”

“No. Do that again.”

He does.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My entire body goes loose against the mattress.

“If tattooing doesn’t work out, you have options.”

“Massage therapist?”

“Rich housewife.”

Victor laughs, and his hand moves over the scar again, much softer there.

He’s gotten annoyingly good at knowing where he can put pressure and where he shouldn’t.

I barely even notice the gel anymore.

Just his hands.

“You remember the password?” he asks.

My eyes open. I turn my head enough to look at him, offended.

“Do you remember my name?!”

Victor pauses.

“Yes?”

“Then yes, I remember the password. Obviously.”

He laughs.

I type it in. The server loads.

And the second I see our horrible house, I wake up completely.

“Where’s my child?”

Victor’s hands pause.

“What?”

“Our son, idiot.”

I start looking through the house.

Victor gets off me carefully, wipes his hands, then reaches for his own laptop.

Meanwhile, I am opening every fucking door in this architectural hate crime we built three years ago.

The house is hideous.

Victor sits beside me and starts logging in. I stare at the screen for a second, then at him.

Oh. We’ve never done this before.

Not like this.

We’ve played Minecraft together for years, but always with a screen between us.

Separate rooms. Separate cities. Separate fucking countries.

That’s how I met him.

I found some dark little Minecraft character wandering around a server alone and decided, apparently, that his life needed me in it.

Probably added some color to all that black.

God knows he needed it.

I grab my laptop and move.

Our bed is massive. Enough room for four people.

Naturally, I sit directly against Victor.

Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. My leg pressed along his.

Fuck everyone who says staying in your comfort zone makes you weak.

I want to live in mine.

I’ll be weak. I don’t give a shit.

My comfort zone currently includes Victor, Minecraft, and Pickle.

That seems like an excellent fucking zone.

I sprint toward the front door, and there he is.

I gasp.

“Hi, baby.”

Pickle is sitting outside. I crouch in front of him.

“Did your horrible father neglect you??”

Victor looks at me.

“No, I didn’t.”

I turn and kiss his cheek.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t.”

“Custody court will decide.”

Victor snorts.

I feed Pickle steak. Then another one. Then another.

Victor feeds him another piece himself.

I slowly turn my head, then suddenly remember something.

“Wait.”

Victor looks over.

“Hm?”

“What is real Pickle doing?”

“In Spain?”

“Yeah.”

“My sister Luciana has him.”

“Is he okay?”

Victor starts laughing.

“He is more than okay.”

“What does that mean?”

“She feeds him constantly. She sent me a picture yesterday. He looks round.”

I gasp.

“Please tell me you have the photo.”

“I think I do.”

“I want to see my son.”

“He’s becoming spherical, just so you know.”

I start laughing.

“Spherical?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Victor reaches for his phone.

I immediately abandon Minecraft completely.

I lean fully into him, shoulder against his chest, knee thrown over his thigh while he unlocks his phone.

And then I see… his wallpaper.

I stop breathing for a second.

It’s us.

The picture from the hidden spot.

The one I took near the little WE KISSED HERE thing.

I stare at the screen. Then at him.

“You put it as your wallpaper.”

He nods proudly, like he’s been waiting for me to notice.

“Yeah.”

My throat does something embarrassing.

“Why?”

He looks confused by the question.

“You look really good.”

Okay.

His honesty is going to put me in the hospital one day.

I hate comparing.

I think comparing people is disgusting and immature and usually something you do when your brain wants to ruin a perfectly good moment because it has unresolved emotional mildew in the walls.

Unfortunately, I am disgusting and immature.

Because the second I see our picture, my brain does this horrible little backflip straight into the past.

Leo.

I remember taking a good picture with him. I remember objectively liking it.

It was a good picture. We both looked good.

And I remember waiting for him to maybe put it as his wallpaper, since I was his boyfriend.

I didn’t ask, obviously. I just waited like a loser.

And then somehow the topic came up, and Leo said it was cringe to have pictures of your people as your wallpaper.

And I remember laughing.

Because what else was I supposed to do? Start bleeding from the mouth?

I laughed like I hadn’t been secretly hoping he would want to see my face when he checked the time.

And now I see this.

Me and Victor. The hidden spot. WE KISSED HERE. Our faces.

He put us there without me asking or hinting.

He just did it. Like he saw the picture and thought, yes.

That one. I want that one.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

What is the correct response?

Thank you for making me feel chosen in the dumbest possible way?

And we aren’t even dating.

I mean—

Are we?

No.

No, because I would know.

Wouldn’t I?

I don’t remember anyone saying that. I don’t remember sitting down and having that conversation.

I don’t remember the words.

Boyfriend.

Together.

Official.

Relationship.

I don’t remember any of it being clearly stated, which means I am not allowed to act like it’s real.

Not yet.

I need clear things.

I need someone to look me in the face and say exactly what they mean because I am done building entire houses inside maybes.

I don’t do that anymore. I refuse.

And yes, fine, maybe we have spent days sleeping in the same bed.

Maybe his hands know the shape of my back better than some doctors.

Maybe there is literally a box of condoms near us.

Maybe he was hugging my legs earlier, begging for me to let him stay.

But still.

I don’t assume. I don’t risk that.

Especially not with us. Because us is not simple.

We’re not two random people who can kiss in a hallway and let everyone clap.

We’re Victor Acosta and Silas Blackwood.

DIANA and LINEA.

Rivals.

Names people compare for fun.

Studios.

Competitions.

Journalists.

Employees.

So no. I don’t get to see a wallpaper and decide he’s mine.

That’s how people get hurt. That’s how I get hurt.

I am twenty-one years old and apparently one wallpaper away from cardiac collapse.

Maybe that’s nothing to some people. Maybe some people change their wallpaper like they change socks.

But Victor isn’t some people. Victor does not do accidental.

So I stare at his phone and I feel myself getting dangerously soft.

He’s scrolling through his conversations.

I stare at his profile for another second, then slowly reach for my own phone.

He doesn’t notice.

I open my photos, find the same picture, and set it as my wallpaper.

No overthinking. Maybe I was waiting for an excuse or a push.

I lock my phone, turn it back on.

There we are. Best wallpaper I’ve ever had.

Okay.

Maybe tied with the one of me, Jett, and Poppy drunk outside Linea.

That one is elite.

But this one does something else. Something warmer.

Victor nudges me.

“Found it.”

I snap back to reality.

He turns the phone toward me.

“There.”

“Oh my God.”

Pickle is sitting on some man’s lap. Except sitting might be generous.

He is occupying him. Like a beanbag.

The dog is genuinely round. I start laughing.

“Oh my God, he is a ball.”

“I told you.”

“He’s so cute.”

I zoom in.

Pickle looks pleased with himself, like he owns Spain.

“Who’s holding him?” I ask. “They’re not mistreating him, right? Because I’ll fucking fly there.”

Victor looks at me.

“That’s my dad. He loves Pickle.”

I nod, satisfied.

“Good.”

Victor scrolls to another photo.

Pickle on a couch. Pickle in the kitchen. Pickle under a table. Pickle looking like he hasn’t experienced hardship once in his entire life.

“Only my grandmother doesn’t like him.”

I turn fast.

“Excuse me?”

He starts laughing immediately.

“What?”

“Your grandmother doesn’t like Pickle?”

“She doesn’t like anyone. But yeah, she’s not really an animal person…”

I stare.

“No, I’m sorry. That’s suspicious. She doesn’t like him?! Look at his face! He has done nothing wrong.”

“She also hates my horses. And the turtle I had when I was younger.”

I stare at him.

No.

I don’t care how old someone is. I don’t care if it sounds harsh.

You can be one hundred and twelve years old, held together by prayer, soup, and one aggressively loyal cardigan.

If you don’t like animals, I do not trust you.

Obviously, there are exceptions for trauma or allergies or whatever. If a dog bit you when you were six and now every chihuahua looks like a war flashback, fine.

Understandable. Sit down and have water.

But if your whole thing is just, “I don’t like animals because they’re animals,” said with that dry little face?

No.

I don’t like you.

You look at a dog and feel nothing? Suspicious.

You see a cat stretch in sunlight and don’t immediately understand that we are all spiritually beneath her? Concerning.

You look at a turtle, a literal ancient pebble with legs, and decide you have beef?? Prison.

And Pickle??

If you dislike Pickle, I’m sorry, but that’s not an opinion. That’s a diagnosis.

That dog looks like he would apologize for standing in your way even if you walked into him. He has never had a malicious thought in his entire round little life except maybe stealing food.

People love calling animals annoying like humans aren’t the most annoying species God ever panic-designed.

Dogs bark.

Fine.

Humans start wars.

I haven’t even met his grandmother.

Maybe she’s lovely and maybe she has that scary grandmother energy where she can make a grown man sit straighter just by breathing through her nose.

Good for her. I respect powerful women.

But I do not respect anti-Pickle behavior.

That is where my diplomacy ends.

She can dislike me. That’s fine.

Honestly, that’s expected. Even my own grandmother doesn’t like me that much.

I am not everyone’s flavor.

I swear too much. I have too many tattoos. I’m too honest sometimes.

People are allowed to dislike me.

But Pickle is innocent. Pickle is family.

You don’t have to love him.

Actually… yes, you do.

I changed my mind. You do have to love him.

At least a little.

“I don’t think I like your grandmother very much.”

“You’ve never met her.”

“Doesn’t matter. She has beef with a dog, horses, and a turtle. Animals are the best thing on this planet. Especially Pickle. She should feel lucky he even acknowledges her.”

I grab his phone again and look at Pickle.

“Poor baby.”

“He’s fine.”

Victor kisses the side of my head, then drops his phone onto the mattress.

He falls into me.

I barely get time to make a sound before one hand catches the back of my head and his mouth is on mine.

I laugh straight into the kiss.

“Jesus—”

He kisses me again. I kiss him back just as hard, still laughing, one hand grabbing his shirt.

Victor pushes me farther into the pillows and I grin against his mouth.

I can feel the little metal ball on his tongue.

His hand slides from the back of my head into my hair and I pull away just enough to breathe.

Then immediately kiss him again because I have no self-control around this man anymore.

Excellent development.

Minecraft Pickle is sitting in the middle of our house completely abandoned while his fathers are busy discovering each other’s mouths.

“This doesn’t end tomorrow, right?” I whisper.

I stare at our hands instead of his face.

“I mean, you’ll come back after New Year’s. You’ll continue the guest spot at my studio. You’ll go back to your house.”

The second the words leave my mouth, something flashes through me.

Wait. His house. The house in Vegas.

I lift my head fast.

“You didn’t give it up, right?”

Victor looks down at me.

“What?”

“Your house. In Vegas. You didn’t give it up?”

His face softens in that awful way.

“No,” he murmurs, still stroking my hand. “I’m still paying rent.”

Okay. My lungs remember how to work.

That means he’ll come back to the same city as me.

A week ago, I didn’t even know if I wanted to see him again.

Actually, no. That’s a lie.

I wanted to see him. I just wanted to see him suffer at the same time.

Now I don’t want to fall asleep because if I sleep, morning comes faster.

And morning means we leave this room.

The room I hated when I first saw it because sharing a bed with Victor felt like a trap designed by a horny committee.

The room where we became whatever this is.

And tomorrow, we have to leave it behind. We have to become people again.

Worse. Professional people.

I drop my face back into his chest. I would rather live here.

“So…” I mumble. “Since you apparently refuse to leave me alone now, can we try again another day?”

His expression changes immediately. More alert.

“Sex, I mean. Different position,” I add quickly. “I think maybe me doing all the work is not exactly happening yet.”

Victor studies my face for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “We can try again whenever you feel ready.”

I nod.

“But,” he adds, “don’t feel like you have to do it just because I want to.”

I actually pull back and look at him, offended.

“Excuse me? You’re not the only one who wants it.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I am dying to have sex with you,” I say, pointing at him like he’s insulted me. “I’m not doing charity work for your dick. My back just currently has me on a fucking leash.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, because you keep talking like you’re some poor horny victim waiting patiently while I reluctantly consider touching you.”

Victor lets out a quiet laugh and reaches for me.

“Come here.”

I let him pull me against his chest again.

His arms wrap around me, one hand settling at the back of my head.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he says.

Something in my chest loosens immediately.

“Different positions. Different pace. Whatever works. And if something doesn’t work, we stop and try something else another time.”

I press my face into his shirt.

“You make it sound very simple.”

“It is simple.”

His hand moves slowly over my shoulder.

“As long as it takes,” he murmurs. “As many attempts as it takes.”

I go quiet. He kisses the top of my head.

“There isn’t a deadline.”

My stupid chest does that stupid soft thing again.

“And you’re not going to get annoyed?”

“No.”

“What if we try again and it goes badly again?”

“We stop. We get dressed. Or don’t. You insult me for fifteen minutes. I order food. You recover from the catastrophic humiliation of being a human body.”

A laugh bursts out of me.

“Fuck you.”

“See? Recovery already happening.”

I shove weakly at his chest.

He catches my hand and pulls me closer again.

“We keep trying only for as long as you still want to keep trying.”

I nod.

“I do.”

“I know.”

“I really really do.”

“I know, Silas.”

“I’m extremely sexually frustrated.”

“That part is becoming increasingly clear.”

I laugh into his chest and his arms tighten around me.

“How the fuck am I supposed to keep you secret from Jett?”

Victor stops moving.

“You’ll find a way,” he tells me. “Because if they find out, we’re fucked.”

I nod.

“We’ll get sick of seeing the scandal everywhere. DIANA and LINEA. Journalists foaming at the mouth.”

I can already picture everyone realizing the person I’ve spent months publicly acting like I want dead is also the person whose shirt I’m wearing and who I’m kissing like this behind closed doors.

Very professional.

Exactly what two rival studio owners should be doing. I groan and drop my forehead against Victor’s.

“I’m moving countries.”

“To Spain?”

I lift my head.

His expression is completely innocent.

I start laughing.

“Nice try, Acosta.”

His mouth curves.

Damn it.

I kiss him again.

---

Hi guys, I missed you 😭 Please vote because these chapters genuinely took EVERYTHING out of me and I don’t even know why. I’m so fucking tired.

Half of this was written while I had sunstroke and the other half while I had a bladder infection. So. That went well.

I’m taking a tiny break now to work on my Silas drawing, please have mercy on me 😭 I promise there are AMAZING chapters coming. I will continue saying this every single time because it continues being true.

That’s all. I hope you’re all having the best time on your vacations ❤️

BYE I LOVE YOU GUYS

59) Last Chance To Behave

Victor’s POV

I watch Silas fight his suitcase.

He’s on the floor, one knee shoved into the middle of it, both hands gripping the zipper while he tries to pull it around a corner.

His hair is still messy from sleep. I cannot stop staring at him.

“Close,” he mutters under his breath, tugging harder. “You little bitch. Close.”

The zipper moves half an inch.

Silas gasps. Then it gets stuck again.

“Fuck you.”

I press my thumbnail between my teeth.

My leg keeps bouncing.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

The carpet muffles the sound, but I still feel it through my knee, my thigh, my stomach, my ribs.

Just ask him. This is the perfect moment.

Not perfect, maybe. Nothing is perfect.

But it is close enough.

We are leaving the room. The cruise is ending.

In a few hours we will be separated again, pulled back into normal life like this whole thing was just some violent, bright interruption.

Vegas - Barcelona.

Different cities. Different studios. Different clocks. Different beds.

Just ask him.

Come to Spain for New Year’s.

People ask things like that all the time.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want dinner?

Do you want to spend the end of the year in my house?

Do you want to sit at my family’s New Year’s table knowing everyone outside that house thinks we fucking hate each other when in reality we’re fucking?

Very normal.

I bite a piece of skin near my thumb and feel the tiny sting.

Silas looks up immediately.

“Stop eating yourself.”

I freeze with my thumb halfway to my mouth.

“I’m not eating myself.”

“You’re literally chewing your fingers like a hamster.”

I lower my hand.

He goes back to the suitcase, muttering something about how scientists are wasting time on useless things when they could be fixing luggage.

My mouth almost smiles, then my stomach drops again.

Ask him, Victor.

He’ll want to see Pickle. That is a good argument.

We could walk him together.

Silas would complain about the cold and then refuse my jacket for three seconds before stealing it.

I could show him my room.

…

My room. Jesus.

Why did I think that? Why would I show him my room?

It’s just a room.

That’s a stupid idea. The whole thing is actually stupid.

My family will not know what to do with him. I grew up in a house where everything is a sin.

Tattoos are a sin.

Piercings are a sin.

Men wearing jewelry is a sin.

Swearing is a sin.

Being gay is definitely a fucking sin.

Silas checks every box. Every single fucking one.

Technically, so do I.

I have a tattoo. I swear enough to disappoint Jesus. I am attracted to my own gender. I have done plenty of things my grandmother would probably need to sit down before hearing about.

But most of my shit can hide. That’s the difference.

Silas can’t exactly remove himself.

His tattoos crawl all the way up his body.

His piercings catch the light when he moves.

He wears rings and earrings and whatever else he feels like wearing because he’s Silas and he doesn’t give a shit whether some ninety-year-old woman thinks God disapproves of his accessories.

And I love that about him.

Fuck.

That’s actually the problem.

I love that all of it is so obviously him. I don’t want him taking his piercings out before dinner.

I don’t want him asking me if he should wear something that covers more skin.

I don’t want him catching himself before saying “fuck” because my grandmother made a face.

I especially don’t want him sitting beside me trying to become smaller because I brought him into a house where people might make him feel like he takes up space incorrectly.

My grandmother will look at his tattoos first.

Then his earrings.

Then his clothes.

Then me.

Then him again.

She will probably make the sign of the cross.

Silas might laugh.

Or get offended. Or both.

I press my fingers into my thigh.

Maybe asking is selfish.

Maybe I only want to make the distance less sharp for myself.

Maybe I am wrapping it in Pickle and New Year’s because the real sentence is uglier.

Come with me because I don’t know how to go back without you.

No. Too much. Do not say that.

Never say that.

Silas makes a sudden frustrated noise.

“I hate this fuckass suitcase. I hope it falls into the ocean.”

“It would take your clothes with it. Then you’d freeze,” I say.

He scoffs. “I’m from Vegas. I freeze when someone opens a fridge.”

Silas shoves both hands into his hair and blows out a breath.

“Okay. New plan. I wear six shirts on the plane.”

“That sounds uncomfortable.”

I lean back in the chair and watch him start removing things from the suitcase only to put them back in different positions.

My chest aches.

I swallow. My mouth feels dry.

“Silas.”

He hums without looking up.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

His hands pause.

“Okay.”

My heartbeat gets louder.

I look at the window instead of him.

“It’s not—” I stop.

Not what?

Not important? Lie.

Not serious? Lie.

Not a big deal? Huge lie.

Silas turns his head slowly.

“Victor.”

I look at him. His expression has changed.

I breathe out through my nose.

“It’s nothing,” I say, and immediately hate myself.

Silas looks at me for another second, like he knows there is absolutely something and is deciding whether he cares enough to torture it out of me.

Apparently he doesn’t.

“Okay, then come sit on my suitcase, please.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“What?” he says, pointing down at the suitcase. “Can’t you see? It won’t close and you’re heavier than me. Not for much longer, though. I’m catching up.”

I smile and walk over.

He has both hands pressing down on the thing and it still looks like it’s about to explode, so I sit on top of it.

The zipper finally gives in.

I keep staring at the side of his face like an idiot.

Maybe this is the moment.

Come to Spain.

Three words. Four if I say please.

Which I absolutely will because I lose every remaining piece of dignity when it comes to this man.

I open my mouth.

There are sudden footsteps outside.

Then Jett’s voice comes flying down the hallway so fast I actually don’t understand half of what he’s saying.

I catch a “YOU’RE INSANE,” something about reputation, and then what I think is “I DIDN’T EVEN SAY IT LIKE THAT,” before the door flies open.

Jett storms inside.

His sunglasses are halfway down his nose. He shoves them up into his hair, drops two bags directly in the doorway, and walks straight toward me.

He grabs both my shoulders and physically places me between himself and the door.

“Don’t ask questions,” he whispers. “Just be tall.”

I turn my head slightly.

“What?”

“Tall, Victor. Be tall.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

Poppy appears in the doorway, looking murderous.

I feel like I’m about to be questioned by police later and asked whether there were any warning signs.

Her eyes move around the room until they land on Jett’s hands on my shoulders.

She takes one slow breath.

“Victor.”

“Yes, Poppy?”

“Could you move, please?”

Jett tightens his grip.

“No he can’t.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Victor, don’t listen to her.”

Poppy smiles.

I’ve seen nicer expressions on people about to throw darts at each other.

“I would like to speak to the fucking parasite hiding behind you. Please move.”

“LEAVE THE SPANIARD OUT OF THIS.”

Silas looks up from beside the suitcase.

“What the fuck happened to you two?”

Poppy points at Jett without looking away from him.

“This asshole has apparently told half the staff that I’m his WORK WIFE.”

“I SAID YOU’RE MY WORK WIFE BECAUSE YOU ARE.”

“I’M GOING TO STRANGLE YOU.”

She launches herself at him.

Jett lets go of me so fast I nearly lose balance, and he runs around the bed. Poppy goes after him.

Silas already has his phone out, recording.

Apparently this is considered normal enough that he doesn’t even attempt to intervene.

He just leans against the dresser with his phone pointed toward them like a nature documentarian watching two animals fight over territory.

A laugh slips out of me when Poppy throws her entire makeup bag at Jett’s head.

He ducks.

It hits the wall.

“Jesus FUCK.”

“Stand still.”

“WHY WOULD I STAND STILL WHILE YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL ME?”

“Because I want to HIT you.”

“Oh, understandable.”

She picks the bag back up.

Jett jumps onto the other side of the couch.

“Sorry, guys,” he says, breathing hard. “My wife woke up in a bad mood today.”

Poppy freezes. Silas lowers his phone slightly.

I know enough now to understand that Jett just made an extremely bad decision.

“We.”

Poppy points at herself.

“Are not.”

She points at him.

“MARRIED.”

Jett puts a hand against his chest.

“Babe, don’t talk like that in front of our son and his little friend. They can hear you.”

Silas makes a choking sound. I turn toward him.

He’s biting his knuckle trying not to laugh.

Little friend?

I’m going to let that go because Poppy currently looks one sentence away from homicide and I don’t want to interfere.

“Rosalia asked me if we’re actually together,” Poppy says.

Jett smiles.

“That’s cute.”

“The receptionist called me MRS. GAMBINO.”

Silas loses it.

He folds in half laughing.

Even I have to look away because if Poppy sees me smiling I have a feeling she’ll redirect.

Jett looks genuinely touched.

“Mrs. Gambino. That sounds nice, but you’d keep your last name obviously. I’m progressive.”

“You dumb asshole, everyone on this fucking ship thinks you’re cheating on me every other day.”

His face drops.

“What?!”

“Everyone thinks I’m your pathetic little wife while you disappear with a different person every night.”

“Why would they think that?!”

Poppy just stares at him.

Silas stares at him too.

I stare at him.

Jett looks around.

“What?”

Poppy spreads her arms.

“BECAUSE YOU FUCK EVERYTHING THAT MOVES.”

“Oh.”

“OH?”

“Okay, when you phrase it like that—”

“How else am I supposed to phrase it??”

“Sexually active?”

“Community dick.”

Jett points at her.

“That’s hateful.”

Poppy is on him immediately.

She straddles his stomach and grabs his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks. His lips get pushed together.

“STOP MOVING.”

“STOP hitting me.”

“Take it back.”

“I don’t even remember what I said!”

“WORK WIFE.”

“Oh. No.”

She hits him again.

“OW. Jesus Christ. Fine. You know what? Maybe I don’t even want this marriage anymore. I’m unhappy.”

Poppy stops.

Silas zooms in with the camera.

“You want a divorce now?”

“I deserve a divorce,” Jett says, wiping his forehead dramatically.

“You deserve to fall off the side of this ship. Your reputation has everyone looking at us and laughing. You’re the cheating whore husband and I’m the poor betrayed wife.”

Jett thinks about this. Then his face lights up.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll change the rumor.”

Poppy narrows her eyes.

“To what?”

“I’ll tell them you’re my ex-wife.”

Silas makes a noise like he’s dying. Poppy launches herself at him again.

“NO. YOU WILL TELL THEM WE WORK TOGETHER.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m going to make sure you never experience fun again.”

Jett manages to slip out of her grip and stands up, fixing his shirt.

“Lesbians,” he mutters to me. “What do you expect?”

Poppy throws a cushion. It hits him in the face.

I actually laugh, and suddenly I understand why Silas loves them.

I’ve seen their videos. The stupid ones from the studio.

Poppy dragging Jett across the floor by his ankle.

Silas throwing paper towels at them.

Jett appearing in the background of serious tattoo videos making sex faces.

I always assumed at least some of it was exaggerated.

Content.

Something they turned on because a camera was there.

Apparently not. Apparently they genuinely just live like this. Chaos follows them around naturally. Nobody needs to perform it.

Silas is still laughing while Poppy fixes her hair and tells Jett she hopes his suitcase gets lost at the airport.

There’s something warm about all this.

I think I like this.

Them. His world.

Which is unfortunate.

Because in a few hours I have to leave it. In a few hours, Silas and I will be on different planes.

I grab my suitcase and start dragging it toward the entrance, then Jett steps directly in front of me, making me stop.

He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at me.

Suspiciously.

“What?”

He leans slightly closer. My entire body goes stiff.

He sniffs.

What the fuck?

Jett’s eyes narrow even more.

“You smell like Silas.”

I swallow.

“Yes. We share a room. That’s probably why.”

Jett says nothing, then he turns. Walks toward Silas and sniffs his shirt.

“The fuck are you doing?” Silas says.

Jett looks back at me.

Then at Silas.

Then at me again.

“Your shirt smells like Victor.”

Silas goes very still.

Jett pinches the sleeve between two fingers.

“IF this is even your shirt.”

“It’s mine, asshole.”

“Hmm.”

“He literally just told you. We’re sharing a room.”

Jett looks between us.

Nobody says anything.

Poppy crosses her arms.

Oh, great. Now she’s looking too.

Silas meets my eyes for half a second.

Don’t react. Don’t fucking react.

Jett’s eyebrows slowly rise.

His tongue runs across the front of his teeth.

I hate that face. That is not a good face.

“You guys hiding something from us?”

“No.”

Silas and I answer almost at the exact same time.

Fuck.

Jett’s eyebrows go higher.

“No,” I repeat, slower.

Silas nods.

“No.”

Poppy looks at Jett.

Jett looks at Poppy.

Then they both look at us.

“This is weird,” Jett says.

“You’re weird,” Silas replies immediately.

“Defensive.”

“You smelled my fucking clothes.”

“Because they smell like him.”

“They smell like clean clothes.”

“No, they smell like Victor.”

“Maybe Victor smells like clean clothes.”

I almost laugh. I don’t.

Jett stares at Silas. Silas stares back.

He feels guilty.

I can tell. Of course he does.

He hates lying to him. Jett isn’t just some friend from work.

That idiot apparently sat beside him through one of the worst months of his life.

Helped him. Made sure he ate. Put cream on his scar when Silas couldn’t reach it himself.

Silas tells stories about him like he’s annoying, but every story ends the same way.

Jett was there.

And now Silas has something this big sitting in his chest and he has to look directly at his best friend and pretend it isn’t there.

I hate that for him. But I also understand.

This isn’t small.

It isn’t hey, I kissed someone.

It’s us.

Two people whose faces get shoved into cameras every time we stand too close to each other.

One wrong person finds out and suddenly there are photos.

Articles.

Questions.

Someone corners Jett after a competition and makes it sound casual.

Some journalists are fucking good at that.

They don’t ask for the secret. They make you forget you’re keeping one.

And I’m not gambling Silas on whether Jett is good at lying under pressure.

I’m not gambling us on anyone.

Poppy smacks Jett on the back of the head.

“Stop smelling people, Hannibal Lecter.”

“Ow.”

“You’re making it creepy.”

“I have instincts.”

“You have untreated curiosity.”

“I know when Silas is hiding something.”

Silas flips him off.

“I’m hiding how badly I want you out of my fucking room.”

“See?” Jett points at him. “Defensive again.”

“GET OUT.”

“I’m leaving anyway,” Jett says, already backing toward the door. “I’m gonna eat before we go. Wife, come with me.”

“I hate you.”

“Marriage is hard.”

“I hope you choke.”

“See? Passion.”

She still follows him.

They barely make it two steps and the door opens again.

Thiago appears wearing a black tank top and shorts.

In December.

I stare at him.

It’s fucking December.

He looks like he’s about to order a drink next to a pool.

Jett freezes with one hand still half-reaching for the door.

Then he turns around and walks straight back toward the couch like that was where he was going the entire time.

Poppy notices, and for reasons I cannot understand, decides to protect his dignity instead of destroying it.

She follows him back to the couch and sits down too.

Jett rests his hands behind his head and pretends to be extremely comfortable.

“Hello, heterosexual,” he mutters.

Thiago grins.

“Hey, blondie.”

He nods toward Poppy.

“Hey, Poppy.”

“Hey.”

Then he just walks over and squeezes himself directly between them.

There is not enough room. He does not care.

Jett gets pushed halfway into the armrest.

Thiago leans back against the couch and exhales.

“Fuck. Weird that it’s over.”

Jett looks at him.

“The cruise?”

“No, my heterosexuality.”

Poppy snorts.

Thiago laughs and bumps his shoulder into Jett’s.

“The cruise, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Thiago looks around the room for a second.

“Gonna miss you guys.”

Somehow the three of them end up in one ugly sideways hug on the couch.

Jett’s face gets smashed against Thiago’s shoulder.

Nobody lets go.

Then the door opens again.

And again.

And again.

At some point, I stop knowing who is arriving and who is leaving.

People just start appearing.

Ciro walks in carrying coffee.

Noah shows up behind him.

Then Rava.

Then someone I vaguely recognize from one of the studios downstairs.

Then two more people I definitely do not know.

Then Rosalia passes by the doorway, gets dragged inside, complains she has things to do, and stays anyway.

Within maybe ten minutes the room stops being ours.

It becomes everybody’s.

There are drinks on the dresser that definitely weren’t there before.

Jett has acquired food despite never actually leaving.

Poppy is sitting on the arm of the couch now because there is physically no room left.

Thiago is sleeping on Jett’s shoulder.

Noah is on the floor.

Ciro lifts his shirt slightly to show someone one of his tattoos and suddenly half the fucking room reacts like he has revealed the Mona Lisa.

Rava stands a little away from the group looking deeply disappointed about something.

Somebody shakes my hand and tells me it was good competing with me.

I say the same thing back.

I have absolutely no idea who he is.

And then it hits me.

This is over. Now.

This weird little sealed-off world that existed for days because a cruise ship accidentally put Silas Blackwood and Victor Acosta in one room and decided to see what happened.

It’s gone.

The room doesn’t belong to us anymore.

The bed isn’t ours. It’s just a suite full of people.

A fucking mess.

And in a few hours it’ll belong to somebody else entirely.

Someone will sleep in that bed and have no idea Silas was spread across it this morning.

Someone will use that bathroom mirror and never know I watched him brush his teeth beside me.

And this week will disappear like it never happened.

I immediately start looking for him.

It takes me a second because of all that movement, but I manage to find him across the room.

And he’s already looking at me.

In a room full of people.

Something stupid happens inside my chest.

A little pull.

His face doesn’t change much, neither does mine.

We’ve gotten very good at this. Looking like we haven’t kissed each other against half the surfaces in this room.

My phone vibrates. I look down.

SILAS:

• come to the bathroom

My pulse changes immediately.

I lock my phone, look around. Nobody is watching.

Still, I wait for ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

Long enough that it doesn’t look like I’m following him. Because this is my life now.

Planning the acceptable amount of time between one man walking into a bathroom and me doing the same so nobody decides to write an article about it.

I get in slowly, lock the door behind me.

Silas hugs me before I even fully turn around.

Oh.

That’s why he called me in here.

I wrap both arms around him immediately, harder than I probably should, one hand spreading over the middle of his back and the other going straight into his hair.

His entire body is now pressed against mine.

I close my eyes.

Fuck.

I don’t want to let him go.

If I simply keep my arms around him long enough, maybe everyone outside will eventually leave without us. Maybe the ship will turn around. Maybe the flights will get canceled.

Maybe Spain and Vegas will move next door to each other overnight.

Silas squeezes me tighter. So he doesn’t want to do it either.

I rub the back of his head slowly, fingers disappearing into his hair, and press my cheek against the side of his face.

I’m going to cry in a cruise-ship bathroom. Very masculine.

I swallow hard and keep stroking his hair.

“I don’t want to go,” he says quietly.

Four words and suddenly I’m trying not to fucking break in half.

My hand stops for half a second before moving again.

“I know.”

That’s all I manage, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?

‘I don’t want him to go’ doesn’t cover it.

I want to tell the competition organizers congratulations, great cruise, beautiful event, go fuck yourselves, I’m keeping this one.

I want to take Silas home.

I want Pickle to lose his fucking mind when he sees him.

I want Silas sitting on my kitchen counter eating something he found in the fridge without asking.

I immediately hate the distance created by him moving his face six inches away from mine, so I cup the back of his neck and pull him back in.

Pathetic.

My nervous system has apparently decided Silas is a weighted blanket.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me.

Maybe I should tell Luna.

Hello. Treatment update. Good news: I’ve discovered holding a tattoo artist from Las Vegas dramatically reduces symptoms of being fucking weird.

She’d probably stare at me for ten seconds and write something down.

I press another kiss into his hair.

Then another.

Silas laughs weakly against my shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Stockpiling.”

“Stockpiling kisses?”

“Yes.”

I smile, but it hurts.

His eyes are red now.

Even with all that red bleeding into the blue, they’re still fucking beautiful.

They could ruin my life with very little effort. I don’t think they’d even need Silas’s help.

I touch underneath one with my thumb, then I kiss his forehead.

Slowly.

When I pull away, I keep my forehead against his.

Someone knocks into the bathroom door accidentally and we both freeze.

Then Jett’s muffled voice goes, “SORRY, FUCKING WALL,” and disappears again.

Silas starts laughing.

I do too.

That’s us now.

Crying in a bathroom because we have to separate and then laughing because Jett apologized to a wall.

Maybe that’s why Silas makes my head quiet.

Nothing stays tragic long enough around him to become sacred.

He’ll let me feel something horrible and then say some dumb shit about nutsacks or Minecraft and suddenly I remember I’m twenty-five.

I’m not the difficult person in the room everyone has to handle correctly.

I’m just some guy holding another guy too tightly in a bathroom.

That’s all.

I love being just some guy with him.

I think that might be one of the greatest things anyone has ever given me.

I trace my thumb over his cheekbone.

A tear slips out of his eye. I wipe it away with my thumb.

Silas glares at me immediately.

“Fuck you.”

I laugh.

“The fuck did I do?”

“All you do is make me cry.”

He says it so genuinely pissed off that I laugh more.

He does too.

“I hope one day we can say goodbye without having to hide in a bathroom so no camera or wrong pair of eyes catches us,” he murmurs.

My stomach twists.

“This really sucks.”

“I know.”

He sniffs once and looks at me.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t let people in Spain talk too much shit about Linea, okay?”

I wipe under his other eye with my thumb.

“I’ll defend Linea’s honor. I promise.”

“Without making Diana sound better?”

“That part was not included in the original agreement.”

His eyes narrow.

“Victor.”

“Okay, okay. Neutrality.”

“Actual neutrality. If someone says Linea is great, you just nod respectfully.”

I laugh. “That sounds extremely biased.”

“If someone says Diana is better, you leave.”

I laugh. He smiles a little.

“Absolutely not. That’s my own studio. I’m not leaving.”

“Then no deal.”

“Fine. My turn.”

He sighs dramatically.

“You promise me you’re not voting in those stupid Diana versus Linea polls anymore.”

His expression changes instantly.

“I barely vote…”

“You voted seven times last month. With seven accounts.”

“They shouldn’t let me make seven accounts if they don’t want me to use them. I was simply supporting my workplace.”

“You were attempting to overthrow democracy,” I tell him.

“Shut the hell up. Your studio was winning.”

“So?”

“So I panicked. But fine. Sure. No polls. Neutrality.”

“Thank you.”

He rolls his eyes and kisses me again.

It’s quick, but he stays close enough that his mouth brushes mine when he speaks.

Silas reaches up and pushes my hair back from my forehead, smoothing it into place.

The gesture is so normal that it almost pisses me off.

He studies me for a second.

“I’m cleaning your room at the studio first thing when I get back.”

I’m smiling now even though my eyes still burn.

He keeps going.

“And especially the spot for your stupid trophy.”

“My beautiful trophy.”

“Your stupid trophy.”

“The trophy you lost to.”

“By one vote.”

“A loss is a loss.”

“It was rigged.”

“Sure.”

He presses his lips together, trying not to smile.

“And I’m moving it slightly to the left.”

My smile disappears.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Silas.”

He finally laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

Fuck.

Every single time he says something stupid, opening that door becomes harder.

It’s like he keeps throwing little anchors into me.

Clean your room. Move your trophy. Don’t vote in polls.

All these stupid future-tense sentences.

Things that assume there is an after.

Things that assume we keep existing in each other’s lives after this stupid bathroom.

And I know that’s supposed to make it easier.

It does.

It also makes me want to cry harder.

Silas’s hand slides down from my hair to the back of my neck.

“Give Pickle a kiss from me.”

I look at him.

“Our Pickle,” he corrects.

That one almost finishes me. I laugh softly and shake my head.

“Okay. I’ll kiss our Pickle.”

“And give him a treat. And tell Luna not to keep you extra hours.”

I snort.

“She’s my therapist, not a detention teacher.”

“I don’t care.”

“She doesn’t keep me there against my will.”

“I know she steals you from us.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Us?”

“Me and Pickle. We miss Vox when he’s gone.”

“That’s deeply manipulative.”

“You’ll live,” he tells me and then he kisses my forehead.

This man is evil. I’m convinced.

“Silas.”

“Hmm?”

“You need to stop doing affectionate shit every thirty seconds if you want me to actually leave.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

“It is. I’ll tell Luna.”

“Tell Luna I said hi.”

“She’s going to ask how the cruise went.”

“What are you gonna say?”

I pull back just enough to look at him.

“Would it be inappropriate to tell her that an American made me cum without using his hands?”

Silas laughs.

“Tell her. Then show her a picture of me.”

I brush my nose against his while laughing.

“Speaking of pictures, I’m going to miss seeing your hands outside that blurry-ass phone camera of yours. Like, actually,” he says.

I laugh because we’re maybe twenty minutes away from leaving and this asshole has decided now is the perfect time to start throwing shade at my phone.

“My phone is fine.”

“Your phone is barely alive.”

I roll my eyes.

Silas takes my phone out of my hand, looks at the screen, then hands it back to me.

“How the fuck am I supposed to see your face through that?”

Oh.

I didn’t think about that.

For years, he never needed to see me.

I barely sent him pictures, and when I did, they were usually taken somewhere dark enough that my shit camera quality was not the problem.

Now there’s going to be a requirement for my face.

My smile comes slower this time.

“You want to see my face?”

“Your face,” he says.

His hand slides down the front of my shirt slowly.

Lazy.

His fingers stop near my belt.

His eyes stay on mine.

“Maybe other things too.”

I laugh quietly against his mouth.

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to walk out of this bathroom with a boner.”

Silas looks down.

Then his eyes come back to mine.

“I can take care of that.”

I laugh again.

He doesn’t.

…

Oh.

My smile gets stuck somewhere halfway.

“There are people literally outside the door.”

“Exactly. They’re outside the door.”

His fingers hook casually into my belt loop and pull me closer.

“We’re in here.”

There’s something so stupidly pleased about his face that I know exactly what he’s thinking before he even says another word.

Someone laughs in the hallway.

My eyes flick toward the door automatically.

When I look back, Silas is still watching me.

That little smile.

That come on, Victor, live a little smile that has been responsible for approximately ninety percent of my bad decisions this week.

I laugh under my breath and lean my forehead against his.

“You sure?”

His eyebrows lift.

“About wanting your dick down my throat one last time before we leave? Yeah. Pretty fucking sure.”

Silas grins.

Fuck it.

I grab his waist and kiss him, swallowing his laugh before it gets loud enough for somebody outside to hear.

Which is apparently funny to him, because he smiles against my mouth anyway.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” I whisper.

“Then stop making me laugh.”

His fingers start undoing my belt.

I look down. Then at him. Then at the locked door.

Silas looks completely fucking delighted.

I pull him back up into another kiss.

“Last chance to behave.”

He smiles against my lips.

“Victor.”

“Yeah?”

“When have I ever done that?”

I smile, and in two seconds he’s on his knees in front of me.

“Jesus Christ.”

He looks up at me, grinning.

“What?”

“You were actually serious.”

“I’m offended you doubted me.”

His hands go to my belt and my head immediately hits the bathroom door behind me with a quiet thud.

I smile.

“Make it quick.”

His grin is immediate. Then he nods.

We’re completely fucked.

We’re at the airport now, surrounded by way too many people, about to go in completely different directions.

Silas is standing in front of me with his bag in his hand, not saying anything.

He doesn’t even dare look at my lips.

I don’t either.

Reporters are all over the place, phones and cameras pointed everywhere, waiting for anything remotely interesting to happen.

Rumors don’t need much.

One wrong look, one smile held for a second too long, one hand landing somewhere it shouldn’t, and suddenly there’s a whole fucking theory online before either of us even boards.

So I do what everyone else is doing.

I hug him.

Completely professional.

The kind of hug everyone here is giving everyone before splitting toward their gates.

The only difference is that I hold him a little tighter.

And a little longer.

I lower my face toward his neck, hidden perfectly by the hug.

“Come to Spain for New Year’s,” I whisper into his skin.

He suddenly pulls back from the hug, looking genuinely caught off guard.

“What?”

“No pressure,” I say immediately, and my heart is already beating way too fast for a conversation that’s supposed to look completely normal from the outside.

“I get it if it feels too sudden. Or too soon. Just think about it and tell me. Pickle and I would be very happy to have you.”

“BLACKWOOD, GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING SUITCASE. WE’RE LEAVING.”

Silas turns his head.

“I’M COMING,” he yells at Jett from across the airport.

Then he looks back at me.

Still confused.

Fuck.

Maybe this was stupid.

“Spain?” he says. “Like… Spain Spain?”

I blink.

“There’s another one?”

“You know what I mean. With your whole family?”

“We can stay at my place,” I say quickly. “Away from them. I have my own house. We don’t have to stay with my family at all. Whatever you want.”

Jesus Christ, Victor.

Relax.

I sound like I’m trying to sell him a vacation package.

Private accommodation. No family interaction required.

One unstable Spaniard and one dog included.

“Silaaaas.”

“IN A MINUTE,” he shouts over his shoulder.

Then he mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

I almost laugh, but I’m too busy trying to read his face.

Bad idea.

Never read Silas’s face when you’re already anxious. Suddenly every eyebrow movement looks like rejection.

He shifts the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder.

“Wow. I mean…”

There it is.

The pause.

I hate pauses.

My brain can build an entire fucking funeral inside a pause.

“The world will see that I’m there,” he says. “I’d have to come up with a pretty good reason for why I’m suddenly in Spain instead of working at my own studio.”

Oh.

Right.

Of course.

I can smell the no from here.

And honestly, he’d be right.

How the fuck did I not think about that?

Silas Blackwood randomly showing up in Spain for New Year’s at the exact same time Victor Acosta happens to be there.

Very subtle.

We may as well take a photo kissing under a banner that says WE ARE SECRETLY FUCKING.

I’m an idiot.

Obviously this is risky.

Obviously I’m asking him to do something that could turn into twenty theories, thirty edits, and some twelve-year-old on TikTok making a six-part body language analysis.

“You’re right,” I say. “Sorry.”

Silas’s eyebrows pull together immediately.

“The hell are you sorry for?”

I shrug, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“For asking without thinking about the whole—”

I gesture vaguely around us.

Cameras.

People.

Our stupid lives.

“This.”

“Victor.”

“I just didn’t think.”

He stares at me for a second.

Then his face softens.

“Just give me some time to think about it.”

I look at him.

That doesn’t sound like no.

My brain still tries to translate it into no anyway because apparently it enjoys unpaid labor.

I nod too many times.

“Yeah. Obviously. Of course. Think about it.”

“Okay.”

“No rush.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to.”

“Victor.”

“Right. Shutting up.”

His mouth twitches.

Good.

I haven’t completely ruined everything.

Yet.

Now I just stand there looking at him because apparently I’ve forgotten how airports work.

People leave.

That’s generally the concept.

Silas looks at me too.

Then toward Jett.

Then back at me.

I clear my throat.

“You should probably go.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moves.

I glance toward Jett, who looks approximately four seconds away from dragging Silas through security by the ankle.

“You’re right,” Silas says. “Jett’s about to give birth.”

That gets a laugh out of me.

“He looks dilated.”

Silas snorts.

“Don’t say that to him.”

Another announcement plays overhead.

His flight. Or maybe mine.

I don’t even know anymore. Everything suddenly sounds like static.

Silas takes one step back.

Fuck.

Distance. I hate that shit.

“I’ll text you when I land,” I say.

He nods seriously.

“I probably won’t.”

I freeze.

My face must do something absolutely pathetic because Silas looks at me for half a second and immediately starts smiling.

I still nod.

“Oh.”

“I’m messing with you, Acosta.”

He laughs.

“You fucking idiot.”

I stare at him.

“You’re horrible.”

“You should’ve seen your face.”

“My heart stopped.”

Unfortunately, the bastard looks very pleased with himself.

I point at him.

“That was evil.”

“I know.”

“You can’t do that during a goodbye.”

“Apparently I can.”

Silas smiles wider.

Then Jett yells again from somewhere behind him.

“BLACKWOOD!”

Silas closes his eyes.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Go before he kills you first.”

He takes another step back.

Then another.

My chest immediately starts doing that stupid thing again.

I want to hug him one more time. Can’t.

Too many cameras.

I want to kiss him. Definitely can’t.

I want to grab his hand. Probably also a bad idea.

So I just stand there with my hands shoved into my jacket pockets like a normal person.

Trying not to run after him.

---

HEEEEY GUYS :)))

First of all, no, I did NOT forget how to write smut I just specifically wanted you guys to know they did it without having the sexual part completely steal the attention from everything else that was happening in that scene. SORRY if you felt robbed but I genuinely felt like it worked better that way :) PLEASE VOTE IF YOU LIKED THE FUCKASS CHAPTER 🩷🩷🩷

The next two chapters though, bro… I’m so excited 😭 I’m actually gonna post on BOTH Friday AND Saturday because those two chapters need to be close together :) hehehehehe I CANNOT WAIT.

Also, little update about my health: I’m doing better now 😼 I’m on antibiotics and it’ll probably take around two weeks for everything to fully clear up :) I’m drinking this medicine that makes me wanna throw up every single time and I start questioning whether life is worth living until I finish the fucking glass.

OKAY BYEEE I LOVE YOU GUYS ❤️

60) December 23rd

Victor’s POV

The second I step into my parents’ house, I get attacked by a moving noise machine with a tongue.

Pickle.

He comes flying at me like I’ve been missing for six years instead of one week, paws scraping against my sweats while his entire body shakes violently.

Before I can even bend down properly, Luciana throws herself at me too and suddenly I’m standing in the entrance with a dog climbing my legs and my little sister trying to fuse herself into my rib cage.

I laugh because apparently I’m fucking famous in this house now.

“Okay, okay—Jesus Christ.”

Pickle licks my wrist. Luciana squeezes tighter.

I try to pet both of them at the same time, one hand scratching behind Pickle’s ears while the other gets trapped somewhere around Luciana’s shoulders.

“I missed you, Vic.”

“I was gone for one week,” I say.

“That’s long.”

I roll my eyes but pull her closer anyway.

“I missed you too.”

Pickle makes some deranged little whining sound between us, offended that the emotional reunion has briefly stopped being about him, so I crouch and grab his face with both hands.

“And you, clearly, have suffered tremendously.”

He sneezes on my shoe.

“Thank you.”

His tail hits the wall hard enough to make noise.

Luciana laughs.

For maybe ten seconds, everything feels stupidly normal.

Easy.

I stand back up, grabbing the handles of my suitcases.

“I’m putting these upstairs before you both kill me.”

“You brought me something?”

Luciana follows me immediately.

“I just walked through the door.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s also not a yes.”

I’m still smiling when I look up.

And then I see Leo sitting at the dining table.

The smile disappears by itself.

He’s leaning back in the chair with his phone in one hand, one ankle resting over his knee, looking at me like I’ve come home to steal oxygen from his side of the room.

My twin. My actual fucking twin.

The same person I used to coordinate clothes with so we could confuse teachers.

The same person who used to crawl into my bed when we were kids because his room got colder than mine in winter.

The same person I spent half my childhood imagining adulthood with.

Stupid little shit.

Same friend groups. Same bars. Living close. Being each other’s emergency contact forever. Him coming over without knocking. Me knowing his kids someday.

Him knowing mine if I ever lost my mind enough to have them.

I used to think growing up meant we’d become closer because nobody in the world would ever understand either of us the way we understood each other.

Funny.

Now he looks at me like I’m a medical bill.

I stare at him. He stares back.

“Good, you’re back,” he says finally.

There’s already something ugly in his tone.

I drop one suitcase by the stairs.

“Missed you too.”

“I got way too much attention this week. Another couple days and I might’ve started getting used to it.”

There it is. I feel the sentence land exactly where he wanted it to.

Luciana goes quiet beside me.

I open my mouth. Mom gets to me first.

“Victor.”

She wraps both arms around me before I can answer him, kissing one cheek and then the other, holding my face between her palms afterward like she needs visual confirmation that every piece came back attached.

“Welcome home, baby. How are you?”

“I’m—”

“You’re sleeping? Are you taking your medication?”

And there it fucking is. My stomach twists. Immediately.

No idea why.

Actually, that’s bullshit. I know exactly why.

Because Leo is still sitting behind her.

Suddenly I’m not Victor who just came back from a cruise.

I’m Victor who takes medication. Victor who needs checking.

Victor whose mother has to inspect his face before asking what the ocean looked like.

She’s obviously worried because she loves me. Which means I can’t even be properly angry without feeling like a piece of shit.

I glance past her shoulder. Leo gives me the tiniest look.

See?

That’s what it says.

I look away. If only he knew I hate it too.

I hate that every normal question has a medical appendix attached to it.

How was your trip? Are you taking your meds?

Did you eat? Are you sleeping?

Did you have fun? Any episodes?

Sometimes I want someone to ask me how I am and then just fucking accept the first answer.

No checking my pupils like I’m carrying contraband behind them.

Mom is still holding my cheeks.

I force a smile.

“The cruise was good. Thanks.”

She pauses.

I gently take her wrists and lower her hands.

“What did you do?”

Silas.

“Nothing crazy,” I say instead. “It was fun.”

Mom studies me for another second.

I look directly at her.

“Everything is fine.”

She nods.

“Okay.”

Thank you, I almost say out loud.

I bend down and grab my suitcase again.

“Grandma and I made food,” Mom says, moving toward the kitchen. “And your father is on his way home. He had overtime.”

“Of course he did.”

“He said he’d be here soon. Stay and eat with us, okay? You can tell us about the cruise.”

Luciana immediately grabs my sleeve.

“Yes. You have to sit next to me.”

She tightens her grip. I laugh quietly.

Then my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I pull it out mostly to escape the interrogation forming around me.

Luna.

I open the message.

My smile fades.

LUNA:

• Can you come in today? Something came up.

• I’d rather discuss it in person.

I read it twice. Then a third time.

I hate those words. They’re never followed by anything fun. Nobody texts something came up because they bought you cake.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

Mom notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The lie comes too fast. Her face changes.

Fuck.

“Nothing bad,” I correct. “Luna messaged me.”

Leo stands from the table behind her.

Of course the second her name comes up, I can physically feel everyone’s attention shift.

“She wants to see me.”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“You had an appointment?”

“No.”

That makes Mom’s eyebrows pull together.

“It’s an extra one?”

“Apparently.”

There is a shift in the atmosphere.

Barely noticeable if you didn’t grow up learning to measure rooms by millimeters.

Luciana doesn’t care. She’s busy trying to open the front pocket of my suitcase.

Mom cares too much.

“She said why?” she asks.

“No.”

“You should go.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No. I can go myself.”

“I know.”

Leo walks past us toward the hallway.

As he passes me, he murmurs, “Emergency therapy five minutes after walking in. New record.”

I turn my head.

“Leo.”

Mom’s voice has warning in it.

He keeps walking.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You literally did.”

He shrugs without looking back.

Something hot flashes through me.

I want to follow him and ask what the fuck his problem actually is instead of letting him fire little bullets from doorways for the rest of our lives.

I don’t. Because I’ve been home for less than ten minutes.

I stare at Leo’s back until he disappears.

Mom touches my arm.

“Ignore him.”

I hate that too. Because I know she says the same thing to him about me.

Probably.

Ignore Victor. He’s having a bad day.

Ignore Victor. He’s overwhelmed.

Ignore Victor. He didn’t mean it.

Maybe we’ve both spent years being told to ignore each other instead of actually fixing anything.

I lift my suitcase.

“I’m going to drop this upstairs and leave.”

“You’re not eating?”

“I’ll eat after.”

“I can pack it for you.”

“No, no. Eat without me. I’ll eat when I come back.”

Mom nods reluctantly.

“I’ll save you a plate.”

“Thanks.”

I take both suitcases upstairs, Pickle following so close behind me his nose keeps touching the back of my leg.

My bedroom door is exactly how I left it.

Pickle jumps onto the bed immediately. He circles twice and lies down.

I check Luna’s message again.

• Something came up.

My stomach tightens.

I type back.

• On my way.

Then delete it.

Too eager.

I type:

• Yeah. I can be there soon.

Delete that too.

Why the fuck am I editing a message to my therapist?

Jesus Christ.

I finally send:

• I can come now.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

• Good. See you soon.

I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket.

Pickle lifts his head.

“You’re not coming.”

His ears move.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Tail thump.

“I’ll be back.”

Another thump.

I scratch behind his ear once, then leave before I can start inventing reasons not to.

I walk into Luna’s office almost fucking excited.

Which should probably count as a medical event on its own.

Usually I come in here because something happened. Because I spiraled. Because I stopped sleeping. Because I convinced myself of something stupid and then spent three days treating it like gospel. Because I had an episode, or a fight, or some new little psychological side quest.

Not today.

Today I actually have good news.

A lot of it.

I had a good trip. I survived being trapped on a cruise ship with way too many tattoo artists and came back with fewer emotional injuries than I left with.

I have things to tell her that don’t start with so, something bad happened.

She’s going to be happy.

I even got her a stupid souvenir from the ship.

She won’t take it. Obviously.

She’ll do that annoying little professional smile and say, “Victor, you know I can’t accept gifts from clients.”

So I already have a plan.

I’m going to accidentally forget it here. Completely by accident.

She’ll find it after I leave. Nothing she can do then.

Very clever.

I’m still thinking about it when I open the door.

“Hey.”

And the second I see her, every good feeling I walked in with gets fucking strangled.

Luna looks guilty. That’s the only word for it.

She looks like she knows something I don’t.

I stop.

She’s sitting in her usual chair, but there’s no notebook open on her lap yet.

That’s weird.

Then I see the table beside my chair.

Two bottles of water. I stare at them.

…

No.

I don’t like that.

She brings me water when I’m having an episode.

Or when she knows we’re about to discuss something difficult for me.

I look back at her. She gives me that soft expression.

“What happened?”

“Come sit down, Victor.”

“What happened?”

“We’ll talk.”

I don’t move.

My eyes go back to the water.

“Why do I have water?”

“Victor.”

“Why do I need water?”

“You don’t need to panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’re standing in the doorway interrogating two water bottles.”

“Because you put two fucking water bottles there.”

Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile but knows better.

That makes it worse.

I walk toward the chair slowly.

“You didn’t do anything,” she says.

I sit.

Immediately my leg starts bouncing. I dig my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger until it hurts.

Pain is useful when thoughts start multiplying.

Luna watches me.

“How was your trip?” she asks.

I stare at her.

“Good. What happened?”

She looks at me for another second.

Then nods like she’s accepting that small talk is dead.

“I’m moving.”

I stop moving my leg.

“What?”

“I’m leaving the city.”

I say nothing.

Then for some reason, I laugh.

“Oh.”

I lift my shoulders.

“Okay.”

My shoulders go up again because apparently once wasn’t convincing enough.

I can see it immediately on her face.

She’s waiting for the reaction. For me to do exactly what she expects.

Fuck that.

I sit straighter.

“Where?”

“Galicia.”

“Galicia,” I repeat.

“Yeah.”

“Great.”

I nod.

“Quiet. Nice food.”

My stomach rolls.

I’m going to throw up.

“And because of that, I’m going to have to stop the sessions I’ve been doing here.”

My bouncing leg stops.

Only for a second.

Then starts twice as fast.

She continues.

“And we need to start talking about transitioning you to… someone else.”

“No.”

“Victor.”

“I said no.”

Louder this time.

The word fills the room and sits there between us.

I laugh again and stand up. Suddenly sitting feels impossible.

There’s too much pressure inside my chest. Too much body inside my body. My skin feels tight.

I walk two steps.

Turn.

“How long have you known?”

She pauses.

“How long have you known you were leaving?”

“A few months.”

I nod, laughing.

“Wow.”

“I wanted to be certain before I told you.”

“Right.”

“Victor—”

“No, no no. That makes sense.”

I’m smiling now. It probably looks awful.

“You didn’t want to upset the crazy person until the paperwork was signed.”

“That is not what happened.”

“Smart.”

“Sit down.”

“Stop telling me to fucking sit down.”

“You’re getting overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed.”

“You are.”

“Fuck you.”

Her face doesn’t change.

“I know you’re angry. It’s been nine years—”

“I’m not angry.”

I shrug.

My heart is going so fast it feels wet somehow.

“I’m relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Yeah.”

I shove my hands deep into my pockets because they won’t fucking stay still.

“I’ve been thinking about stopping anyway.”

Lie.

“I don’t need therapy forever. I’m doing better.”

I turn fully toward her.

“You can leave. Actually, I’m leaving before you do.”

She says nothing.

“I don’t need you. I don’t need this. I don’t need you sitting there with your little notebooks and your little theories. I was alive before you. I’ll be alive after you.”

“Victor—”

“I’ll take my pills, or I won’t. I’ll sleep, or I won’t. I’ll talk to someone, or I won’t. Who gives a fuck? You were not fucking saving me.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I wasn’t saving you, Victor.”

That should feel like a win.

It doesn’t.

“You’ve done a lot of that yourself,” she continues. “More than you give yourself credit for.”

My mouth twists.

“Don’t make me inspirational now. I’ll vomit.”

“I’m not.”

I stare at her. She stares back.

And something inside me gives out.

My eyes fill so quickly it pisses me off.

I blink hard. Fuck.

I look away.

“I’m sorry. I lied. I do need you.”

I rub underneath one eye before anything can fall.

“Please just keep me.”

“Victor…”

“I’ll travel there. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll come to you.”

“I’m sorry. That isn’t something I can do.”

“Once a week.”

“Victor.”

“Once every two weeks.”

“I can’t.”

“Once a month.”

“No.”

“Once every two months.”

“Victor, listen to me.”

“Did I do something?”

Her face softens immediately.

“No.”

“You can tell me.”

“You did not do anything.”

“Then why can’t you keep me?”

My voice cracks on keep. Fucking humiliating.

“I was offered a very good position there.”

“Then say no.”

She exhales.

“I can’t say no.”

“Yes, you can.”

“This is something I want.”

I go still.

“Oh.”

She immediately notices.

“I don’t mean that I want to leave you.”

“But you want to leave.”

“I want to move.”

I press my tongue hard against the inside of my cheek.

“Whatever.”

“Sit down.”

This time I do.

I drop into the chair and fold forward immediately, elbows on my knees, hands hanging between them.

My eyes fix on the carpet.

There’s a little dark mark beside the leg of her desk.

Has that always been there?

Probably. I’ve never noticed it. I should have.

I know this room. I know where the tissues are. I know which floorboard creaks beside the bookcase.

Nine years.

Nine fucking years and apparently my brain has catalogued the office like somewhere I need to survive.

“There was a schedule,” I say quietly.

“What?”

I look up.

“There was a schedule. Thursday at four.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“I come here Thursday at four. If I have a shit Monday, Thursday exists. If Tuesday goes bad, Thursday exists. If I wake up Wednesday and my brain decides we should think about one sentence somebody said in 2019 until I want to put my head through a wall, it’s fine because Thursday exists.”

Her eyes shine.

Fuck. I hate that.

I hate seeing emotion on her face because then suddenly this is real for her too and I don’t know what to do with that.

“And now you’re telling me Thursday just…”

My voice dies.

I swallow.

“Doesn’t?”

“Not forever. We’ll transition you properly.”

She stays quiet.

Then an idea hits me. I sit up.

“Twice a year.”

“Victor—”

“Twice a year.”

“No.”

“Fuck, Luna, twice a year. What is that??” Two fucking hours. You can’t give me two hours?“

“This isn’t about how much time I can give you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I want you to have a therapist who is present, consistent, and actually available to you.”

“I don’t want another therapist.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

I stand again.

“I don’t want somebody new who has to learn me from the beginning.”

“They won’t have to start from nothing.”

“Yes, they fucking will.”

“We’ll transfer your records.”

“That’s even worse!”

She frowns.

“How?”

“Because their first impression of me is going to be paperwork. Victor, age fifteen, memorized license plates because he thought cars were following him.”

She watches me carefully.

“Victor, spit his medication out because he thought somebody was poisoning him.”

My eyes burn harder.

“Victor, got into fights at school.”

I laugh without humor.

“Victor, stares at walls for four hours.”

“Victor—”

“ That’s who they’ll meet first. Not me.“

“You are not your records.”

“They don’t fucking know that.”

“They will.”

“No. You know that.”

I point at her.

“You know when I’m joking and when I’m actually losing it. You know when I say I’m fine and I mean I’m fine and when I say I’m fine because I need you to stop asking questions before I cry like a loser.”

A tear finally falls. I wipe it away angrily.

“You know how my head works.”

“They can learn.”

“I don’t want them to learn. I want you to already know.”

That sentence hangs there. I look back at her.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“We do.”

“You can just keep one client.”

“That would not be appropriate.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot make an exception based on how distressed you are by my leaving.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because then I would be teaching you that distress is how you keep people.”

Everything stops.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

I understand immediately.

I understand exactly what she means.

I hear myself.

A twenty-five-year-old man begging a woman who is literally doing her job to keep him.

Please.

Jesus Christ.

She met me because of an accident I caused when I was sixteen.

Sixteen.

I had blood on my shirt and rage in my chest and absolutely no interest in being fixed by some woman with a notebook that’s covered in turtles.

Now I’m twenty-five and I’m sitting here trying to negotiate visitation rights with my psychologist.

Pathetic.

I look down.

“I sound fucking insane.”

“No. You sound scared.”

She waits.

Then says softly, “I’m going to help you find the right person.”

I don’t look up.

“We’ll do it together. I can be there at the beginning if that helps. We’ll make sure they understand you before you’re expected to trust them.”

My eyes fill again.

I drag my tongue slowly over my teeth.

Anything to stop my mouth from moving. It doesn’t work.

“Will you forget me?”

Her face changes.

Fuck.

Why did I say that?

I look away immediately.

“That was fucking embarrassing. Ignore that.”

“Victor. I’m not going to erase nine years from my memory because I move.”

I look back at her.

“You’ve probably had hundreds of patients.”

“I’ve had many. People are not interchangeable.”

I stare at her.

“You came to me very young.”

Her voice goes softer.

“I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve watched you become who you are now.”

I hate how much that hurts.

“You’re difficult to forget.”

I look down again because if I keep looking at her I’m going to completely lose whatever dignity I have left.

“Will you ever think about me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a shit answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“Like if someone throws a dart at your head?”

“Possibly.”

I glance at her.

“Or if someone says something incredibly intelligent.”

“That one is less likely to remind me of you.”

I stare at her. She smiles.

A broken laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“Fuck you.”

“There you are.”

We stay quiet for a while.

I drink the water she left for me and somehow that pisses me off too.

Of course she knows exactly how dry my mouth gets when I’m trying not to lose my shit, exactly how my hands start shaking before I notice, exactly how I need something cold in them so I stop digging my nails into my skin.

And now she knows all that and she’s leaving.

Amazing.

I finish half the bottle and stand up.

“So…”

She looks at me.

“You’re officially not my therapist anymore?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. That little pause almost kills me.

Then she looks down and gives this tiny sad smile.

“No. I guess I’m not.”

“Okay.”

I swallow.

“Then you can accept the gift I got you.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“What gift?”

“From the cruise.”

I reach down and grab the little bag I left beside my chair.

She actually laughs when she sees it, wiping quickly under one eye when a tear escapes.

I pretend I don’t notice.

She opens the bag and pulls out a thick notebook covered in tiny turtles.

The second she sees it, she covers her mouth and starts laughing harder.

She’s had this weird fucking obsession with turtles since the day I met her.

I still don’t understand it.

She has turtle mugs.

A tiny turtle on her bookshelf.

One ugly ceramic one somebody gave her years ago that I’ve insulted at least thirty times.

So obviously I saw the notebook and thought of her immediately.

“Sorry if it’s cringe.”

“It’s not cringe.”

“I got the thickest one because I thought you’d fill it again because of me this year.”

I swallow hard.

There’s pain sitting right behind my tongue now.

I look at the notebook instead of her.

“You can fill it with someone else’s problems now. Not mine.”

She nods. Then wipes another tear.

I stare at her.

That’s when it really fucking hits me.

She’s crying. Luna is crying.

I have known this woman for nine years and I have never seen her cry.

Not once.

Not when I was sixteen and screaming at her. Not when I was seventeen and barely speaking. Not when I came in shaking so hard I couldn’t hold a glass. Not when I cried in front of her. Not when I told her things that made me hate myself afterward.

Nothing. She never cried.

And now she is. That makes everything worse.

“Thank you, Victor,” she says quietly. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

She looks down at the turtles again.

“It’s perfect. I love it.”

I smile because I genuinely have no fucking idea what else to do.

The room suddenly feels too small.

I look around.

Her chair. Mine. The table. The fucking water. The bookshelf. The little turtle statue I hate.

This is the last time.

The last time it’s just me and her in this office.

The last time I sit there.

I fucking hate endings.

I especially hate endings that look completely ordinary while they’re happening.

“Can I ask you something, Luna?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry if this sounds weird.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

I laugh weakly.

“True.”

I look down for a second. Then back at her.

“Since you’re not my therapist anymore…”

She waits.

“Can I hug you?”

She looks thoughtful. So immediately I panic.

“Or just a small side hug.”

I gesture awkwardly.

“Like this. Barely touching. You can say no.”

“Oh, Victor. Come here.”

She hugs me first. Properly.

Not a side hug. A real hug.

And I break instantly.

My arms go around her and tighten before I even think about it.

It’s the first time I’ve ever touched her.

Nine years and this is the first time I know what it feels like to actually hug the person who has watched me come apart in that chair more times than I can count.

It feels strange.

Wrong almost. Too human.

My face presses into her shoulder and I’m trying not to cry again, but apparently dignity has already left the building.

Her hand moves slowly over my back.

I feel five. Actually five.

Which is ridiculous because she’s about twenty years older than me and I’m a grown man nearly crushing a psychologist in her own office.

Still.

Something in me goes very small. Very tired.

I hold her tighter.

“I’m going to miss you.”

My voice breaks horribly. She rubs my back once.

“I’m going to miss you too, Victor.”

That fucking destroys me.

She pulls back just enough to look at me.

“I’ll keep following your work.”

I laugh through tears.

“That sounds creepy. I’ll report you.”

“I’m not your therapist anymore. Good luck.”

I smile. She does too.

“I’ll watch what you do,” she says. “And I’ll be proud of you.”

I nod quickly because if I answer normally I’m going to start sobbing again.

I wipe under my eyes.

She looks at me for a long moment.

“I wish you could meet the version of you who first walked through that door. The sixteen-year-old you.”

My throat tightens.

“He’d be terrified of you.”

She smiles.

“He’d be terrified because you have everything he thought he’d never live long enough to have.”

I look away because I can suddenly see him too.

Sixteen.

Angry.

Scared.

Convinced everyone was against him. Convinced his own head was trying to kill him. Thinking adulthood was probably not going to happen for him anyway, so why bother imagining it.

And now I’m here.

Twenty-five.

Still occasionally convinced the world is ending over absolutely nothing, but here.

Alive.

Working, making things, loving people, loved back sometimes.

That kid would probably hate me. Then eventually believe me. Maybe.

Luna pulls back fully but keeps hold of my hands.

“One life update a year,” she tells me.

“What?”

“One.”

She turns her head toward the calendar on her desk.

“Every December. December twenty-third.”

She looks back at me.

“Next year, December twenty-third, you send me one enormous message with everything that happened in your life.”

I laugh.

“Everything?”

“Everything important.”

“That’s subjective.”

She smiles.

“You know what I mean.”

I nod several times. My eyes are wet again.

“Okay.”

“One message. No weekly essays. No midnight crisis novels. No thirty-seven voice notes.”

I laugh and wipe my face again.

“Fine. One life update. Every December twenty-third.”

“Exactly.”

I nod.

“Okay.”

She squeezes my hands slightly.

“And I’m doing that because you are more than a patient file to me. You’re a person I care about.”

My throat closes.

“Okay?”

I nod.

“Okay.”

“I want to know that you’re alive. I want to know what you’re doing. I want to hear that you’re still making art and annoying everyone around you.”

I laugh shakily.

“That’s guaranteed.”

“I know.”

She lets go of my hands.

“Take care of yourself, Victor.”

I nod.

“You too.”

“I’ll contact you as soon as I find someone I think is right for you.”

“Okay.”

I pick up my jacket.

Then stop at the door. I look back once.

She’s still standing there holding the turtle notebook against her chest.

Her eyes are red. Mine probably look worse.

For some reason, that image burns itself straight into my brain.

I know I’m going to remember it forever. I hate that I know that.

“Bye, Luna.”

Her face breaks into that small sad smile again.

“Goodbye, Victor.”

The door closes behind me. And that’s it.

Nine years reduced to the sound of a door clicking shut.

I stand in the hallway for a second, staring at absolutely nothing.

Then I laugh quietly to myself because this is so fucking stupid.

I came here excited to tell her I had a good week.

I brought her a notebook because I thought she’d fill it with my bullshit.

And now I’m leaving without her.