Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One:
Jeremy

The gallery was too bright.
Light spilled from chandeliers like melted glass, refracting across walls dressed in white linen and gilt frames. Jeremy adjusted the cuff of his jacket and let the crowd move around him, their chatter rising in waves of brittle laughter and polite applause. To anyone watching, he looked like another man here for the culture, the prestige. To himself, he was cataloguing exits, security points, the patterns of servers carrying champagne.

It was second nature now. His father had drilled it into him as early as childhood — observe, assess, calculate. And tonight, the calculations were less about enemies and more about numbers.

Art was useful. That was why he was here.

“Bit crowded, isn’t it?” Gareth murmured beside him. His tone was mild, but Jeremy didn’t miss the flicker of irritation in his sharp blue eyes. Gareth Carson hated these events. He tolerated them because he was good at playing the clean-cut lawyer, the one who could handle contracts and boardrooms while Jeremy dealt with things that bled.

Jeremy hummed in response, scanning the room. “Crowded’s good. More eyes means less suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what, exactly?” Gareth took a flute of champagne from a passing tray, though Jeremy noticed he didn’t drink. He never did when he was working.

Jeremy didn’t answer immediately. His gaze slid over a woman in pearls, laughing too loudly, a man in a velvet jacket pretending to know the difference between oil and acrylic. Money, all of them. Old, new, inherited, stolen. It didn’t matter. Money always wanted to multiply, and art gave it an excuse to move in ways the government couldn’t track.

“You can put ten million into a painting,” Jeremy finally said, voice low, “and no one blinks. They call it taste. They call it investment. They don’t ask why the same painting sells again for twenty. Or why it passes through five hands in six months.”

Jeremy swirled the amber in his glass, the burn lingering on his tongue as his father’s voice threaded through his thoughts.

“You’ve been handed a kingdom, syn. Don’t mistake it for a gift. It’s a test. I built this empire so you could inherit it — but only if you prove you can carry it. A leader who can’t think ahead isn’t a leader. He’s a corpse waiting to happen.”

Adrian Volkov didn’t raise his son with softness. He raised him with sharpened edges. Jeremy had grown up in his shadow, watching as his father steered the Bratva through decades of blood and politics. Now, for the first time, Adrian was letting him touch the wheel. New York was his to oversee — but only the surface. Adrian still watched every move, weighing every decision.

And this? This gallery, this pointless parade of art and excess? It wasn’t pointless at all. It was his trial.

He needed to prove he could adapt. That he could innovate. That he could protect the Bratva’s fortune and grow it without leaving blood in the streets for the FBI to sniff at.

Money laundering wasn’t new. They had clubs, restaurants, real estate, offshore accounts. But every channel grew stale eventually. Every trick left a trail. Jeremy knew the Feds weren’t close, but they were always hungry. The only way to stay untouchable was to stay unpredictable.

And art? Art was unpredictable. A painting was worth what someone decided it was. A sculpture could be priceless one day and forgotten the next. The perfect front.

All Jeremy needed was the right artist. Someone untouchable, someone whose name carried too much weight for anyone to question.

Which was why the murmurs crawling across the gallery floor made his jaw clench.

“Brilliant.”
“Genius.”
“The King boy, of course. Who else could carve marble like this?”
“Landon King.”

Jeremy turned, eyes cutting through the shifting sea of silk and black tie until they landed on him.

Landon.

Gareth followed his gaze. “Well. That explains the fuss.”

Landon King looked as if he’d been born for the centre of a room.

The crowd bent toward him without realising it, orbiting his presence like moths circling a flame. He didn’t dominate by volume — his voice wasn’t raised, his gestures weren’t exaggerated — yet every turn of his head drew eyes, every careless smirk pulled people closer. His suit was black, tailored within an inch of sin, but worn with a kind of irreverence. The shirt beneath was open at the collar, no tie, as though the entire event had been dressed up for him rather than the other way around.

Light brown hair fell across his forehead in an artful sweep, not precise, not polished, but arranged in that impossible balance between careless and perfect. Some men spent hours to look like that; Landon breathed and it happened.

Jeremy’s jaw tightened.

This was the same boy who had haunted their university years, only grown sharper. He still had the air of someone playing a game no one else had the rules to, only now the stakes were higher. The Elites had always indulged him — of course they had, he was a King. The Heathens hadn’t had that luxury. They’d borne the brunt of his restlessness, his pranks, his little acts of war.

Jeremy remembered nights when the fight club burned hotter because Landon had whispered something to the wrong ear. The fire at the Heathens’ mansion — not an accident, never an accident. The Serpents showing up with floor plans no one should’ve had — who else would have slipped them across out of boredom? Landon had been chaos wrapped in a grin, and his family name had shielded him from consequence.

That was what Jeremy hated most. Not the fire, not the sabotage, not even the smirk. The fact that Landon never paid. He thrived on ruin because ruin never touched him.

And their circles had been forced to collide, again and again. His sister Glyndon with Killian Carson — a man as dangerous as he was brilliant, and Jeremy had always suspected Landon of hating that match less out of protectiveness and more out of spite. Brandon King, Landon’s twin, tied to Nikolai like a fuse to dynamite. Jeremy could still remember dragging Niko off him in manic fits, could still remember how Brandon’s soft hands had steadied the Russian.

They’d all been tangled together, unwillingly, inevitably. And at the centre of that tangle had always been Landon, laughing while everyone else bled.

Jeremy set his glass down on the nearest tray, his fingers steady despite the irritation creeping into his veins. He didn’t need memories clouding his judgement. University was over. Rivalries were relics. What mattered now was usefulness.

Still — he couldn’t ignore what was in front of him.

Landon was useful.

Jeremy’s mind was already moving, cataloguing every advantage and every risk. Landon was dangerous, not because he killed, but because he didn’t care. He was unpredictable. That was worse than an enemy with a knife. You could guard against a blade. You couldn’t guard against someone who set the whole house alight and walked away laughing.

And yet…

Jeremy looked at the sculpture again. At the crowd wrapped around it, their eyes shining with awe. At the whispers of King and brilliant and prodigy.

Landon King was chaos. But he was also leverage. If Jeremy could bend him to terms, if he could channel that chaos into something useful, then this—this right here—could be the cleanest laundering channel the Bratva had ever owned.

If.

The word settled heavy in his chest.

Jeremy finished his whiskey, the burn grounding him. He didn’t beg. He didn’t chase. But if he wanted to keep his father’s trust, if he wanted to prove he was more than just Adrian Volkov’s son, he would have to do something far more dangerous.

Make Landon King an offer he can’t refuse.

Chapter Text

The gallery was loud, bright, chaotic in a way Jeremy had learned to navigate instinctively. The murmur of patrons, the clink of champagne glasses, the faint scent of polished marble mixed with expensive perfume—it all filtered into his awareness, cataloged, analyzed. He didn’t see it as a crowd; he saw vectors, potential risks, opportunities. Every glance, every whispered critique, every smile had its purpose, and he measured it all.

At the center of it all was the sculpture. Towering, impossible, meticulous. And in front of it, Landon King moved like he had designed the entire scene himself. Not the sculpture—though that too—but the room. The crowd bent around him, laughter and attention orbiting him as naturally as planets around a sun.

Jeremy’s pulse stayed steady. He had not come here for Landon King. He had come to evaluate potential avenues for the Bratva’s operations, to see which high-value, untouchable businesses could serve as fronts for laundering money without attracting the wrong kind of attention. He had options. Plenty of them. But there was something about Landon that triggered a memory of possibility—a calculated thrill he had learned to recognize in his father’s teachings.

Adrian Vilkov had been teaching him the ropes for a year now, slowly but firmly shifting responsibility onto Jeremy’s shoulders. It wasn’t enough to handle operations from a distance. It wasn’t enough to command respect. He had to prove he could innovate, that he could foresee risk and opportunity where others saw only chaos. Money laundering was a tool, yes—but not just any tool. It required subtlety, invisibility, and leverage. Landon’s work might just be that.

Jeremy let his eyes sweep over the room again. Patrons murmured their admiration, snapping discreet photos, cooing over details, whispering about price and technique. The marble gleamed under the gallery lights, pale veins twisting like secret veins of ice. Jeremy analyzed every detail: how collectors interacted, who lingered too long, who watched Landon instead of the art. It was all data. Patterns emerged, and in those patterns, he recognized the key.

But he wasn’t going to act rashly. Not yet.

He moved to the edge of the room, where Gareth waited. Gareth always waited. The man had a habit of being precisely where he was needed, calm, measured, meticulously prepared. Law degree, surgical mind, every contract, every loophole, every potential exposure cataloged and cross-checked. He could untangle any mess the Bratva had inherited—or inadvertently created.
Gareth greeted, eyes flicking briefly toward the sculpture. “I thought you’d stay hidden in the shadows.”

Jeremy allowed a faint smirk. “I’m evaluating.”

“Evaluating what?” Gareth’s tone was even, but curiosity hinted through.

“Opportunity,” Jeremy said, nodding subtly toward Landon King without gesturing too obviously. “That one.”

Gareth raised an eyebrow, pulling a brochure from his stack with smooth precision. “Risky. Very risky. King?”

“Yes.” Jeremy’s voice was steady. “He’s… untouchable in this space. Nicer word: discreet. Nobody would suspect anything he did, or who he aligned with. Perfect for what we need.”

Gareth didn’t move immediately. Instead, he studied Jeremy, reading him as he would a contract. “Perfect? Untouchable? You’re speaking about someone you barely know in the context of laundering millions. You do realize this isn’t like buying an art piece or flipping property. This is… risky.”

Jeremy tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Exactly. Which is why he’s the only one worth considering.”

Gareth’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Risky for a reason. He has wealth, influence, attention. If he’s bored, he’ll walk away—or worse, he’ll play you for sport. This isn’t just a gamble, Jeremy. It’s high stakes.”

Jeremy studied the man calmly. “You’re correct. But every other option has flaws that make them traceable, untrustworthy, or too visible. Landon is… insulated. Nobody will suspect him. Nobody can touch him. That’s rare.”

Gareth exhaled slowly, leaning back. “You’re stubborn. Fine. Let’s talk leverage. You can’t just offer money. He has more than most people could ever spend. You’ll need connections, influence, power, something he can’t already buy.”

Jeremy’s gaze flicked back across the room. Landon laughed at something a critic said, small gestures of imperfection hidden behind controlled charm. It was almost cruel how effortless it looked. He’s a weapon, Jeremy thought. He’s a key.

“Yes,” Jeremy said quietly. “Connections, access, prestige. Opportunities he hasn’t considered. Chaos he can shape, power he can direct. Rich people always want more—even if they already have it.”

Gareth’s skepticism remained. “And if he refuses? You’ve built a scenario where failure isn’t an option, yet it could fail immediately.”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed. He didn’t need to respond verbally; Gareth already understood. If there was one thing Jeremy had inherited from Adrian, it was calculation. Control. And patience. He could wait for the right angle, the right moment.

He remembered Kings U. Landon setting fire to the Heathens’ mansion for amusement. Handing the Serpents floor plans for another stunt. Laughing while Jeremy scrambled to contain damage. Always brilliant, always chaotic, always untouchable. Jeremy had hated him for it. Hated the way people bent to Landon’s will while he had to fight for respect in controlled violence. And yet, even then, Jeremy had acknowledged—grudgingly—that Landon had skill. Talent. Influence.

The memory sharpened his focus.

Gareth continued, unaware of Jeremy’s inner calculation. “You’ll need a fallback. If he refuses, if he manipulates the situation… you can’t go in without a plan B. This isn’t just about offering him something. It’s about control.”

Jeremy nodded, allowing Gareth to see compliance. Inside, he was already charting contingencies, calculating reactions, planning his approach like a chessboard. Every movement, every word would have weight. Landon would test him, and Jeremy would be ready.

Even now, he considered a brief call. Killian would advise strategy; Niko might offer insight from muscle perspective. But no, not yet. This was observation, not confrontation. The more Landon remained untouchable, the more Jeremy could analyze and exploit the patterns.

A subtle moment drew Jeremy’s attention. One of the assistants misstepped, spilling a glass near the sculpture. Landon’s smile didn’t falter. He leaned down, whispered something almost inaudible, and the assistant straightened instantly, a flush of relief on their cheeks. It was subtle, almost cruel, the way Landon controlled the situation with a few words. Jeremy cataloged it all: gestures, tones, power dynamics. Every micro-expression was data.

Another ripple followed. A whisper of recognition passed through the crowd. Someone murmured, “Is that… Volkov?” Jeremy didn’t flinch. He didn’t look up. But he noted it, precisely, the way it echoed through the room, who glanced, who ignored, who might remember. Soon enough, he would be noticed. He knew it. That moment of exposure would come. But not yet. For now, observation, data, strategy.

The gallery itself became a map in Jeremy’s mind. Light bouncing off the polished marble, murmurs of the crowd like currents, Landon moving like a magnet at the center. He catalogued the patrons: who admired the work, who was purely following Landon, who might notice subtle interactions. Every detail mattered.

They spent the next hour running scenarios. How to approach Landon without alerting patrons, how to maintain plausible deniability, and how to offer leverage that was appealing yet untraceable. Gareth detailed potential legal pitfalls, past examples of wealthy, untouchable figures gone rogue, and the kinds of contracts that could backfire spectacularly if mishandled. Jeremy catalogued everything, filing it neatly in his mind.

Throughout it all, Landon remained oblivious—or perfectly aware, Jeremy couldn’t tell—moving through his orbit of admirers. Every laugh, every tilt of his head, every smirk fed into Jeremy’s calculations. He noted it all: the way Landon could charm without moving a muscle, the subtle control he wielded, the dangerous confidence that made him untouchable.

Jeremy remembered Niko’s voice in his head. “Don’t underestimate him.” He had never needed a reminder before, but now it pressed against him, not as warning, but as a thrill.

Gareth finally leaned back, satisfied, though Jeremy knew he still had reservations. “You’re determined. I get that. But this… is a gamble unlike any other. Are you ready to face the consequences if he refuses or plays you?”

Jeremy’s eyes returned to the sculpture. The crowd, the light, the magnet of chaos itself. He didn’t blink. “I will make him see the value in saying yes.”

Gareth exhaled, realizing the discussion was over. Jeremy had already begun calculating his first real step. He wouldn’t approach tonight—not while the crowd still clung to Landon. But the first conversation was inevitable. Jeremy had a plan forming. Timing, leverage, control.

And when the moment came… he would speak to Landon King alone.

Because in a world of chaos, Jeremy Volkov was the one who made the rules.

Chapter Text

Jeremy’s study was the one place in the house that straddled two worlds—his father’s legacy and his own attempts to carve out something separate. The oak shelves that ran from floor to ceiling bore the weight of generations, lined with leather-bound volumes his father prized more for their appearance than their contents. Yet the heavy desk, the worn rug, even the hidden safe tucked behind a panel—those were Adrian’s fingerprints. What Jeremy had added were subtler: a record player in the corner, glass tumblers left out on a tray, the lingering smell of smoke and cologne that belonged to him and the people who all but lived here.

It was late enough that the lights of Manhattan bled through the wide windows, the city sprawling in a constant hum beneath them. The study wasn’t silent, though. Not with Gareth slouched in one armchair, already halfway into a glass of single malt, his law degree folded neatly into the measured way he assessed everything. Not with Niko stretched across the sofa like he owned the place, boots kicked up on the coffee table and a smirk daring anyone to challenge him. And not with Killian, perched straight-backed at the edge of the couch, flipping Jeremy’s lighter open and shut with restless precision.

Jeremy himself leaned back in the leather chair behind the desk, one arm hooked casually over the armrest. He looked at them the way a chess player studied his pieces—useful, loyal, occasionally unpredictable. The Heathens. They weren’t brothers by blood, but they’d been through enough together that the name fit. And tonight, he needed them. Or rather, he needed to see where the cracks would form once he threw his next move onto the table.

“Study’s a little too quiet,” Niko muttered finally, breaking the lull as he poured himself another drink without asking. “Usually when you drag us in here, Volkov, you’ve got some grand scheme ready to spill.”

Jeremy’s mouth tugged into something between a smile and a sneer. “Patience isn’t one of your virtues, is it?”

“Patience is boring,” Niko shot back, tossing back his whiskey in one swallow. “And you know I don’t do boring.”

Killian’s voice cut through, low and deliberate. “If he’s making us sit here instead of letting me get back to work, it means it’s serious. So maybe shut up for five minutes.”

Jeremy flicked his gaze toward him, appreciative. Trust Killian to see through his silences. Gareth said nothing, but his eyes were already narrowing, sharp behind the rim of his glass. He’d always been the one to read between the lines, to see danger before Jeremy voiced it.

Jeremy took his time, poured himself a measure of whiskey, and let the silence stretch until even Niko looked restless. Then he spoke, voice even.

“I’ve found a potential avenue. For laundering.”

That earned him exactly the reaction he expected. Gareth watched in his chair, glass lowering. Killian snapped the lighter shut and set it aside, interest sharpening into focus. Niko grinned like someone had finally turned the lights on.

“About time,” Niko said, leaning forward. “What is it this time? Clubs? Imports? Another shell company no one’s heard of?”

Jeremy shook his head once. “Art.”

For a moment, the word hung in the air, too simple, too stark. Then Killian barked out a humourless laugh. “You’re joking.”

Niko blinked, then laughed too, though his was genuine. “Art? You mean like paintings and shit? Jesus, Volkov, what, you planning to start selling watercolours out the back door?”

Killian didn’t laugh. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Jeremy with that unflinching stare of his. “Explain.”

Jeremy swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way it caught the light. “Art is perfect. It’s subjective, almost impossible to quantify. Value shifts depending on who’s looking at it. A piece sells for ten thousand one year, a hundred thousand the next, and no one blinks. Cash can move clean through the galleries, through the collectors, through private sales. It’s elegant.”

“And risky as hell,” Gareth cut in sharply. “Do you have any idea how heavily the art market’s monitored now? After all those scandals in the last decade? The IRS practically has agents crawling through auction houses.”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked to him, cool. “It’s monitored. But not like banks. Not like real estate. Not if you have the right people.”

“And who the fuck are the right people?” Niko demanded, eyebrows climbing. “Because unless you’re about to tell me you’ve developed a secret talent with a paintbrush, I don’t see it.”

Jeremy let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He’d been waiting for this opening. “I don’t need to paint. I need someone whose name already carries weight. Someone who knows how to play that world.”

“Bullshit,” Kill muttered, shaking his head. “You can’t just pluck some artist off the street and throw dirty money at him. He’d have to be established. Untouchable. And those kinds of people don’t just… fall into your lap.”

Jeremy said nothing. He just took a sip, let them stew.

It was Killian, though, who saw it first. His eyes narrowed. “You already have someone in mind.”

Jeremy inclined his head once.

“Who?” Niko demanded. “Because I’m dying to know which poor bastard you think is stupid enough to tie his name to us.”

Jeremy let the silence draw out, savouring it, watching their irritation mount. Then he said it.

“Landon King.”

The room reacted exactly how he’d pictured it. Gareth swore under his breath, setting his glass down with a hard thud. Niko barked out a laugh so sharp it sounded like disbelief. Killian didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened like a blade being honed.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” Killian said flatly.

Jeremy only smiled faintly, though his eyes were hard. “Not yet. But give me time.”
Killian moved from the bookshelf at last, crossing to the table and crushing his cigarette in the ashtray with deliberate slowness. His eyes stayed on Jeremy, steady and dark. “You want brutal honesty, Volkov? This is reckless. Even for you.”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed, but he stayed silent.

Killian poured himself a measure of whiskey, swirling it once before speaking again. “The Kings are too clean. Too visible. Landon’s not some obscure painter you can hide in the books—he’s on magazine covers, in collectors’ pockets, probably under half a dozen federal spotlights whether he knows it or not. You tie our money to his art, you’re inviting scrutiny we don’t need. That’s the kind of thinking that gets people buried. You’re imagining a perfect world where he keeps his mouth shut, plays along, never makes a mistake. But he’s King. He thrives on attention. He wants eyes on him. That’s poison for us.”

Gareth adjusted his cuff, voice calm but firm. “Killian’s right. From a legal standpoint, the exposure alone is catastrophic. Even whispers of irregularities in King’s sales would draw auditors. And once the feds start peeling back layers…” He trailed off, gaze steady on Jeremy. “They won’t stop until they trace every thread. Including ours.”

Jeremy watches them. They were making good points, if he was in their position, he’d probably say the same things. But he isn’t. He’s got an empire to run. He’s got his father to impress. Something tells him that Landon is the key to his goals. It may not be easy. But nothing good comes easy.

Niko laughed, sharp and careless. “Christ, Jeremy. Out of all the artists in New York, you pick the one guy who’d probably sell you out just for the fun of it. Do you remember college? He set fire to the Heathens’ house for sport. What do you think he’ll do with this?”

The memory flickered unwanted through the room, and Niko smirked when Jeremy didn’t immediately bite. “Exactly,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied clink of his glass. “He’ll play you like a fucking fiddle.”

Killian’s tone was colder, less mocking. “And let’s not pretend we have leverage. Money won’t sway him—he’s already drowning in it. Influence? He has more than most of the boardrooms uptown. If he says no, what then? You threaten him? Blackmail him? That’s not control, Jeremy. That’s chaos. And we don’t build on chaos.”

The words landed heavy, the room tightening with the weight of them. Jeremy didn’t flinch, but his silence was a tell in itself.

Killian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice quiet now, almost surgical. “You’re gambling our safety on a man who doesn’t need us. Who could ruin us just by opening his mouth. If you want my professional opinion—” his gaze sharpened “—this is suicide.”

Jeremy cut him off with a calm, unwavering look. “I know the steps. I’ve already mapped them. That’s why I’m moving forward.”

Niko exhaled sharply, leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, fine. You’re either a genius or completely nuts. But… fine. I’ll follow. For now.”

Gareth let out a soft, resigned breath, shaking his head slightly. “If anyone can make it work, it’s you. But this… this is insanity.”

Jeremy’s eyes settled on them, calm and resolute. “I don’t need approval. I need understanding that I’ve accounted for the risk. And that’s exactly what I have. The rest is execution.”

The room stayed heavy with silence after Jeremy’s declaration. Killian sat back, exhaling slowly, cigarette ash smoldering in the tray. Niko leaned forward, elbows on knees, still shaking his head, muttering something about “completely insane.” Gareth, as always, remained calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Jeremy didn’t move. He let them stew, letting the weight of his certainty settle around the room like a tangible thing. Then, slowly, he began outlining his next steps—quietly, deliberately, without explaining everything, only enough to show he had calculated contingencies for every risk they had voiced.

“I’ll approach him alone,” Jeremy said, voice steady. “No one else. Keep it simple. I know his patterns, how he reacts when cornered versus when flattered. We leverage that. I’ve accounted for every scenario Gareth brought up tonight, and I already have fallbacks.”

Killian’s gaze sharpened, the cynicism never leaving his eyes. “Fallbacks. You make it sound clean, but nothing about this will be clean. Even your best-case scenario risks exposure. You’re moving into uncharted territory, and you know it.”

Jeremy’s reply was calm, almost detached. “That’s why I’m doing it. Calculated risk is still risk—but it’s controlled risk. Everything else is noise.”

Niko snorted. “Yeah, sure. Just hope your calculated risk doesn’t get us all blown up.”

Before anyone could respond, the study door opened. Adrian Vilkov stepped inside, the quiet authority of his presence instantly reshaping the room’s energy. He didn’t speak at first—simply observed, eyes scanning Jeremy, the others, the faint tension that still lingered.

“Father,” Jeremy said, inclining his head.

Adrian didn’t move to sit. He simply crossed to the window, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded Jeremy with that calm, assessing gaze that always made him feel measured and exposed at the same time.

“Talk to me,” Adrian said finally, his voice even. “What’s occupying your mind enough to gather the room like this?”

Jeremy straightened, hands folded over his glass. “I’ve identified a target. Someone who can be leveraged for a clean, untouchable front for operations. Someone who appears untouchable, untraceable—but I’ve calculated the angle. I know the risk, the exposure, and the contingencies. I can make it work.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked briefly toward Gareth, Killian, and Niko, then back to Jeremy. “And you’ve run it past them?”

“Gareth knows,” Jeremy said. “The others have their doubts. Which is why I’m here—” He paused. “I need your input, your approval, if necessary.”

Adrian finally smiled faintly, a brief curve that carried both pride and amusement. “Approval? Jeremy, I don’t need to approve. I’ve taught you everything I know about control, about calculating risk. You’ve shown me you understand it. If you’ve found someone, then go. Deal with it.”

Jeremy blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity. “Just… go ahead?”

“Exactly,” Adrian said. He moved closer now, placing a firm hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “You know my trust isn’t given lightly. But I trust you. If you need me, I’ll be here. Otherwise… make it work.”

It was more than trust. It was a quiet bond—father to son, mentor to heir, a passing of the torch without words. Jeremy felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders, heavy, intoxicating, but also liberating.

He nodded once, tightly, absorbing it. “I will make it work,” he said, voice low but certain.

Adrian gave a short nod, his attention already shifting elsewhere, leaving Jeremy standing in the center of the study. The others remained where they were, each processing the exchange in their own way. Killian’s cynicism hadn’t vanished, Niko’s mischief was still simmering, Gareth remained calm—but for the first time, all of them recognized it: Jeremy was committed.

And now, with Adrian’s quiet endorsement weighing behind him, there was no turning back

Chapter Text

Landon

The penthouse glittered like a jewel box, all glass and gold and the kind of curated excess that reeked of money. A chandelier the size of a small house dripped overhead, scattering light across lacquered tables, sequined gowns, and teeth too white to be natural. Music pulsed from hidden speakers—some calculated mixture of bass-heavy modernity and jazz samples—loud enough to feel decadent, soft enough not to offend.

It was everything a post-gallery party should be: lavish, loud, and utterly predictable.

I’m so bored. Terribly bored.

I let the thought curl through my head while a critic gestured so close I could smell his cologne. Bergamot and sweat. He rhapsodised about negative space like he’d invented the concept himself. I nodded at the right places, even leaned in a little, just enough to make him feel like the smartest man in the room. People lived for that illusion. They’d pay anything for it.

Inside, I was calculating how quickly I could walk away without appearing rude.

Three… two… one.
Smile. Tilt of the head. A hand on his arm, light as smoke.
“Fascinating,” I murmured.
Translation: Please shut up.

I drifted off before he could follow, leaving him glowing in the aftermath of my attention. Poor man would dine on that look for weeks.

Glass in hand—water masquerading as champagne—I slipped deeper into the crowd. No one noticed. Or maybe they noticed and pretended not to. That was the game: give them the performance, let them believe they’d caught a glimpse of something real.

Another hedge-fund heir cornered me, explaining how art was “an asset class with unique liquidity challenges.”
God save me. If I hear the phrase ‘asset class’ one more time, I might stab myself with this cocktail pick.
I smiled, perfect and hollow.
I’m so bored. Terribly bored.

And then—like a spark across dry kindling—
“Did you hear? Jeremy Volkov was at the gallery tonight.”

The name slid through the air sharp as glass. My pulse jumped—one, clean jolt—but my smile never moved.

Jeremy Volkov.

I hadn’t seen him. Jeremy didn’t linger where the crowds could gawk. He was efficient, brutal, always in control. He was his father’s son. Jeremy didn’t orbit anyone’s sun.

But he’d been there. In my gallery.

I should’ve been unsettled. Wary, at the very least. Instead, I felt… flattered. The kind of flattery that doesn’t soothe but ignites, something sharp and electric under the skin.

My mouth curved, involuntary.
Interesting.

Very interesting.

A laugh cut through the din, too shrill, too eager, and Landon tilted his glass in the direction of its owner. She was pretty in the forgettable way most socialites were — flawless makeup, glossy hair, an expensive dress clinging where it should. She looked at him like she’d been waiting all night for him to notice.

He hadn’t. Until now.

The crowd was a theatre, and he was the reluctant leading man. Every gaze tracked him; every whispered syllable of Landon King curved around the chandeliers like smoke. He played the role because he always did — dangerous charm, easy smirks, words sharpened enough to draw blood without effort. But even the best performances grew stale with repetition.

He gave them the smile — the one that made people believe they were chosen. Dangerous. Crooked. Final.

Then he left.

By the time the music swallowed him again, his mind was already elsewhere. Past the chandeliers and champagne flutes. Past the meaningless stares. Out on the street, where engines waited, where the night still held the possibility of something that might actually make his pulse race.
The problem with parties was that they always ended the same way—too much perfume, too little substance, and not nearly enough to keep him entertained.

Landon slid behind the wheel of his matte-black McLaren, the door hissing shut like the exhale of some great predator. The engine purred to life beneath his hands, low and throaty, vibrating up through the leather seat into his spine. Now this—this was the only kind of thrill he could rely on. Not the shrill laughter of half-drunk heirs and heiresses. Not the way women touched his arm like he was a prize to be claimed. No, the car was better company than any of them. At least it did what he wanted when he wanted it.

He eased the wheel, pulling out onto the slick, deserted street. London at this hour was a different beast—its chaos stripped back, leaving only the hum of sodium streetlights and the occasional hiss of tyres on wet asphalt. The air smelled faintly of rain, sharp and metallic, like the city was holding its breath.

And he still was bored.
.
The city blurred past in streaks of gold and shadow, and Landon pushed the accelerator harder, feeling the surge of power fling him back in his seat. Speed. At least that was reliable. He could always count on velocity to make him feel something. His pulse quickened as the McLaren devoured the empty stretch of road, the sound of the engine roaring in his ears like a challenge.

The party lingered on the edge of his thoughts—women with lacquered smiles, men pretending they mattered, all of them circling him like moths to flame. He hadn’t drunk a drop, not that anyone noticed. They were too busy drowning themselves to see that his glass had been filled with water all night. That was the beauty of appearances. People only saw what they wanted.

He smirked, remembering the last girl whose lips had pressed to his ear, her laugh syrupy with gin. He’d let her pull him away, let her nails scrape down his back in some dim corridor. It passed the time, that was all. She’d wanted to matter to him; she hadn’t. Nobody stayed. Nobody was supposed to.

The road stretched open ahead, wide and inviting, and Landon felt that restlessness claw at his ribs. The kind that always told him something was about to happen. He thrived on that—on anticipation, on the precipice of the unknown.

He caught it first in his mirrors: twin beams of light flaring up behind him, growing larger, closing in fast. Another car. Sleek, silver, the shape unmistakable even in the dark—an AMG GT.

Landon’s brows arched, surprise tugging at his mouth. “Well, well.” He pressed the accelerator, testing, teasing, watching the gap shrink anyway. Whoever it was, they had teeth.

The AMG surged up alongside him, tyres screaming briefly as it matched his speed. The two machines tore through the empty city like predators circling each other, the streets deserted but for their engines, the streetlights flickering like an audience too stunned to applaud.

Landon’s blood sang. Finally. Something worth his time.

He glanced sideways through the tinted glass, but the other driver’s face was nothing but shadow. He grinned anyway. “Let’s play, then.”

He dropped a gear, the McLaren leaping forward, and for a moment he thought he had it—he thought he’d smoke them without effort. But the AMG clung to him, relentless, a silver ghost refusing to be shaken. The two cars flew down the bend, engines howling in tandem, until—

The AMG jerked, sudden and sharp, cutting across his path. Landon’s heart jumped as he swerved, tyres shrieking against asphalt, the McLaren fishtailing before he yanked it under control.

For a fraction of a second, his life had dangled on the edge of disaster. And he laughed. A low, reckless sound that filled the car.

“Mad bastard.” His knuckles tightened on the wheel, adrenaline coursing hot through his veins.

The AMG slowed, sliding deliberately into his lane, boxing him in until both cars rolled to a stop beneath the sickly yellow glow of a lone streetlight.

The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the tick of cooling engines. No other cars. No pedestrians. Just them and the electric buzz of the lamp overhead, like the world had emptied itself for their meeting.

Landon sat back, pulse still hammering, watching as the AMG’s door swung open.

And then—Jeremy Volkov stepped out.

Of course.

Tall, broad, moving with that unhurried certainty that made lesser men nervous. His shadow stretched long across the wet pavement, his eyes catching the light as he approached.

Landon’s lips curved, half-amused, half-irritated. “Well, look who crawled out of the dark.”

Jeremy came closer. The night swallowed the sound of everything but his footsteps. And his breathing.

The air between them thrummed.

Jeremy didn’t rush. Each step was measured, deliberate, like the road belonged to him, like the night had been carved out specifically for this moment.

He stopped just shy of Landon’s door, close enough that Landon could make out the faint lines of strain around his mouth, the shadows cutting sharp across his jaw. Up close, Jeremy was worse—taller, broader, built like the kind of man who’d been raised to break bones and take names. His arms looked like weapons even when they hung loose at his sides.

Landon tilted his head back against the seat, smirking up at him through the window. “I should’ve known it was you. Nobody else drives like a lunatic with a death wish.” He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “I nearly wrapped my car around a lamppost. Very rude of you.”

Jeremy leaned down, resting a hand on the roof of the McLaren. The gesture was casual, but the proximity wasn’t. The world shrank to just his presence, his shadow spilling into the car, the faint scent of smoke and something darker curling in with him.

“Still alive, aren’t you?” His voice was low, steady. Almost bored, but edged with intent.

“Barely. My poor heart nearly gave out.” Landon tapped his chest with mock solemnity, then grinned. “You’ll owe me a replacement if it does.”

Jeremy didn’t smile. He never did when Landon wanted him to.

The silence stretched, heavy, until Jeremy spoke again. “You’ve been keeping busy.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Landon drawled, finally leaning forward, resting his forearms on the wheel. “Another would be… tragically under-stimulated. The party was an atrocity. Not even the bar could save it.” His gaze flicked up, sharp. “But you didn’t come to discuss my social calendar, did you?”

Jeremy’s mouth twitched—amusement, maybe, or irritation. Hard to tell. “You’re sharp as ever.”

“Flatter me more. I live for it.”

“You know why I was at the gallery,” he said, voice low. No preamble.

I tipped my head, let a lazy smile curl. “Obviously. My champagne was excellent, the art was blindingly overpriced, and you wanted a night out. What a mystery.”

He didn’t bite. He stepped nearer, and the silence pressed in—only the hum of the streetlamp, only his breathing.

“I have capital that can’t live in daylight,” he said finally. “Money that’s valuable to me—so long as it looks legitimate. I need someone whose world is already gilded, whose reputation sells respectability without trying.”

“Flattery,” I murmured. “Keep talking, I might forget you nearly ran me off the road.”

He ignored that too, which only made me grin wider.

“You can take funds that shouldn’t be seen,” Jeremy continued, steady as stone, “and make them look like the natural consequence of art, patrons, exhibitions. That’s what I want: the illusion of ordinary commerce.”

I raised a brow. “So you don’t want me to be your stunt double. You want me to be your alibi.”

His eyes didn’t flicker. “I want you to be the reason no one asks questions.”

“Ah.” I tapped a finger against my lip. “You’re asking me to smile pretty while I become the world’s most expensive rug—something to sweep the dirt under.”

“You’re asking me to believe you’re too clever not to understand the advantages,” he shot back.

That pulled a laugh from me—sharp, delighted. “Touché.”

Jeremy let the silence breathe again, then: “You get control where it matters. You get reach, influence. Doors that don’t open for anyone else. And you get to keep your hands clean where people can see them.”

“Mm,” I said, leaning against the car, “so publicly spotless, privately dangerous. How very on brand.”

For the first time, a ghost of amusement touched his mouth. “You decide the cost.”

The street was still empty, but it felt crowded—with danger, with promise, with the kind of stakes that set your blood fizzing. I gave him a slow, mocking clap. “Direct, tidy, utterly unromantic. I do admire your style.”
I let the silence stretch, studying him like he was a painting I hadn’t yet decided whether to buy or burn. The streetlamp buzzed overhead, shadows cutting his face into hard lines.

Finally, I sighed, slow and dramatic. “Well. You make a compelling pitch. But I don’t usually shake hands in alleys, Jeremy. Not without dinner first.”

His jaw ticked. “This isn’t a date.”

“Isn’t it?” I shot back, smirking. “Dark street, low lighting, whispered secrets—romantic, if you squint.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face. Annoyance, amusement, temptation—hard to tell. But it was there, and it was mine.

He stepped back, giving me space as if that flicker annoyed him more than anything I’d said. “Think about it. You’ll know where to find me when you decide.”

“Oh, I always know where to find you,” I said, pushing off the car, letting my grin sharpen. “The question is whether I’ll bother showing up.”

Jeremy’s eyes lingered a fraction too long before he turned away, his footsteps echoing on the empty road. The streetlamp hummed, the night closed in again, and I realised my pulse was still quick.

Infuriating.

I hated when people managed that.

Jeremy’s footsteps faded, swallowed by the hush of the empty street.

I leaned back against the car, lips curling into a slow, unbothered grin.

“Walks in, makes demands, vanishes. Typical.”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I let the engine roar back to life. The sound cracked through the silence, a declaration all on its own.

If Jeremy thought he could corner me into playing his game, he was in for one hell of a surprise.

Because I never played anyone’s game but my own

Chapter Text

Landon

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person. Mornings are an invention for people who believe life is a treadmill—up at dawn, jog into the office, sweat out a few deals, collapse by ten.
Unlike my twin brother, Brandon, who greets five-thirty a.m. with the enthusiasm of a monk hearing the call to prayer. The man practically sings to his kettle while I’m still fighting with consciousness. To him, early rising is discipline. To me, it’s masochism.

It’s very noble. It’s also very boring.

Our relationship is… strained. Let’s call it that. He doesn’t involve me in his life, not really. He likes to believe it’s because I overshadow him, though I suspect it’s the other way around — he hates the idea of ever being in mine. And perhaps he’s right to. My brand of loyalty isn’t the tender kind. It’s the kind that bleeds. Brandon never understood that.

And yet—there I was, squinting at my phone at the ungodly hour of nine.

Jeremy’s text was waiting for me when I woke, a slab of bluntness delivered in six words: “Charity gala tonight. Meet me.”
No “good morning.” No polite prelude. Just a command, lobbed at my phone like a brick through glass.

Typical.

The man’s communication style is akin to his wardrobe: stark, functional, utterly devoid of subtlety. Where I might compose a text as a small work of art—measured cadence, maybe an obscure reference to keep the recipient guessing—Jeremy writes like he’s filing a police report.

And yet… I read it twice.

Charity events are the most exquisitely hypocritical of human inventions. Millionaires washing their sins with champagne, billionaires laundering their reputations under the glitter of chandeliers. All very gauche, but useful. And Jeremy, apparently, wanted me there. Which meant two things:
1. He either intended to parade me like a prized pet, or
2. He was testing something.

-

The car arrived at precisely seven-thirty. Black, polished, and unnecessarily dramatic. Of course it was.

I stood at the window, amused. A driver in a suit, door held open as if I were some duchess about to attend the opera. How very gentlemanly of Jeremy. I didn’t think he had it in him. Then again, it was far more likely he simply didn’t trust me to be on time. Which, to be fair, was a reasonable calculation.

The car eased to a stop under the hotel portico with a theatrical sigh of hydraulics. The driver opened the door with the sort of formalism that suggested the man had memorised other people’s lives for practice. I stepped out —tux neat, lapel catching the light in a way that made the crowd’s eyes do small, involuntary circuits.

Inside, the room smelled like old money: sandalwood and private jets and the faintest hint of desperation. Crystal chandeliers threw light across the sea of faces; men wore their reputations like medals, women polished theirs as if they were duty-bound to shine. The orchestra played a piece that suggested everyone present should be feeling something meaningful.

They weren’t. They felt righteous and bored. Perfect audience.

Jeremy was stationed at the partway between the entrance and the room proper, a human fulcrum. He did not smile. He did not need to. People bent their social motions around him like tides. He looked like a man who had been chiselled out of restraint. He saw me and a muscle at the corner of his mouth moved—an economy of motion. Enough.

He did not come to me like a man greeting an acquaintance. He came like a shark circling its prey.

“Landon King,” Jeremy said, steady and assured, the kind of introduction that sounded like placement rather than formality. His hand still rested on my shoulder, light but deliberate. “He’s been opening my eyes to the art world. Galleries, collections, the sort of pieces you don’t forget once you’ve seen them.”

The corners of his mouth tugged upward, just enough to suggest he’d been charmed into this new interest. “I figured if I was going to learn, I should learn from someone who actually understands it.”

I afforded him a slow, languid bow of acknowledgment that read publicly like consent and privately like amusement. When someone reached for the expected joke—“Oh, so you’ve turned him into a philanthropist?”—I smiled in such a way that it both disarmed and suggested I was the one doing the dishing.

A woman from the gallery committee—a brittle thing in emerald silk—moved forward with the practiced manner of someone who fileted conversations into spreadsheet rows. “Mr. Volkov, do you have a favourite artist represented tonight?” she asked, voice varnished with civic duty.

Jeremy’s smile would not have fooled a taxman. He was banking on a name. I watched him reach, in that precise manner of men trying to sound cultivated without having done the homework.

The expression on his face when he said, almost casually, “There’s an artist here who plays with form—subtle interplay of absence and ornament. His pieces are deceptively calm,” told me two things: (a) he wanted a name; (b) he had prepared an adjective.

People nodded. They ate the adjective. But adjectives do not make provenance.

I stepped in because the silence called for a hand to be played. I had no intention of becoming the evening’s curator, but Jeremy’s bluff needed a texture. “You mean Corbett’s series,” I said, letting the words roll like silk. “The one that looks like half the room threw up in a museum, then called it minimalism.” My tone was casual cruelty—sharp enough to amuse, soft enough not to wound publicly.

Gasps that were performative fluttered around us. A few laughs. Someone who mattered—an influential collector with a beard that made him look like a modest god—tilted his head and watched. Jeremy’s jaw tightened in the most almost-imperceptible way, which was as close to a thank-you as he would ever permit himself.

“Corbett’s work is a study in vestigial longing. He fabricates absence as if absence were a currency; buyers feel poorer the longer they stare.”

A beat, then the small, ritual applause of people who think thinking about art makes them more moral. I let them have it. Niceties oil the machine. The woman in emerald silk smiled like she’d placed a strategic bet and won.

“You’re being deliciously cruel,” a man behind us murmured—someone who bought ideas the way other men bought shoes. His beard made him look like an altar-piece; he nodded as if I had delivered scripture.

I watched the collector’s eyes move over the canvas while they tried to look experienced. Corbett’s thing—if you wanted a thing to pin on it—was omission. “He’d paint a perfect corner and abandon the rest, forcing the buyer to finish it in their mind. Rich strangers love feeling necessary.”

“See,” I said low, turning a little so Jeremy got the angle I wanted him to see. “He frames longing like a dwindling currency. He makes you invest in want. The buyer walks away with an ache and calls it appreciation.”

A woman laughed, earnest and sharp. “How merciless,” she said.

Someone asked the obvious question—“Isn’t that just… emptiness?”—as if the question itself might expose them as unpracticed. Good. Let them give away their ignorance.

“Not if it’s crafted,” I said. “Emptiness without craft is cowardice. Corbett edits ruthlessly. He withholds to keep you invested. He doesn’t fill a canvas; he rents it out.”

Jeremy watched the exchange the way a man watches market fluctuations. Not for drama, but for value. His jaw relaxed a fraction, the smallest concession to satisfaction—he’d got the adjective and I’d given it a body. Together, we’d sold a story. That’s all the world ever asks for: a story made credible by confidence.

Jeremy’s gaze flicked to me. A single almost-brow raise acknowledged the economy of the moment. He had set the stage; I’d given the performance. Now the ledger balanced itself in public.

“You should tell them,” he murmured when the crowd began to talk amongst themselves. Not a request—an order wrapped in strategy.

“Tell them what?” I asked, savoring the word. He wanted presence, a public face to hide his hands. He wanted me to be the polished mask for transactions he could never afford to associate with his own name. He wanted deniability and prestige slotted together like two matched parts.

“That you’re interested in collaborating. Be seen consulting. Let them believe the narrative.” The words were clinical; the implication was not.

I considered the glittered room—the theatre, the applause, the way people purchased ideas to make them feel morally superior. I imagined playing that game with a ledger instead of applause. I imagined the slow, quiet way influence could turn into profit when patience and the right stories aligned.

“Very well,” I said finally, and it sounded like a promise and a threat at the same time. “But don’t make me the anecdote of the evening,” I added, because I liked my dignity performed as drama.

He inclined his head just enough to be polite. “You are not the anecdote,” he said. “You are the assurance.”

The word sat between us—cool, bureaucratic, almost affectionate in its utility. Assurance. A tidy word for a blunt purpose. Useful. Predictable. Precisely the thing I’d expected him to offer.

I let the moment settle and smiled at its absurdity. We were playing dress-up with reputations and calling it commerce. In three hours, someone would get an introduction, someone would get an invitation, and somewhere else the first thread of a story would begin to unravel into a market.

For tonight, the theatre had accepted our lie, and the room had already started to believe it. That was enough.

“Well,” he said, low and deliberate, “aren’t I in good hands?”

The group tittered in confusion. A few polite, uncertain chuckles. The collector in emerald silk blinked between us as though she’d just discovered a subplot.

“And how exactly do you two know each other?” asked the altar-piece with the beard, his tone attempting levity but weighed down by suspicion.

I didn’t miss a beat. “University,” I said smoothly, letting the word unspool with a little nostalgia. “Jeremy and I crossed paths in our wilder days. Shared too many cigarettes and far too few lectures. Recently, he’s developed a taste for the arts.”

Jeremy’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like a sharpened line. “What can I say? I had good teachers. Or at least entertaining ones.”

That earned the laugh he wanted: the low, compliant ripple of people eager to feel included in the joke, even if they weren’t sure what it was.

The woman in emerald tilted her head. “And what is it that draws you to the arts now, Mr Volkov?”

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. “Perspective,” he said, as though he’d rehearsed it. “Business can be… one-dimensional. Numbers, negotiations, strategy. Art reminds you there are other ways to see the world.”

“Profound,” the bearded man scoffed, though he was listening.

Jeremy turned slightly, his voice pitched just for me. “Isn’t that right? You were just explaining that to me last week.”

Ah. A volley. Smoothly done. I tipped my glass, caught the expectant eyes, and smiled. “Yes. Perspective isn’t about eliminating what you don’t want to see, it’s about admitting that it exists. Mr Volkov has an eye for that.”

I let the applause wash over me, a tide of polite admiration. Faces smiled, glasses clinked, and somewhere beneath the gilded ceilings, the orchestra swelled—but for all the spectacle, none of it touched me. It skimmed the surface, left me dry, as though the world had given me everything and nothing at once. Still, when the laughter faded and the applause drifted elsewhere, and I felt the ache settle quietly beneath my ribs—sharp, polite, and faintly amused by the futility of it all.

Chapter Text

Landon

People assume luxury makes you content. It doesn’t. It makes you hyper-aware of how exquisitely bored you are. Everything tastes too good, feels too soft, looks too polished. Even my wine tonight—an ‘89 Bordeaux—was wasted on me. My tongue went through the motions; my nerves remained unmoved.

I could almost hear Brandon’s voice, sharp with disapproval: You drink too much. You waste too much. You are too much. Which is rich, considering he’s probably asleep by now, a saint with a five-thirty alarm and a kettle that sings hymns with him.

I, on the other hand, had music drifting through the speakers—strings and piano, something slow enough to feel tragic but expensive enough to sound intentional. Melancholy curated. My particular talent.

I played the part of the decadent misanthrope very well. The city loved me for it. Or at least it thought it did.

And yet—beneath the silk robe, the cut crystal, the perfect skyline—I could feel it: that familiar hollow. The gnawing ache that no amount of orchestration ever quite quiets.

The city begged for my attention, but my mind wandered elsewhere.

I thought of the emerald-silk woman at the gala, the way her smile was practised to within an inch of its life. If you pressed hard enough, you’d find teeth marks on the inside of her cheeks where she’d bitten back sincerity. That’s the problem with society types—they wear their ambition like perfume: cloying, desperate, impossible to ignore.

She’d asked Jeremy which artist he liked best, and for a moment, I almost pitied him. Almost. Watching him fish for a name was like watching a tiger pretend to be a housecat: all restraint, none of the claws. The room ate it up, of course. They always do. They mistake poise for authenticity, and Jeremy—daylight Jeremy—feeds them exactly what they want.

I swirled my glass. Daylight Jeremy was efficient, impenetrable, stainless. A man chiselled out of granite and good tailoring. The kind of man no one imagines laughing in bed sheets or swearing at a stubbed toe. Which is, of course, why I kept thinking about it.

Or maybe he’s the kind who irons his socks, I thought. The kind who alphabetises his liquor cabinet, labels his light switches, keeps a logbook of exactly how many hours he’s wasted being polite. I could almost see him in some sleek, sterile kitchen at three in the morning, drinking water like it was a scheduled task.

The image amused me. A man that composed shouldn’t exist. If he did, I wanted to be there when the seams finally came apart.

Or maybe—and this one I rather liked—he’s the sort of man who sleeps like a corpse: flat on his back, arms folded, expression still composed. No slack mouth, no dream-twitches, just perfect stillness until dawn, when he rises as if summoned by bell.

The thought made me laugh, sharp and quiet. A man that perfect is begging to be ruined.

And then—my doorbell rang.

I froze mid-sip, wine glass still tilted like a prop in a Renaissance painting. Who in God’s name thought it was acceptable to interrupt me at midnight?

I opened the door, and lo and behold—perhaps I am God’s favourite, because in front of me stood Jeremy Volkov.

Only it wasn’t the Jeremy from the gala. His tie hung loose, shirt untucked, as though the evening had tried to hold him together and failed. There was a dark look in his eye, the kind that didn’t belong to champagne receptions but to alleys and half-remembered sins. The faintest trace of liquor hovering around him. Not drunk, exactly. Just… softened. Like the edges of him had been filed down by something stronger than patience.

I tipped my glass toward him. “No flowers? Tragic.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped past me, shoulder brushing mine, like he owned the lease. Midnight Jeremy—tie loose, shirt untucked, gaze dark enough to swallow the room whole.

I shut the door behind him, the click sounding like a curtain drop. My night, apparently, was far from over.

Jeremy moved past me without a word, his steps unhurried but carrying the weight of intent. He went straight to the window—wall-sized glass that turned the city into a luminous sprawl beneath us. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood there like some war general surveying his battlefield.

The light caught him strangely—shirt untucked, collar open, hair less precise than usual. It was a look I hadn’t seen on him before.
I swirled the wine in my glass, more for the theatre than the taste, and leaned against the back of the sofa. I didn’t speak. I wanted to see how long he could hold the silence, and what he would break it for.

The city hummed below us. Jeremy didn’t turn. He watched.

And I watched him.

The longer it went, the more my curiosity sharpened, bright and unbearable, like a wire pulled too tight.

Jeremy didn’t move from the glass, just his reflection in the city glow, tall and deliberate. His voice, when it came, was low but clean.

“Don’t you ever get tired of performing?”

Landon let the words sit. He should have laughed them off—smooth, easy, a throwaway—but something in Jeremy’s tone made him pause instead. The irony wasn’t lost on him. If anyone knew about masks, about immaculate façades, it was Jeremy.

So he smirked, wine glass tilting lazily between his fingers.
“That’s rich. Coming from you.”

Jeremy turned then, brows faintly knit, as though genuinely confused.

“You were performing today,” Landon pressed, wine glass dangling between his fingers. “Everyone believed we were mates. You sure were convincing.”

A sigh slipped out of Jeremy, quiet and resigned. He turned back to the window, shoulders loose.
“I know. It was exhausting. It made me wonder how you did it. Fake everything.”

It wasn’t an insult. Landon knew that. Still, it slid under his skin like one. He didn’t want Jeremy seeing through him, through the armour he polished for everyone else. Somehow, he always did. Irritating.

Landon’s mouth curved, words too quick to stop.
“Maybe you’re just not cut out for it. Some of us are naturals.”

Jeremy didn’t rise to the bait. He only hummed, calm as ever, gaze fixed on the glittering sprawl of the city.
“Or maybe some of us would rather not live like that at all.”

Landon’s laugh was low, humourless. “Spoken like someone who’s been doing it his whole life. Spare me the sermon.”

Jeremy’s head tilted, just enough to catch Landon’s reflection in the glass. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to wear a mask?”

“I know I’m better at it.” The smirk was back, practiced and cutting, though the wineglass felt too light in his hand.

Jeremy didn’t look away. “Better doesn’t mean happier.”

The word landed heavier than it should have. Happier. Landon swirled the wine, watching the dark liquid trace the rim, as if the glass had suddenly become more interesting than Jeremy’s eyes.

“Happiness is overrated,” he said, breezy, dismissive. “Most people wouldn’t know what to do with it if they had it.”

“And you? Would you?”

That caught him off guard, just for a beat. Landon hid it behind a sharp grin, barbed enough to draw blood.
“Who says I want it?”

Jeremy’s gaze slid from the glass back to Landon, steady, unblinking.
“You do. Every time you open your mouth. Every time you walk into a room. You want it so badly you’ve built an entire performance around pretending you don’t.”

Landon barked a laugh, sharp and cutting. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a shrink. I should start charging by the hour.”

Jeremy didn’t flinch, didn’t take the bait. “I don’t need to analyse you. I just have to watch.”

That stung. It was true—Jeremy was watching, in a way no one else ever did. Not to be entertained. To see.

And Landon hated how exposed it made him feel.

So he smirked wider, because that’s what you did when someone hit bone—you showed teeth.
“Then enjoy the show, Volkov. I put on a hell of one.”

Jeremy finally turned from the window, slow, deliberate, his eyes catching Landon’s like a hook.

Jeremy pushed off from the window. Not rushed, not hesitant—measured, like he’d already decided where this would end. Each step clipped against the hardwood, the sound louder than it should have been in the silence.

Landon stayed where he was, back sunk into the sofa, wine glass balanced between two fingers like a prop. If Jeremy wanted theatre, he’d get it. But his chest betrayed him—breath tighter, faster, the faintest shift in rhythm.

Jeremy stopped in front of him, close enough that Landon had to tilt his chin up. Calm. Composed. Except his eyes. They weren’t calm at all.

“You’re good at pretending,” Jeremy said quietly, voice low enough that Landon felt it in his ribs.

Landon smirked, letting his tongue rest against his teeth. “Better than you, apparently. You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

Jeremy leaned down, bracing one hand on the sofa’s back, so close now Landon could see the loose edge of his tie, the uneven rise of his chest. His composure stayed—posture perfect, voice steady. But his gaze was all wrong. Starved.
Jeremy’s face was close enough that Landon could catch the faintest trace of scotch on his breath. His eyes, though—that was the thing. Sharp, unyielding, staring into him like he was some riddle to be solved. Landon held the gaze because what else was there to do? Blink first and you lost.

But the longer he stared, the more the silence pressed in. He didn’t know what Jeremy was thinking. He never did. Jeremy’s gaze wasn’t the kind that revealed; it was the kind that measured, dissected. Cold fire.

Landon shifted his wine glass just to keep his hands busy, but his eyes never left Jeremy’s. The air between them felt too thick, as if one wrong move would set it off—though he couldn’t have said what it even was.

For a second, Landon thought he might close the distance. For a second, he almost wanted him to.

Instead, Jeremy’s jaw flexed. He straightened, the sharp line of his composure snapping back into place. A throat clear, quiet but deliberate.

“You should get some rest,” he said, voice steady, betraying nothing. Then he turned, walking toward the door as if he hadn’t just lit the room on fire and left it burning.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I didn’t stop him.

The apartment fell quiet again, save for the hum of the city pressing at the glass. I stood there, breath still caught in my chest, the echo of his gaze lodged beneath my ribs. For a moment, I thought it might turn into something — anger, amusement, desire, anything at all.

It didn’t.

The room felt emptier. Something in the hush pressed at my chest—sharp, shapeless, and irritatingly familiar.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

Morning slid into the Volkov mansion with too much brightness for the night Jeremy had left behind. The place woke early — footsteps on marble, the clatter of pans in the kitchen, the low rumble of voices drifting through the halls.

Jeremy’s room was one of many suites in the house, though he used it more than his private apartment across the city. Everyone had another house or apartment in the city— for safety, for privacy, for when the mansion felt too full. The family rotated between them depending on what was happening. It was necessary. No one in their world could be predictable, not even at home.

Still, the mansion had its rhythm. Guards shifted out front, discreet but constant. Sunlight cut through tall windows, throwing light across floors that had seen enough secrets to fill a book. For all its sharp edges, it wasn’t a fortress to them. It was lived-in, softened by familiarity, by the weight of too many years stacked together.

Jeremy never lingered in bed, but then again, neither did Niko — though for different reasons. Jeremy kept his mornings disciplined, ordered, a way to hold the chaos at bay. Niko, on the other hand, didn’t really “do” beds. He slept wherever he dropped: on the sofa, the floor, once even half across an armchair. Jeremy had long stopped questioning it. Niko claimed a bed felt wrong unless Brandon was there too — something he said so plainly Jeremy almost admired him for it.

When Jeremy passed his door, it was wide open, a blanket thrown haphazardly over the couch instead of the king-sized bed. Typical.

Further down, Killian’s music thumped faintly through his door, something pounding and electronic for this early in the morning. Gareth’s door was shut, as usual.

Jeremy descended the grand staircase, sharp gaze sweeping automatically over the foyer. He’d woken in plenty of strange places in his life, but mornings here always felt the same: controlled, orchestrated, as if the house itself insisted on order.

Jeremy found Nikolai already in the kitchen, perched barefoot on the counter with a coffee mug balanced precariously in one hand and absolutely no shirt in sight. The sunlight hit him like a spotlight, all muscle and grin, as if he’d been waiting specifically to make an entrance.

“Morning, Jer,” Niko said, voice bright, almost too bright for the hour. He raised his mug in salute. “Want some? It tastes like motor oil. I love it.”

Jeremy poured his own coffee from the pot, ignoring him. “You could sit in a chair, you know. They were invented for a reason.”

Niko spread his arms, as if to demonstrate his current throne. “Why would I? Counters are better. You can see everything. Strategic vantage point.” He gestured grandly at the refrigerator as if it were an army. “Besides, Brandon says I look good up here. Like a sculpture.”

Jeremy didn’t answer, just stirred sugar into his coffee with mechanical precision.

Jeremy took a measured sip of his coffee. “I’ll add it to your list of revolutionary acts. Right under refusing to wear clothes.”

Niko’s eyes lit up. “Mark my words, one day humanity will look back at me and say—‘that was the man who liberated nipples.’”

Jeremy gave him a look over the rim of his mug, dry as sandpaper. “I think history will survive without that particular contribution.”

For a beat, Nikolai laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. But as quickly as it came, it ebbed — his grin shifting, just slightly. His gaze flicked to Jeremy, sharper now, more awake. The way it always did when his energy threatened to tip sideways.

For a moment, it was almost ordinary.

Then Nikolai spoke, quieter. “You hear about the boys down at the docks?”

Jeremy didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Sloppy work,” Nikolai said. The grin was gone now, replaced with a sharper calm that sat uneasily on him, like too-still water.

Nikolai paced the length of the kitchen barefoot, restless energy dripping off him like static. His grin was a little too sharp, his words too quick. Jeremy recognised the shift immediately, the manic hum beneath the skin.

“I’ll take care of it myself,” Nikolai said, cracking his knuckles as though the decision was already final. “Whoever let that shipment slip is going to learn how deep water really gets.”

Jeremy folded his arms, leaning against the counter, gaze steady. “No.”

Nikolai blinked, thrown off by the flat refusal. “No?”

“You’re winding up,” Jeremy said calmly. “I can hear it in your voice. You go out there now, it won’t be clean. It’ll be a message we don’t want to send.”

Nikolai laughed, a manic little spark, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And since when do you tell me where I can bleed?”

Jeremy didn’t flinch. “Since Brandon’s not here to pull you back.”

That landed. For a moment, the grin faltered. Nikolai’s gaze flicked away.

Jeremy went on, voice even but firm. “You’ve been steadier with him around. But he’s not here, Killian’s tied up with exams, and I’m not about to let you spiral over a dockhand who can barely spell his own name.”

Nikolai dragged a hand through his long hair, pacing faster, the energy sparking higher. Jeremy pushed his mug across the counter toward him.

“Sit down,” he said.

Nikolai’s jaw flexed, but he dropped into the chair with a huff, taking the coffee like it was a peace treaty. “You make it sound like I’m one step away from snapping.”

Jeremy finally sat opposite him, calm as stone. “Because you are. And if you do, I’ll be cleaning it up. Again.”

The silence stretched. Then Nikolai let out a low breath, the fight bleeding from his shoulders. He dropped into a chair, half sulking, half restless, and took the coffee Jeremy slid toward him.

“You always ruin my fun,” he muttered, but softer this time.

Jeremy didn’t rise to it. He never did. He was always the one in charge of Nikolai when he was spiralling. Always the one to take his energy and expel it in different ways. Since Brandon, Jeremy has had to do that a lot less. He’s relieved that Nikolai has someone like that. Sometimes he almost envies what they have. Almost.

Nikolai went tearing out of the driveway, shirtless as always, hollering something about going to “smash some uglies.” Jeremy didn’t ask what that meant. As long as it didn’t bleed into business, Niko could play however he wanted.

Jeremy, meanwhile, had no such luxury.

He had a meeting today. Not just with anyone, but with the Brigadir in charge of the money laundering operation. His father was the Obshchak—keeper of the purse, the one who oversaw the Bratva’s finances and kept every Brigadir in check. If Jeremy ever hoped to inherit even a fraction of that power, he needed to prove himself in every corner of the organisation. Arms, drugs, protection, racketeering—each Brigadir ran their own empire.

Money laundering was where Jeremy would start. Whether it was the easiest or the trickiest, he wasn’t sure yet. But it was a beginning.

The meeting was being held in one of the family’s casinos, polished and discreet, far from prying eyes. Jeremy needed his composure razor-sharp. Every move mattered.

And then there was Landon.

He’d invited him obviously. Maybe a mistake. Maybe not. Jeremy still wasn’t sure what he expected—support, curiosity, or simply the comfort of having Landon’s sharp eyes nearby. What he did know was that he’d regret it if Landon decided to turn the room into a circus.

Which, naturally, he did.

The casino smelled like polished wood and cigarettes, the faint tang of expensive liquor clinging to the air. Jeremy moved through it like a shadow, sharp in a tailored suit, every movement controlled. His eyes scanned the room—Brigadir’s men, the layout, the exits, the subtly armed staff. Every detail mattered.

And then he saw Landon, lounging against a velvet column like the place belonged to him. Of course.

Landon’s smirk found him immediately, like he’d known Jeremy’s exact path through the room. The glass in his hand caught the chandelier light just so, and Jeremy almost lost it. Almost.

“Good morning,” Landon said, voice slow, deliberately casual. “Or is it still technically night in your head?”

This was going to be a long hour.

The Brigadir’s table was set off in a private room, guarded by two hulking men who barely blinked at Landon’s presence. Jeremy had to keep his tone calm, his smile neutral.

“Stay here,” he muttered, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. “Eyes forward, mouth closed.”

“Eyes forward, mouth closed… sounds exhausting,” Landon replied, tilting his head. “Might need a nap first.”

Jeremy fought the urge to drag him by the collar into the room. Instead, he steered him with a careful hand on the small of Landon’s back, forcing him to move along but failing spectacularly at keeping Landon from sidestepping into every conversation like a rogue comet.

At the table, the Brigadir’s gaze cut sharp. “Volkov,” he said, voice velvet over steel. “This is your associate?”

Jeremy’s lips pressed into a straight line. Landon, naturally, gave a slow, mocking bow, the kind that said both I’m harmless and I’m chaos incarnate.

Jeremy ground his teeth. Landon’s smirk didn’t falter.

The Brigadir’s table gleamed under low-hanging lamps, papers neatly stacked, ledgers opened. Jeremy’s mind was focused, every detail of the laundering proposal ready. He didn’t flinch at numbers, didn’t hesitate at questions, didn’t allow anyone—least of all Landon—to throw him off.

And then Landon leaned against the doorframe, chin resting on one hand, eyes scanning like a bored predator. He wore a dark gray hoodie and dark baggy jeans, sleeves rolled halfway up, smile crooked. Jeremy had never seen him dress that casual before. This was absolutely deliberate. He definitely bought those clothes today just to piss Jeremy off.

Landon leaned back, letting his gaze wander over the charts and spreadsheets. “Shells within shells within shells,” he said, feigning admiration. “Brilliant. And if one cracks, do you have insurance for the rest, or do we all just enjoy the fireworks?”

Jeremy’s jaw tightened. Why can’t he just sit still?

As Jeremy began outlining the plan, Landon interjected. “Forgive me, but if this goes sideways, who’s taking the fall first? Just curious.”

A lieutenant tensed. Jeremy didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He felt heat in his chest, low and pure and dangerous. I’m going to strangle him, he thought, and the image was so clean it made him dizzy. That’s it. He’s a dead man walking.

Landon continued, casual, almost playful. “Also, have we considered how many eyes might actually see the transfer? Or are these shells really just invisible cloaks?”

Jeremy’s control thinned. He kept speaking, answered the Brigadir’s question with the practiced calm of a man who built careers on steady hands, but his mind snapped like a taut wire every time Landon’s voice scraped across a line.

“Landon, this isn’t a game. You’re here to observe, not critique,” he said, low and clipped.

“Observe is boring,” Landon said lightly. “Critique keeps me awake. And trust me, awake is good.”

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Honestly, who approved the accounting here? The numbers look… friendly, like they’re trying to get you caught.”

Jeremy’s hands dug into his palms under the table. If he thinks he’s walking out here Scot free, he’s got another thing coming. The thought appeared and then vanished like a stone dropped into deep water.

The Brigadir shifted uneasily at that. Landon noticed, tipped his head as if evaluating a curious specimen. “Relax. I’m not the dangerous one here. Not yet, anyway.”

Jeremy felt the warning flare bright and hot behind his eyes. He kept his face still, said nothing more, watched the paper in front of him as if it might offer solace. He had rehearsed the pitch until muscle memory could do the talking. Numbers, angles, contingencies—he laid them out cleanly, crisply, the arithmetic of plausible deniability.

But Landon’s presence kept pulling at his attention like a hand at a sleeve. Each barbed question, each careless curl of the pen, was a small, deliberate wound. Jeremy’s mouth went dry. He answered the Brigadir’s follow-up as if he’d never been interrupted—precise, measured—but the hum under his skin remained, a new kind of static.

When the meeting finally ended the Brigadir nodded, satisfied. Men rose, murmured the polite goodbyes. Landon stretched as if the room had been built for him—rubbing his fingers through his hair with a slow motion, smiling at Jeremy like he’d just performed a private miracle.

Jeremy forced his jaw to unclench. He would escort Landon out. He would not let him walk away scot-free. He would not let this man make a mockery of anything important without consequences.

On the walk back through the casino’s hushed corridors Jeremy kept his voice even. The thought beneath the surface was neither poetic nor elegant. It was practical. He’s going to learn to be careful around me. Or he’s going to learn how fast I can make him careful.

They were finishing the goodbyes when Landon drifted toward the door—slow, insolent, smile tilted as if he owned whatever room he left behind. He caught Jeremy’s eye and lifted a hand in a mock salute. Small gesture. Enormous intention.

Jeremy moved before he’d had time to think. Two quick steps, a long reach. His fingers closed on Landon’s arm; the grip was firm. Landon’s smirk flickered—amused, curious, as if he’d been expecting this.

“Hold up—” Landon began, theatrically unaffected.

Jeremy shoved him. Not a steer, not a guide: a hard push that planted Landon against the heavy oak of a private-room door. The wood answered with a dull groan. Enough.

The corridor narrowed. The casino’s hum dropped to background noise. All the practiced calm he’d worn through the meeting snapped together into a single, clean thing: anger, controlled and purposeful.

“Do you have a death wish?” Jeremy said, voice low and flat. “I told you to behave.” The words sat like a stone in his throat—sharp, immediate.

Landon’s laugh landed too light in the enclosed space. “You’re dramatic,” he said, one eyebrow lifting as if Jeremy’s hands weren’t on him and the Brigadir’s men weren’t a wall away. “Relax. It’s only numbers.”

“It’s not only numbers,” Jeremy said, slow and deliberate. He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. He wanted to dismantle the smugness that clung to Landon like a scent. “Stop playing games. Not here. Not while there’s a ledger, not while men are pointing guns, not while we ask people to trust us with millions.”

Landon rolled his shoulders, unbothered. “Trust is theatre too, isn’t it? Everyone performs. I prefer watching the puppets trip over their strings.”

Jeremy didn’t let it slide. He closed the gap until they were chest to chest, the clean scent of scotch between them. “Cut it out. No more games in my meetings. Sit. Listen. Keep your mouth shut unless I say otherwise.”

Landon tipped his head, insolent. “You make me sound like a lapdog.” He smiled, predatory. “Cute— but trust me, I don’t fetch.”

Jeremy’s face went harder. No softness. “This isn’t about what entertains me. This is control. When I say control, Landon—what I mean is you don’t have any. Not here. Not with me.”

For a beat, Landon’s smirk thinned, then doubled down. He stayed slippery, indulgent. “You really think you can tame me? That’s rich. Men have tried—don’t usually end up standing.”

Jeremy’s jaw worked. He knew who’d tried, and why they’d failed; he knew the price of underestimating consequence. “That’s because they weren’t me. Try that again and I’ll bury you.”

Jeremy shoved him again, harder. Landon stumbled into the private room and hit the plush chair; the door clicked shut behind them like a book closing on a dangerous page.

They breathed for a second in each other’s space. Landon, rumpled and theatrical, wore defiance like armor. He did not bow.

“You don’t get to make jokes about this,” Jeremy said, quieter now, the warning sharpened into a blade. “Not with ledgers, not with men who’ll shoot because they are frightened.”

Landon’s voice came smooth, amused—safe in provocation. “I was behaving. What you saw—polite. Tell me what performance you want and I’ll oblige. I’ll smile, I’ll clap, I’ll be the good anecdote. But don’t be surprised when the crowd tires.”

Jeremy’s fingers tightened on his side as if holding himself together. “Listen to me,” he said, low and final. “You walk into rooms like that because you like watching people wobble. You think it’s theatre. If you keep playing the fool tonight, you’ll be the one bleeding—not because I’ll do it, but because the men who work for me won’t be as patient.”

For a fraction of a second something like calculation—maybe respect—flew across Landon’s face. Then, slow and almost languid, he rested two fingertips on Jeremy’s wrist. The touch was casual, intimate, meaningless and everything at once.

“You frighten me,” Landon said, voice low, the line half-confession, half-taunt. “You frighten me in a very good way.”

Jeremy swallowed a harder something he would not say out loud. He let go of the jacket and stepped back. “You’ll behave,” he said. The sentence was a verdict, not a request. “Or you’ll answer to me.”

Landon’s grin returned—small and insolent. “Big promises for a man who’s never been sentimental.”

Jeremy left without fanfare. The corridor swallowed his steps; the casino’s hum rose to fill the silence. He folded the encounter away like a file—labelled, dated, and marked: Landon King — monitor closely.

Landon slumped in the chair and watched the door with the insolent air of someone who’d stolen a scene and expected no penalty. For Jeremy the aftertaste wasn’t pleasure. It was an invoice: a ledger entry waiting to be cashed.

He didn’t yet know whether the cost would be laughter, bruises, loyalty—or something worse. But the ledger would be balanced. That, at least, he could guarantee.

The night air outside bit colder than he expected. The black Mercedes idled at the curb, headlights throwing long white arms across the pavement. Killian leaned one arm out the window, cigarette tip glowing orange.

“How was the meeting?” he asked when Jeremy slid into the passenger seat. He didn’t miss the set of Jeremy’s jaw, the tight coil in his shoulders.

Jeremy stared through the windshield for a long beat. “The Brigadir’s fine. The business is fine.” His voice carried no weight of triumph. Only restraint.

Killian smirked, tapping ash out into the night. “And Landon?”

Jeremy’s mouth pulled taut, a slow drag of fury barely leashed. “He’ll learn, or I’ll make sure he does”

Killian barked a laugh, sharp and unbothered. He ground the cigarette out and flicked it. “Good luck taming that wild dog.”

Chapter Text

Landon

Landon tipped his head back against the sofa, grin stretched sharp across his face, pulse thrumming like someone had wired him straight into the city’s neon. Thin White lines of powder lay on the glass table in front of him. Coke made everything louder, brighter, cleaner. It was like turning life from black-and-white to technicolour, and of course he wore it better than anyone else.

People were so dramatic about cocaine. Addiction, rock bottom, family heirlooms pawned for another line—please. He’d done a bump before brunch with his aunt last year and still delivered the toast without missing a beat. If anyone noticed, they’d probably just thought he was especially charming. Which, obviously, he was.

Addiction wasn’t his brand anyway. That implied weakness. Need. He didn’t need anything. Never had. Except himself, maybe—he’d always been his own best investment. Coke didn’t own him; it just turned up the volume on what was already there. Amplification, not dependency. He didn’t usually do coke. Not really.
Only when life got intolerably quiet — or intolerably loud.
When the walls felt too white, or when his mind wouldn’t stop humming.
He wasn’t sure which one it was tonight.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the neat little lines on the glass table. They looked like they were waiting for him, like scripture laid out in ritual. His reflection in the dark TV screen winked back, pupils blown, hair sticking up like he’d fought a storm and won.

The glass table gleamed under the light, little lines catching like runway lights. He dragged a knuckle across his bottom lip, still grinning. If life was about appetite, then he’d already won. He didn’t starve, he consumed. Parties, bodies, money, coke—it was all set dressing.

Sex was his favourite, though. Not need, never need. Proof instead. Proof he could unravel anyone with a look. Proof they’d crawl for him. Coke just made the game louder.

And yet—last night kept replaying in his head. Jeremy at the club, jaw locked, fists tight, fury rolling off him in waves. Not the sloppy kind of anger Landon had grown up with. Not fists through walls or drunken shouts. This was precision. Violence distilled into something quiet, sharp, and terrifyingly controlled.

It was beautiful.

And fuck if it didn’t turn him on.

He dragged his fingers across his mouth, grinning. Imagine that—Jeremy, the golden boy, “straighter-than-straight Jer” he’s heard Nikolai (his brothers dog) call him, pinning him to the nearest surface, eyes burning with that same fury, tearing into him like he’d been waiting for an excuse. No softness, no tenderness, just that coiled rage snapping free in the most delicious way.

Landon’s pulse spiked at the thought. He would let him. He would let Jeremy take every ounce of that control he clung to so tightly, and he would laugh while doing it—because it would still mean Jeremy had cracked, had come undone, had fallen into Landon’s orbit like everyone else.

He tilted his head back against the couch, laughing under his breath. God, if Jeremy only knew how fucking good he looked when he wanted to kill someone.

The line disappeared in a quick, practiced motion.
Sharp inhale, head tilt, the sting in his sinuses blooming into a kind of false clarity.
He wiped the evidence from his nose with the back of his hand, almost elegant in the way he leaned back afterward — sprawled, undone, glittering with all the wrong kinds of light.

He sat up, restless, fingers tapping against the table like they were keeping time to a song only he could hear. The apartment was too quiet. His head too loud. He needed something—anything—to fill the silence before it turned on him.

The city outside looked like it was grinning, all teeth and light and movement. Everyone was doing something stupid and beautiful. Everyone thought they mattered.

His phone buzzed. He blinked at it, grinning when the name flashed across the screen.
Jeremy Volkov.

Of course.

Because why wouldn’t he call now—when Landon was feeling like God’s favourite experiment, heart pacing in sync with the city’s pulse?

He hit accept, sprawled further back into the couch.
“Jeremy,” he said, dragging the name like smoke. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to yell at me again? Because you’ll have to get in line.”

“Don’t start,” Jeremy’s voice was clipped, businesslike. “I’m sending over the paperwork for review. Call me when you’re sober enough to read it.”

“Oh, come on,” Landon drawled, eyes tracing the ceiling lights as they pulsed. “You wound me. I’m perfectly coherent. Even inspired, actually. Might start a revolution. Or a podcast.”

There was a pause—just long enough for Landon to imagine Jeremy pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Are you drunk?” Jeremy asked.

Landon grinned. “Drunk on life, maybe. Drunk on you, certainly not. I’m trying to cut back.”

Jeremy sighed, and Landon could hear the irritation behind the breath, the subtle shift of tone that meant he was calculating something.
“Where are you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Landon said lightly, though something in him thrilled at the question. “Why? Planning to shove me through another door?”

Jeremy went quiet. Then: “Stay where you are.”

The line clicked dead.

Landon laughed, head tipping back against the couch. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said to no one. “You really shouldn’t say things like that if you don’t mean them, Jeremy.”

He was still laughing when the door clicked ten minutes later.
Not a knock, not the jarring slam of someone breaking in—just the soft, practiced sound of a code being punched in.
Of course he knew the code.

Landon turned his head lazily, grin pulling wider when Jeremy stepped in. “You know, that’s technically trespassing.” His voice came out too bright, the edges of his words sharper than he meant.

Jeremy’s eyes swept the room—the glass on the floor, the thin lines across the table—and finally landed on him.
That stare could’ve stripped paint.

If Landon wasn’t so wired, maybe he would’ve shut up. But the coke had turned every nerve into a spark.
He tilted his head, watching Jeremy watching him. “You don’t look happy to see me,” he said lightly. “Though to be fair, you rarely do.”

Jeremy didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. Then, evenly:
“What the hell are you doing, Landon.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because Jeremy wasn’t yelling. He sounded… disappointed. Almost tired.

Landon smiled, teeth flashing. “Wow. Straight to the interrogation? Not even a hello?”

Jeremy’s gaze flicked to the table again. “I didn’t think I needed to say hello to whatever this version of you is.”

That made Landon laugh, too sharp, too quick. “Oh, please. Spare me the moral outrage. It’s not like I’m out murdering puppies. It’s just a little chemical fun. You should try it sometime—you might finally loosen up.”

Jeremy stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “You think that’s ‘fun’?”

“No,” Landon said, though his tone betrayed him. “I think it’s tragic. That I’m surrounded by people who pretend they’re fine when they’re rotting inside. At least I’m honest about mine.”

Something flickered in Jeremy’s face—something unreadable and dangerously human—but it was gone in a second.

Landon laughed again, the sound slicing the quiet too sharply. “You really don’t like messes, do you?” He lounged back against the sofa, all loose limbs and false ease. “It’s funny though—someone like you pretending you can keep everything tidy. You live in a world built on dirt, Jeremy.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. He just stood there, coat still on, expression unreadable.

Landon tilted his head, grinning up at him. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I’m the problem, but I’m just honest about what I am. You’re the one pretending there’s a moral difference between your poison and mine.”

“Enough,” Jeremy said, quiet but cutting.

Landon smirked. “That’s what you said last time, too.”

For a moment, Jeremy said nothing. He just stared—at the glass on the table, at the fine white dust that caught the lamplight like snow. His jaw flexed, his throat moved like the words hurt coming out.
When he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“You’re not even chasing pleasure anymore, are you?” His tone was low, even, surgical. “You just can’t stand being left alone with yourself.”

The silence that followed pressed in on the room. Even Landon’s breathing changed.

“Don’t psychoanalyse me,” he said finally, voice sharp. “That’s not your job.”

“I don’t have to,” Jeremy said. “You do it every time you open your mouth.”

Landon looked away first, toward the half-finished wine glass on the table. He reached for it, but Jeremy got there first—quick, efficient, taking it without a word. He disappeared for a moment into the kitchen, the soft sound of running water breaking the silence, and came back with a glass of water.

He placed it on the table in front of Landon like it was a quiet order.

He stared at the glass. “What is this? An intervention? Please tell me you didn’t rehearse this in the mirror.”

Jeremy didn’t bite. He just looked at him—steady, tired, disappointed in a way that wasn’t performative. And that made it worse.
Jeremy’s voice was low. “You don’t even see yourself right now.”

“Oh, come off it,” Landon snapped. “Don’t pretend you care. You tolerate me on a good day and avoid me on the bad ones. So why the sudden performance?”

Jeremy said nothing. Just looked at him—long, level, too calm. The kind of calm that made Landon’s skin crawl.

He couldn’t hold the stare. The high was faltering, edges going dull. He looked away first.

“Whatever,” he muttered, reaching for the water just to do something with his hands. “No one’s watching you, Jeremy. You don’t have to act like you’re the hero here.”

“Then stop making yourself the problem,” Jeremy said, quiet. Not angry. Just… tired.

Landon let out a short, humourless laugh. “What, you’d rather I sit here and smile? Pretend I’m grateful you showed up?”

“I’d rather you stop trying to ruin yourself for attention,” Jeremy said. Still calm. Too calm.

That made Landon look at him properly. “That what you think this is?” he asked, voice sharp, mouth curling like he found it funny. “You think I’m doing this for you?”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked down to the table — the powder, the glass. “No,” he said. “I think you’re doing it because you’ve got nothing better left.”

Landon’s grin froze. He blinked, once. “Wow,” he said, light again. “Didn’t know you moonlighted as a therapist.”

“I don’t,” Jeremy said. “Therapists get paid.”

That earned a real laugh — sharp, unkind. “Right. And you just do this out of charity, yeah? Don’t pretend you care.”

Jeremy didn’t look away. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Landon said. But it came out thinner than he meant.

For a second, neither of them spoke. Jeremy’s stare didn’t waver, and Landon’s pulse wouldn’t slow. It was that look again — too direct, too steady, like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

He looked away first, tugging at the edge of his robe like it might anchor him to the floor. “You should go,” he said, voice flat but eyes flicking up to catch Jeremy’s.

Jeremy didn’t move immediately. He lingered, posture perfect, arms at his sides, expression unreadable. Landon felt it — the weight of him, the quiet precision behind the calm. For a fraction of a second, it was like Jeremy could dissect him just by standing there.

“Sober up,” Jeremy said finally, voice low, deliberate, almost sharp. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He didn’t rush away. He paused at the door, one hand on the handle, glancing back at Landon as if testing him, measuring how far the chaos had spread. Then, without another word, he left. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving Landon alone with the hum of the city, the sharp scent of powder, and a pulse that refused to slow.

Landon slumped back into the sofa, eyes tracing the skyline. He could still feel Jeremy’s presence in the room, lingering in the edges of his high, and part of him hated how much that unsettled him.

Chapter Text

Landon

Landon woke to sunlight carving through the blinds — clean, deliberate, rude. His head was pounding, his throat dry, and his mind full of static. The kind that hummed behind your eyes and refused to fade.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the room to stop tilting. It didn’t. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, then dragged a hand over his face. The memory of last night came back in fractured pieces: Jeremy’s voice — level, infuriatingly calm — the look he’d given him before leaving, that quiet disgust that wasn’t disgust at all.

He groaned. “Christ.”

The coke was long gone, but the embarrassment wasn’t. It clung to him like cigarette smoke.

He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and reached for his phone. Three missed calls. All from Eli.

Of course.

Landon ignored it, stood, and wandered barefoot into the kitchen. The tiles were cold, the air too bright. He poured a glass of water, leaned against the counter, and looked out at the skyline. London in the morning — all glass and noise and too many people pretending to be important.

The phone buzzed again. Eli. Persistent bastard.

He answered with a sigh. “To what do I owe the privilege?”

“You sound like death,” Eli said. His voice was smooth, a little clipped — the kind of tone that had boardrooms leaning forward. “Where are you?”

“Home. Why?”

“Because you’re coming to see me.”

Landon frowned. “You know, you could try saying please sometime.”

“I could,” Eli said. “But then you’d think I was asking, not telling. Noon. Don’t be late.”

The line cut off.

Landon stared at the phone for a moment, then muttered, “So dramatic,” and drained the rest of the water.

Hot water, steam, silence. He stood under it longer than necessary, watching the water bead off his skin. Showers were the only time his head wasn’t too loud. Everything else about the day would be performance — but this, at least, was just existing.

By the time he got dressed, he looked almost human again. Almost.

He padded back into his bedroom, the floor cool under his feet, and stopped in front of the open wardrobe. The hangers gleamed in the sunlight, rows of carefully chosen chaos — linen shirts, silk in muted tones, soft sweaters, leather jackets. Landon didn’t wear suits; he wore statements.

He pulled out a black turtleneck, soft cotton, fitted perfectly. Then loose charcoal trousers, the kind that hung just right on his hips. A gold chain, his favourite watch, and few clean rings. Casual, but curated. Like he’d thought about it for an hour but would rather die than admit it.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head slightly. The man staring back looked composed again — sharp cheekbones, no trace of last night’s wreckage, just a cool sort of detachment.

Better.

He slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses, ran a hand through his hair until it fell into place — messy but deliberate — and stepped out.

The King Enterprises building loomed like something built to intimidate. Glass, metal, money — all of it sterile and deliberate. The receptionist smiled too politely. The elevator smelled faintly of disinfectant and power.

When he reached Eli’s floor, the air felt heavier. Eli had that effect — everything around him became sharper, tidier, more serious.

Landon didn’t bother knocking. “You texted,” he said as he walked in, like he was doing Eli the favour.

Eli was at his desk, jacket off, sleeves neat, the picture of control. He glanced up from his laptop, eyes narrowing faintly. “You’re on time.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Last time you were an hour late.”

“Traffic,” Landon said.

“You live five minutes away.”

Landon grinned. “London traffic is unpredictable.”

Eli’s lips twitched — not quite a smile. “Sit down.”

Landon dropped into the chair opposite him and propped an ankle over his knee, scanning the office like it might reveal an escape route. “So what’s this about? You finally here to congratulate me on my stellar life choices?”

Eli ignored that. “You’ve been keeping busy,” he said, leaning back. “People are talking.”

“People always talk.”

“This time they’re using your name in the same sentence as Volkov.”

That caught Landon’s attention, just slightly. His jaw flexed, but his tone stayed easy. “That illegal?”

“Not yet. Should it be?”

Landon tilted his head, lips curving. “Depends who’s asking.”

Eli sighed, long and slow, like he’d already run out of patience. “This isn’t university anymore, Landon. You can’t keep playing with fire and pretending it’s art.”

“When have I ever caused trouble?”

There was a beat of silence. Then both of them looked at him — Eli unimpressed, Landon faintly amused by his own absurdity.

“…Right,” Landon said, smirking. “Forget I asked.”

Before Eli could respond, the door swung open without a knock.

Ava Nash-King breezed into the office like she owned the place, arms full of pink bags and an oversized iced latte swinging from one hand. The air changed the moment she entered — expensive perfume, louder than necessary, unapologetically hers.

“Lunch,” she announced, setting the bags down in front of Eli like she’d done it a thousand times.

Eli stared at them, then at her. “You’ve never brought me lunch before.”

Ava blinked, all innocent lashes and glossy lips. “What, I can’t be nice to my husband?”

Landon didn’t even bother hiding his smirk. He’d texted her thirty minutes ago.

Landon: 11:42 a.m
If you love me (and I know you do), come save me from your husband’s PowerPoint on life choices. Bring food. Pretend it was your idea.

Ava: 11:43 a.m.
I hate both of you. What do you want from Pret?

Landon: 11:44 a.m.
Something photogenic. You’re a Barbie, make it look natural.

Now she was here, being photogenic and natural — exactly as instructed. Eli leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “So, what is this, some kind of intervention? You two planning a coup?”

Ava unwrapped her sandwich, ignoring him entirely. “Please. I can barely plan my own day. You think I’m helping him overthrow your little empire?”

Landon laughed, easing into his chair. “Relax, Eli. She’s just here to supervise. I’m fragile.”

Ava shot him a look. “You’re not fragile, you’re dramatic.”

He raised his glass. “Synonyms.”

Eli sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You two make me tired.”

He turned his attention back to Landon. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Jeremy Volkov lately.”

And there it was.

Landon leaned back, expression unreadable. “Business.”

“Business,” Eli repeated, flat. “You? Since when do you do anything for business that doesn’t involve ruining your way through it?”

Ava snorted softly into her drink. “He’s not wrong.”

Landon didn’t rise to it. “Not everything’s a scandal, Eli.”

“Then make me believe it,” Eli said. “Because I don’t buy that you and Jeremy Volkov—of all people—just happened to start working together.”

There was no venom in his tone, just that measured suspicion — the kind that came from someone who’d seen too many of Landon’s stories unravel before.

Landon smiled faintly. “You really think I’m that predictable?”

“I think you’re allergic to quiet,” Eli said.

That one stung, not that Landon would show it. “Maybe,” he said, easy. “But chaos suits me better.”

Ava spoke up then, mouth full. “You’re both insufferable. One of you’s allergic to quiet, the other’s addicted to control. No wonder you’re related.”

Eli gave her a long look. “Remind me why I married you.”

She smiled, sugar-sweet. “Tax benefits.”
This isn’t uni, Landon,” he said, voice low but firm. “No late essays, no angry professors, no Daddy’s lawyer on speed dial. What you do now actually has consequences. This is the real world.”

Landon arched an eyebrow, but his grin stayed fixed. “Thank you for the concern, cousin. Duly noted.”

“I’m not joking.” Eli’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not just messing with yourself anymore. There are people watching, and people who don’t forget things.”

Ava was scrolling through her phone, but her eyes flicked up at that, taking in the tension with the same lazy interest she gave to runway shows. “He’s not a child, Eli.”

Eli didn’t look at her. “Then he can start acting like it.”

Landon laughed softly, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If I’m ever in desperate need of your lecturing someone’s ear off, I promise you’ll be the first number I call.”

Eli’s jaw flexed. “You think I like having this conversation?”

“I think you love it,” Landon said. “Makes you feel like the grown-up in the room.”

That earned the faintest flicker of a smile from Eli, but it was gone before it settled. “Someone has to be.”

Ava slid her phone aside and picked up a chip. “God, you two are exhausting,” she said brightly. “Can’t we eat lunch without pretending it’s an after-school special?”

Landon smirked, reaching over to steal one of her chips. “Exactly. Listen to Barbie.”

“Barbie,” Ava said sweetly, “has a knife in her bag and isn’t afraid to use it.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “You married me.”

“Tragically,” she said, sipping her drink.

Landon leaned back, letting the moment ease just a little. “Relax, Eli. I know what I’m doing.”

Eli’s eyes stayed on him a beat longer than comfortable. “You always think you do.”

Landon’s grin didn’t falter, but something flickered under it. “And yet here I am,” he said lightly. “Still standing. Still charming. Still your favourite cousin.”

Ava’s laugh cut the tension just enough. “Debatable.”

Eli leaned back finally, the tension in his shoulders easing — but only slightly. He wiped his hands with a napkin, eyes still fixed on Landon like he was reading a report and not a person.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Have it your way. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Landon smiled lazily, reaching for his drink. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“I’m serious,” Eli said, his tone measured now, quiet but cutting. “You want to play your games, do it far away from my name. Or my company’s.”

Ava whistled under her breath, cutting in before Landon could respond. “You two need therapy,” she said, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Couples’ therapy, preferably. I can book it for next week.”

“Come“ she said, standing and slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I need fresh air. You two can glare at each other later.”

Landon grinned, pushing off his chair. “See, this is why I keep her around. She saves me from emotional damage.”

“Someone has to,” Ava said sweetly, looping her arm through his as they walked toward the door.

Eli’s voice followed them out — calm, but with that unmistakable weight of warning behind it. “Landon.”

He paused, half-turning.

“Just don’t make me regret trusting you.”

For once, Landon didn’t smile right away. He met Eli’s gaze, all that sharp amusement dimmed to something almost unreadable. Then, softly:
“You’d have to trust me first.”

Eli didn’t reply.

The door shut behind them, and Ava exhaled dramatically. “God, he’s intense. Does he ever smile without looking like he’s planning a merger?”

Landon laughed, the sound easier now that they were outside. “No, darling. It’s genetic. You marry into the King family, you marry the spreadsheets.”

Ava smirked. “And the drama. Don’t forget that part.”

“Never,” he said. “Now — where are we going before he decides to call me again?”

Outside, the afternoon light was brutal — the kind that made everything look a little too clean. Ava slipped on her sunglasses, glossy and oversized, like armour.

Landon lit a cigarette. He didn’t even smoke that often; he just liked the aesthetic of it. “You really saved me in there,” he said, flicking ash into the wind.

She grinned. “Of course I did. You looked like you were about to get disowned for the fourth time.”

“Fifth,” he corrected. “But who’s counting.”

“Me,” she said. “It’s impressive, really. You and Eli should start a podcast — ‘Moral Disappointment Weekly.’”

Landon laughed, low and genuine. “Oh, please. If we did a podcast, you’d hijack it by episode two and start talking about your skincare routine.”

“Exactly,” she said. “People would actually listen then.”

They walked down the pavement together, matching pace without meaning to. Ava’s perfume left a trail of something floral and expensive in the air; Landon’s cologne, darker, sharper, cut right through it.

After a while, she said, quieter, “You know he worries, right? Eli. He doesn’t say it, but he does.”

Landon blew smoke through his teeth. “He worries about control, not people. There’s a difference.”

She glanced at him from under her sunglasses. “And what about you?”

He smiled, sharp and perfect. “I don’t worry. I improvise.”

Ava laughed, but there was a flicker of something in her face — something like pity, or maybe understanding. “You’re ridiculous,” she said finally. “And I adore you for it.”

He looped his arm through hers, pulling her in just slightly. “That’s why you’re my favourite, Barbie. You never ask for receipts.”

“Please,” she said, flipping her hair. “If I did, you’d forge them.”

He grinned. “You know me too well.”

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. The city moved around them in polished chaos — taxis honking, strangers shouting, someone playing a saxophone terribly across the street.

Ava looked at him then, expression unreadable behind the tinted lenses. “You look tired,” she said.

“I’m always tired,” Landon said. “It’s my charm.”

“Not that kind of tired,” she said softly.

Landon didn’t answer. He just smiled again, the same easy grin that covered every crack. “Lunch was good,” he said. “Next time, let’s do it without the King inquisition.”

“Deal,” Ava said, but she didn’t look convinced.

The light turned red and they parted ways without a goodbye.

-

Landon pushed open the studio door, the hinges protesting softly. The afternoon sunlight poured in, falling across half-finished sculptures like spotlight on a stage. Clay dust hung in the air, faint but persistent, and every surface—tools, plinths, discarded sketches—carried the faint scent of creation. He inhaled it deeply. This was his world, messy, chaotic, and entirely his.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands like he was coaxing ideas out of them, then leaned back and took in the room. Music pulsed faintly from the speaker—something classical, something jazzy—whatever he felt would keep him sharp. The sculptures stared back at him: twisted limbs, exaggerated textures, forms no ordinary eye could follow. Every line screamed purpose, obsession, brilliance.

Landon crouched by the nearest piece, fingers brushing clay as if testing its pulse. “Not enough,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes darted over a curve, then a shadow, then back to the angles. Every flaw was an insult, every imperfection a challenge.

And then his mind wandered, like it always did when he touched the raw, wet medium. Childhood came flooding back.

The little boy he used to be, hunched over a tiny clay pot, hands sticky, hair tousled, cheeks smudged with dust. Sculpting was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that drowned out the noise of a world he didn’t trust, people he didn’t understand. Applause and awards followed him even then, strangers marveling at “genius” in a child. But he never saw it as genius. To him, it was baseline—he was just keeping pace with himself. The others were irrelevant, distractions.

He remembered Brandon; his twin brother, hidden behind his “boring” landscapes. Landon had tried to push him, nudge him toward his real potential. Brandon had scowled every time, turning his brush toward some dull, expected scene. Landon had shrugged, inwardly. He couldn’t save everyone. He couldn’t fix mediocrity—he could only surpass it.

Glyndon, their sister, had it too. They all did, courtesy of their mother, a famous painter who pushed them toward the light and into the competitions that shaped them. Memories of her hands guiding him, the thrill of being noticed, the sting of expectations—all tangled in his chest.

Even as a child, Landon had never understood people. They were messy, unpredictable, loud in ways that didn’t make sense, full of emotions that made his skin crawl. But clay… clay listened. Clay bent when he bent it. Folded when he folded it. It didn’t lie. It didn’t hide. It obeyed. It could be measured, understood, and manipulated—all on his terms.

He remembered one night clearly, the memory still sharp like broken glass. He had presented a dead, skinned animal to his parents, fascinated by the shapes, the textures, the raw reality of it. He hadn’t thought to ask permission—he had simply done it. But the look on his father’s face when he saw it… that’s what he remembered most.
Later in the night, he heard his father whisper-argue to his mother, not knowing Landon was close enough to hear:

“He’s a monster.”

The words had carved themselves into his chest. Not because he feared being a monster, but because he had glimpsed the fear he could inspire. That fear—why it existed, why people recoiled—was beyond his comprehension as a child.

It was his uncle who had helped him navigate it. Not with guilt, not with shame, but with clarity. “You’re normal,” his uncle had said, matter-of-fact. “You just see things differently. That’s a gift, not a crime.”

And in sculpting, Landon had found a language he could master. Shapes and forms became his playground, his puzzle, his proof that the world could be bent to his will without judgment or fear. Over time, he realized the same with people. His “weakness”—the inability to feel as they did, the detachment from their chaos—was the tool he now wielded with precision.

It had never been shameful. Why should it be? The world needed manipulators, players, the ones who could see the strings and pull them without being tangled. That gift, the one that had terrified his parents, became his greatest asset. And it still was.

He ran his fingers across the cold clay on the table, smiling to himself. People were complicated. Clay obeyed. He knew which was more useful. The clay resisted him in some spots, refused to bend, and he smiled at it like it was a challenger. Not everything submitted easily. That was the thrill. That was the game. He pressed harder, molding, reshaping, feeling the contours respond under his fingers. Sweat prickled at his temples, his pulse quickened, and he laughed under his breath, high and manic and wholly alive.

For a moment, he imagined someone walking in—anyone—but especially Jeremy—and seeing him like this. Wild, untamed, focused entirely on the art of domination over inert matter. He might have looked insane. But here, in the chaos, he was perfectly lucid. He was a genius in his element, a master of form and obsession, and the city beyond the windows could burn for all he cared.

And yet… the thought of Jeremy lingered, like a shadow at the corner of his eye. The thought of Jeremy lingered in the back of his skull, unbidden but impossible to ignore. It coiled in his gut like heat, sharp and stubborn, making him shift on the bench. Strange. Sure, Jeremy was hot—no doubt about it—but it wasn’t just looks. His eyes. Fucking hell, his eyes. They didn’t just look at you; they dissected you, stripped away the mask without asking, and left something raw behind.

It pissed Landon off. And, somehow, made him ache in places he hadn’t thought about in days. The kind of ache that made his hands twitch, made his pulse skip in rhythm with the city lights outside. Huh. Must be the dry spell. No one else had gotten under his skin like this in… well, a while. Maybe that was it.

He dipped his wet clay hands into a bowl of water clay and the cold stung, shocking him back a little from the heat radiating off his body. Most of it washed away, but he rubbed the residue into his apron, letting the motion linger. His hand wandered down his trousers almost by instinct, almost by thoughtless rebellion, and he sighed low, wrapping around himself and closing his eyes.

Jeremy’s voice drifted in his mind. “You’ll behave.”

Fuck.

The heat coiled tighter, and Landon let himself lean into it, imagining the weight of Jeremy’s gaze on him, the precise, contained fury that somehow made him want to unravel. His pulse thudded faster, high and sharp, clay forgotten, the city’s hum outside reduced to a muffled backdrop.

His hand stroked faster, squeezing himself almost painfully, his breath catching up to the coil of heat in his gut. Every word Jeremy had said earlier echoed in his mind. He could still hear the edge, the calm authority that made Landon want to fight and melt at the same time. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking this. Maybe he should just get back to the sculpture. But every nerve ending was alive, every thought tangled with Jeremy’s presence like it was right there in the room with him.

God. He hated that it felt so good.

His hand moved faster, faster than he expected, pulse spiking, breath hitching with a chaotic rhythm that had him almost staggering. Every muscle tensed, every nerve sharp, and then—fuck—he reached the peak, a shuddering rush that left him gasping, trembling, every ounce of himself spent.

He wiped his hands on the rag lying nearby, the smell of wet clay mingling with sweat, and leaned back against the cool edge of the table, trying to catch his breath.

Jeremy Volkov. Huh.

The name echoed in his head, like a riddle he couldn’t solve. Why the fuck him? Why Jeremy, of all people—calm, precise, infuriating, untouchable Jeremy?
He had never—not in his wildest, most careless moments—imagined being this worked up over someone like Jeremy.

And yet… fuck it. Heart wants what it wants. Or maybe body, Landon amended with a smirk to himself.

Jeremy Volkov,” he muttered again, letting the name linger like a warning and a challenge all at once. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the scattered clay, the remnants of his chaos, the remnants of himself. Nothing about this was supposed to matter. Nothing. And yet… it did.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

Jeremy hadn’t seen Landon in three days.
Three days wasn’t long, not by most standards, but somehow it felt like time had been stretched thin over something sharp. They’d exchanged a few messages — curt, contained, mostly business. “Invoice handled.” “Shipment cleared.” “Send over the file.” Efficient, and oddly polite. It was going well.
Too well.

If he was being rational (and he always was), this should have been ideal. Landon, focused. Landon, cooperative. No games, no sideways comments, no reckless smirks that made Jeremy forget which part of the conversation they were in. It was, technically, what he’d asked for.

Still, something about the silence made him uneasy.
Not the absence itself — he’d dealt with silence before, the kind that came after gunfire or in boardrooms when men realised they were seconds from ruin — but this kind. The deliberate kind. The kind that made you feel like someone was pulling away not because they had to, but because they’d chosen to.

Landon wasn’t supposed to choose distance. He was supposed to claw attention out of the air, ruin peace just because he could.
Jeremy told himself that maybe the quiet meant he was finally learning.
Then again, maybe it meant he was planning something.

Either way, business was steady. The operation was running smooth; the Brigadir had approved the art-laundering trial run, and Jeremy had received a message from Killian saying the first batch had gone through customs clean. On paper, everything was fine.

But Jeremy knew better than to trust fine.
Fine was the word people used before something caught fire.

He was halfway through reviewing shipment logs when his phone buzzed.
Nikolai’s name flashed across the screen. Jeremy considered ignoring it — he wasn’t in the mood for the man’s brand of loud charm — but picked up anyway.

“Jeremy, my friend,” Nikolai said, voice bright with too much confidence. “Good news — your little laundering idea? It’s working. I told the Brigadir you’d be useful.”
Jeremy didn’t respond to the compliment. “I’m aware. I received the report.”
“Of course you did,” Nikolai said with a laugh. “You always know everything.” There was a pause — small, calculated. “By the way, your favourite headache’s gone quiet.”

Jeremy frowned. “What?”
“Landon. Brandon’s been trying to reach him for two days. Says he’s in one of his ‘creative moods’ again — locked himself in that pretentious studio of his. No sleep, no food, not even a drink with us last night.”

Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “You’re saying this because?”
“Because when artists go quiet, they either produce genius or set something on fire.” Nikolai chuckled. “Thought you might want to know which it is before we all start smelling smoke.”

Jeremy ended the call a few minutes later, but the words lingered.
He wasn’t worried. He didn’t worry.
He just disliked inefficiency.
And Landon disappearing when they had deals in motion — that was inefficient.

So, he told himself, this wasn’t concern.
It was maintenance.
A small, necessary check.

He grabbed his keys.

Jeremy didn’t have to knock. The code still worked — not because Landon had ever given it to him, but because Jeremy had ways of knowing things that mattered. He told himself this was just a maintenance check. Routine. Nothing more.

The door opened to a rush of cool air tinged with marble dust and turpentine. The light poured in from high windows, soft and colourless, catching on the suspended haze of powder that hung in the air.

Landon’s studio looked like a mind left ajar — every surface claimed by sketches, pieces of broken sculpture, tools scattered in arrangements that looked careless but probably weren’t. Somewhere between chaos and curation.

And in the middle of it all, Landon.

He wasn’t wearing shoes. Bare feet on the concrete floor, jeans streaked with white, a thin white vest clinging to him from the heat of work. His hair was a mess, the kind of deliberate disarray that couldn’t be faked, and the sharpness of concentration in his face almost made Jeremy stop moving.

There was music playing low — something instrumental, mournful, foreign. The kind that made time slow down and thoughts spread too far apart.

Landon didn’t turn right away. He was bent over a slab of marble, hands dusted grey, chisel tapping in patient rhythm. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t startle. He didn’t even look surprised.

“Jeremy,” he said simply, as if he’d been expecting him. “Didn’t realise you made house calls.”

Jeremy stepped further in, careful not to step on the shards of stone littering the floor. “I don’t,” he said, glancing around. “Consider this an exception.”

“Exception for what?” Landon asked, leaning back against the table. “Inspection? Intervention?”

“Maintenance,” Jeremy said, tone even. “You dropped off the grid for three days.”

“That’s not dropping off the grid,” Landon said lightly. “That’s called working.”

Jeremy’s eyes moved over the studio again — the unfinished pieces, the rough drafts, the empty glasses stacked on a counter. “Looks like you’ve been working through something.”

Landon smirked faintly. “Everything worth making requires a bit of madness. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I might,” Jeremy said. His gaze lingered on the sculpture nearest to him — a figure emerging from marble, not yet whole, the face half-formed. “You just prefer to make yours visible.”

Landon tilted his head, studying him in that way he always did — like he was waiting for Jeremy to crack first. “And you prefer to pretend yours doesn’t exist.”

Jeremy didn’t rise to it. He crossed the room instead, stopping by the table where a dozen sketches lay scattered — bodies, hands, hollow eyes, things half-erased and redrawn. “You haven’t slept,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Do I look that bad?” Landon asked, smiling faintly.

Jeremy glanced at him. “You look… busy.”

That earned a soft laugh. “Busy’s one word for it.”

He turned back to his sculpture, tapping lightly at the marble again, small, delicate strokes. The air filled with the sound — slow, careful, repetitive. The only real movement in the room.

Jeremy watched longer than he meant to. There was something strangely peaceful about the sight — Landon focused, quiet, dust clinging to his skin. No words, no posturing. Just movement and breath.

He cleared his throat. “You could’ve answered your phone.”

“You could’ve texted” Landon said without looking up.

Jeremy’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “I’m not chasing you.”

“Then what’s this?” Landon asked, glancing up, eyes bright with amusement. “A social visit?”

“Maintenance,” Jeremy repeated.

“Right,” Landon said softly, going back to his work. “Well. Everything’s functioning as intended, boss.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. He only leaned against the table beside him, folding his arms, letting the silence stretch. There was a kind of comfort in it — the quiet hum of effort, the scrape of metal on stone, the faint music still playing somewhere behind them.

Landon worked. Jeremy watched. Neither of them said what they actually wanted to say.

Jeremy stayed where he was, leaning against the worktable, eyes sweeping the room again — and landing this time on the corner counter.
Empty coffee cups. Two unopened water bottles. A plate with nothing but crumbs.

He frowned slightly.
“When was the last time you ate?”

Landon didn’t look up from the marble. “Breakfast,” he said easily.

Jeremy checked his watch. “It’s seven in the evening.”

“Then I had a very late breakfast,” Landon said, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Don’t lie,” Jeremy said — not sharp, just quiet, in that way that made the words heavier.

Landon’s chisel paused mid-tap. “You keeping track of my meals now?”

“I’m keeping track of anything that might affect business,” Jeremy replied. “If you collapse in the middle of your little artistic frenzy, that becomes my problem.”

Landon turned then, setting the chisel down and facing him fully, the dust on his hands catching light like powdered glass. “You really think I’m that fragile?”

“I think you forget you have a body until it stops cooperating,” Jeremy said. “And I don’t have the patience to deal with you fainting into a block of marble.”

The look Landon gave him was half amusement, half something unreadable. “That’s rich, coming from you. The man who thinks sleep is optional.”

“I function,” Jeremy said.

“So do I,” Landon countered.

Jeremy’s eyes held his. “Barely.”

That stung, though Landon hid it well — too well, maybe, because Jeremy’s gaze lingered on him, assessing.

Landon picked up a rag, wiping his hands, his voice dropping to something almost light again. “You always were good at pretending concern was efficiency.”

“And you’re good at pretending self-destruction is art,” Jeremy said evenly.

Landon’s laugh was short, breathy. “Then we’re quite similar, aren’t we?”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed — not anger, exactly. Something else. Something close to exasperation, to knowing exactly how pointless it was to argue with him and doing it anyway. He moved past him, to the counter, and grabbed one of the water bottles. Twisted the cap off, and set it down beside the sculpture.

Landon eyed it. “What’s that supposed to do?”

“Hydrate you,” Jeremy said. “A revolutionary concept, I know.”

Landon scoffed softly, but the corner of his mouth curved despite himself. “You’re not my caretaker, Jeremy.” Then his grin grew wide, like he just realised something. It felt wrong. It looked wrong. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not,” he said. “But you’re not invincible either.”

The air went still after that — heavy but not suffocating. Landon didn’t reach for the bottle. Jeremy didn’t push it closer. It just sat there between them, condensation sliding down its side, an unspoken dare neither of them acknowledged.

Suddenly, Landon pushed back from the stool too quickly, the legs screeching against the concrete. The motion caught up with him a second too late — the room tilted, and before he could blink, without thinking, Jeremy’s hand was on him.
Not his arm. His waist.

It was a firm grip, steady in that way Jeremy always was — infuriatingly controlled, precise. He could’ve caught his elbow, could’ve let him stumble and learn from it, but no. His hand fit right where it shouldn’t.

Jeremy’s jaw tightened. Why the hell did I grab his waist?

Landon looked up at him, eyes glassy from exhaustion or focus or whatever cocktail of chaos he’d been running on. For a breath, neither of them moved. The hum of the studio blurred — the faint hiss of marble dust in the air, the rhythmic tick of the clock. Landon’s gaze flicked to Jeremy’s mouth, his lip quirked, lazy and deliberate.

Jeremy noticed. Straightened.
“Clearly you’re in perfect health,” he said dryly, stepping back like the touch had burned him.

Landon steadied himself, brushing Jeremy’s hand away with a sharp little tap — more performance than necessity. “Relax,” he said, flashing a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. “I don’t need a knight in pressed suits to catch me.”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed. He said nothing.

Landon tilted his head, eyes skimming Jeremy again, slower this time, deliberate, the way someone inspects art they’re not sure is genuine. His mouth curved, soft and mocking. “Though I have to admit—” he gestured lazily at Jeremy’s hand still hovering, “—you’ve got a surprisingly steady grip.”

The words weren’t flirtatious. Not outright. But the pause was. The look that lingered too long was.

Jeremy dropped his hand like it burned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” Landon said lightly, already turning back to his work as though the moment hadn’t mattered at all.

Jeremy didn’t know why it bothered him, the way Landon looked — or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to think about it too hard. The man had that kind of beauty that seemed accidental, like the universe had given up halfway through making him and decided perfection was close enough. Light brown hair, always too long, always falling into his eyes. Eyes that weren’t just blue — they were unnatural, the kind of blue that made you think of ice cracking over deep water. You could stare at them and never figure out what he was thinking.

It was irritating. Disarming.
Because when Landon looked at you, he didn’t even mean to be seductive — he just was. Every tilt of his mouth, every lazy shift of his weight carried a quiet arrogance, like the world existed for his amusement. It made Jeremy’s pulse jump in ways he refused to analyse.

So when Landon’s gaze flicked up now, slow and unhurried, eyes catching the light just right, Jeremy told himself it was nothing. Just a look. Just him.

Ignore it. He is performing. He is faking. He doesn’t have real emotions.

Jeremy’s steps carried him further into the studio. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just letting his eyes catalogue the chaos the way his mind always did — patterns, fragments, details that didn’t belong.

That’s when he noticed it.

A smaller form, pushed half into shadow near the back, draped in a white sheet too clean compared to the rest of the clutter. Deliberate. Hidden.

Jeremy reached for the corner before he could talk himself out of it. Just a touch, a shift of fabric, the whisper of marble breathing under linen.

What stared back was jagged. Broken.
A figure half-carved, recognisable in the worst possible way. Shoulders he knew. The tilt of a jawline that felt too familiar. But the face was fractured, caved in, chunks hacked away as though with a sledgehammer. The ribcage was gouged open, brutal marks where artistry should’ve been. It wasn’t unfinished. It was violated.

“Don’t.”

The word cracked across the air, sharp enough to freeze him. Jeremy turned — and Landon was already there, eyes alight with something sharp and ugly.

Jeremy turned. Landon was watching, eyes lit with a fury that didn’t bother hiding behind charm.

“Put it the fuck down.”

Jeremy let the fabric fall, slow.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t fucking touch it,” Landon cut in, his voice raw, ugly Landon’s voice wasn’t smooth now, wasn’t playful. It was raw, stripped down, a snarl pulled from his chest. He crossed the room in three strides, ripped the sheet back into place, marble dust scattering like ash. His hand trembled where it gripped the fabric, but his eyes were steady, blazing.

Jeremy said nothing. The words caught somewhere between his throat and the part of his brain cataloguing every twitch, every flicker.

“You think you can just walk in here and do whatever the fuck you like?” Landon’s voice climbed, unsteady with heat. “Talk how you want, touch what you want—like this is yours?” He let out a short, sharp laugh that had no humour in it. “It isn’t.” His chest rose and fell too fast, each word bitten off like it hurt to speak.

Jeremy’s jaw tightened. “I-“

“Shut up.” Landon’s chest heaved, his glare locking on Jeremy like a knife-point. “You don’t get to come in here and act like you know me. You don’t fucking know anything.”

The silence that followed was thick, the kind that hummed in your teeth. Landon didn’t move, didn’t soften, every line of him sharp with defiance.

Jeremy’s gaze held, unshaken. His voice was steady.
“You’re right. I don’t.”

The silence cut sharp between them, the air heavy with dust and heat. Jeremy let it linger just long enough before pushing off the worktable.

He smoothed his sleeve, already turning toward the door.
“Sorry to have bothered you.”

And then he was gone, the click of the door closing quieter than the silence that followed.

The corridor was still, the air cleaner, but the dust clung to his clothes, to his thoughts. He kept walking, each step deliberate, as though rhythm alone could steady what he’d just seen.

He’d expected chaos — Landon was chaos incarnate. But this hadn’t been that. Not the easy arrogance, not the careless smirk. This had been something jagged, something defensive.

Jeremy wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
About the fact that even Landon King had skeletons in the closet.
That the mask could slip, and what lay beneath wasn’t untouchable brilliance, but bruised humanity.

He didn’t know if it made Landon easier to deal with—
or infinitely more dangerous.

So he filed it away, like everything else. Compartmentalised. Controlled.
Because thinking about it too long would mean admitting he cared what was under the mask.

And Jeremy preferred not to care.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

Jeremy sat at his desk, a pen tapping slowly against a notepad, but he wasn’t writing anything. Numbers, schedules, shipments — they were all there, lined up and predictable. Efficient. Safe. The hum of the office was steady, almost comforting, until it wasn’t.

He felt it before he heard it — a shift in the air, something electric threading through the quiet. His fingers stilled. The door didn’t open, didn’t creak, but suddenly the presence was there. Sharp. Insistent.

“You really do have a talent for sitting there, perfectly still,” Landon said, pacing slowly toward the desk, each step punctuated by the creak of the floor tiles. “Pretending the world doesn’t exist.”

Jeremy didn’t flinch. “I’m busy Landon. It’s called focusing”

“Focusing?” Landon’s grin widened, sharp and dangerous. “Focused is when you know how to survive in the chaos. What you’re doing is hiding from it. But the world,” he waved a hand, eyes glinting, “the world is out there, Jeremy. Waiting for you to notice it. Waiting for you to actually feel it.”

He circled the desk, deliberate, almost theatrical, leaning close just long enough for Jeremy to sense the heat of him, the chaos coiled inside. “And I think you need a reminder… because if you keep pretending it doesn’t exist, it’s going to sneak up on you anyway. Won’t be pretty when it does.”

Jeremy’s fingers drummed against the desktop, mind cataloguing every detail: the smirk, the unsteady energy barely restrained, the way Landon’s voice carried a dangerous kind of invitation. He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. But a fraction of curiosity — dangerous, forbidden curiosity — threaded through him.

“Alright,” Landon said, snapping his fingers. “Pack your patience. Today, you’re coming with me. And don’t get comfortable. I don’t do comfort.”

Jeremy leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the desk. “And why, exactly, would I do that? There’s work to be done.”

Landon tilted his head, grin sharp as a knife. “Work. There’s always work, isn’t there? Deadlines, meetings, drills. And you? You’ll never stop checking boxes, never stop running numbers, never stop pretending you own time.” He paused, circling slowly. “Well, newsflash — the world doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It won’t stop because you’ve got a meeting.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” Jeremy said, tone clipped, irritation bristling at the way Landon toyed with him. “And I certainly don’t need a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Landon laughed, short, sharp, almost like snapping glass. “You think I’m offering a distraction? No, Jeremy. I’m offering a reminder. A chance to see something that actually exists outside your perfect little boxes. Outside your schedules. Outside your walls.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” Landon said simply, as though stating a fact, not a challenge. “I don’t take no very well.” He leaned closer, just enough for Jeremy to notice the heat in his words. “Come on. Take a day off. If not for me, then… for curiosity. For the part of you that wants to see how alive things can be.”

Jeremy stared at him, mind cataloguing every detail — the glint in his eye, the deliberate chaos in his posture, the way he refused to give Jeremy an out. And for a moment, something irrational flickered inside him. A half-formed thought that maybe — maybe he could afford a single day to step off the rails.

He exhaled, a low, controlled breath. “Fine,” he said, voice flat, almost disbelieving. “One day. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Landon’s grin widened, sharp and victorious. “Oh, Jeremy… that’s the best part. You will enjoy it. Even if you hate it.”

Their first destination was a casino. Well, a private room in a casino. Jeremy thought this wouldn’t be that different from what he saw on a daily basis. He’s been in and out of casinos since he was a child.

The room smelled of leather and stale smoke. Not the kind that clung to cheap bars, but the expensive, imported kind—cigars half-burnt and left on silver trays, as though the men here were too rich to bother finishing what they started.

Jeremy clocked everything the second they walked in. The heavy walnut table in the centre. The way the curtains were drawn despite the afternoon sun, the room lit instead by a hanging chandelier that threw fractured gold across the green felt. Six men already sat with cards in hand, but when Landon pushed through the door, conversation snapped like a string pulled too tight.

“King!” one of them barked, half-rising from his chair with a grin that was too wide to be genuine.

The rest followed—warm greetings, outstretched hands, men leaning forward like flowers turning toward the sun. Jeremy watched Landon glide through them, all easy laughter and perfect teeth, shaking hands, clapping backs, as if this was his kingdom and he the benevolent ruler granting them attention.

No introduction for Jeremy. None was offered, none expected. But Jeremy noticed how the men’s eyes flicked to him anyway. Who was the man at Landon King’s shoulder? They wouldn’t ask. Not here. But he saw the calculations, the curiosity, the silent weighing up of who he might be.

Landon dropped into his seat at the head of the table, sprawling like it had been carved for him, and tossed a stack of chips onto the felt without even glancing at them. Jeremy remained standing a moment longer, assessing, before taking a seat a little back from the table. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to watch.

The first hand was dealt. Landon barely looked at his cards. Instead, he talked.

“God, has it always been this gloomy in here?” He gestured vaguely at the drawn curtains, earning a round of chuckles. “Feels like I’ve walked into a funeral. Someone better win big to wake this place up.”

The others laughed, already relaxing. Already forgetting that Landon King had a reputation for leaving tables gutted.

Jeremy folded his arms. He knew what he was watching. The first act. Landon made a show of fumbling a chip, of raising too eagerly, of calling out of turn. He lost a hand. Then another. He laughed each time like it didn’t matter, like he was just here for the company, not the money.

And slowly, Jeremy saw it happen—the shift. The men started leaning forward, confidence swelling in their posture. They thought they had him. They thought Landon King had lost his edge.

Jeremy almost smiled.

The third hand in, Landon leaned back in his chair, cards dangling loosely from his fingers, blue eyes sweeping the table like he was bored. He waited. Let the others raise, let them chatter. Only when the pile in the centre was fat enough to matter did he finally lay his cards down.

Four of a kind.

The table groaned. One man cursed. Landon just grinned, scooping up the pot with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“See? Already less gloomy,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, and for a moment it was hard to tell if he was talking about the room or himself.

Jeremy sat back, silent, cataloguing every move. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t even the cards. It was performance—Landon was building a story, and everyone at that table was playing their part without realising it.

And Jeremy couldn’t look away.

Jeremy watched the game unravel exactly how Landon wanted. The men kept trying to outplay him, certain that the boyish laughter and casual shrugs meant he was careless. But every time the chips stacked higher, Landon’s grin widened, and somehow the cards in his hand were always just right. Not perfect—never perfect. Just good enough to win by a hair, to make it feel like chance rather than control.

And they bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.

By the time the last pile was dragged across the felt toward him, Landon stretched lazily in his chair, as though it had all been the most boring thing in the world. He stacked the chips neatly in front of him, then pushed them all back across the table.

“Keep it,” he said, standing. His voice was light, amused. “Consider it a tip for the entertainment.”

The men blinked, stunned, their expressions shifting between relief and insult.

Landon only grinned wider, running a hand through his hair as he turned toward the door. “Well, this was fun. Same time…” He tapped the side of his mouth, pretending to think, then tossed a careless shrug. “Some time.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving the room in disarray—men scrambling to understand what had just happened, Jeremy rising slowly to follow, storing away every detail.

Their next destination was an auction house.

It wasn’t so different from the casino — the same faces in many cases, the same wealth pressed into sharp suits and glittering gowns — but daylight had traded their recklessness for restraint. Here, voices were lower, laughter softer, smiles tighter. The chandeliers burned gold instead of neon, and the gamble wasn’t with cards but with canvas.

When Landon stepped through the doors, he didn’t need to announce himself. Heads turned. Greetings rose like sparks, his name spoken with a kind of warmth that only money and charm could buy. And beside him, Jeremy drew his share of glances — curious, appraising, as though they couldn’t quite place why Landon King had decided to bring a shadow into the light.

Landon seemed to revel in it. He shook hands, kissed cheeks, tossed compliments like chips across a table. He remembered names Jeremy was sure he shouldn’t, referenced parties, scandals, business deals with a precision that was either genius or deeply rehearsed. Each interaction lasted seconds, but in those seconds, Landon made every person feel like they were the centre of the room.

It was a performance. A flawless one.
And Jeremy, watching from his usual stillness, couldn’t decide if it was impressive or exhausting.

The auction began, and Landon leaned back in his seat with the lazy poise of someone born into this world — or at least convincing enough to pass for it. He raised his paddle carelessly, sometimes to win, sometimes just to drive the price up for the sheer thrill of watching his neighbours squirm. Once, he bid twice in a row against himself, grinning when the auctioneer faltered, then winked and called it a “donation.” The room laughed with him, not at him, because no one ever laughed at Landon King.

Jeremy didn’t laugh.

Halfway through, Landon leaned toward him, his voice low, meant for Jeremy alone.
“You see?” His smile was bright, but his eyes glittered with something sharper. “They’ll pay millions for a canvas they don’t understand. All it takes is the right name. The right performance.”

Jeremy’s expression didn’t change. “And what are you selling them?”

“An idea,” Landon said smoothly, stretching his arm along the back of Jeremy’s chair. “That I’m exactly who they want me to be.”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked to him. “And who is that?”

Landon grinned wider, gaze fixed on the stage, as if the answer were written across the paintings.
“Depends who’s asking.”

He didn’t explain further, and Jeremy didn’t press. He only sat, silent, watching Landon’s mask gleam beneath the lights, and wondered which part of it was real.

When the final gavel fell, Landon rose easily, stretching as though the whole affair had been nothing more than a pleasant diversion. He tugged his jacket into place and started toward the aisle.

Jeremy followed, but paused at the registration desk where clerks were shuffling papers and tallying bids. “You’re not paying.”

Landon glanced back, grin sharp as glass. “Don’t worry about it.”

Then he slipped into the crowd, hand clapped on a stranger’s shoulder, a laugh already on his lips.

The car ride after the auction was quieter, almost deceptively so. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and dusk, but Landon drove with one hand loose on the wheel, like even traffic bent to his will. Jeremy sat angled toward the window, but his gaze kept catching on the way Landon tapped his thumb against the leather—offbeat, restless, like he was counting down to something Jeremy hadn’t been told yet.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Landon said eventually, cutting through the low hum of the engine. His grin was there, faint in the reflection of the glass. “What’s wrong? Too much stimulation for one day?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. “Just wondering if you ever take anything seriously.”

Landon chuckled, low and amused, turning the wheel with a lazy flick as they slid through a yellow light. “I take plenty seriously. Just not the things you want me to.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.”

That was all he offered. No explanation, no destination. Only the sound of the city swallowing them, until Landon finally pulled the McLaren up to a building that didn’t match the gilded casino or manicured auction house. Discreet, almost plain from the outside, save for the velvet rope and the kind of security that didn’t bother to ask names—just nodded, recognising Landon on sight.

Jeremy didn’t ask. He followed.

Inside, the air was thicker—perfume, smoke, something darker folded into the red-velvet walls and gold trim. The lighting was low, the music a steady pulse underfoot. And then Landon guided him through a hallway, hand brushing Jeremy’s back for just a second, pushing him toward a black glass door.

“After you,” Landon murmured, a glint in his eye.

Jeremy stepped inside—and froze.

The room was paneled with tinted glass, a single sofa facing the wall. On the other side, lit in sharp red light, another room unfolded—bodies pressed close, movements unmistakable, the entire scene made to be watched.

Landon leaned against the glass, his reflection warped with the shadows, eyes fixed not on the room but on Jeremy.

“Well,” he drawled, smile cutting sharp, “welcome to my world.”

Landon leans one shoulder against the glass, casual, as though this is just another bar, just another game. The low red light bleeds across his sharp features, shadows stretching like claws over his cheekbones.

“You’re not even going to look?” he asks, voice half amusement, half challenge. His tone is taunting, the same lilt he used over cards, over champagne. “That’s the whole point, Jeremy. The show. You’ll hurt their feelings.”

Jeremy doesn’t glance at the bodies beyond the glass. He doesn’t need to. He keeps his gaze steady on Landon instead, unreadable, hands in his pockets like he’s waiting for this to get interesting.

“I don’t care about the show,” Jeremy says flatly. “I’m here for the performer.”

For a beat, Landon pauses. Not visibly — just a flicker, a ripple of something he can’t quite mask. Then it’s gone, smoothed over with that crooked grin. He laughs low, biting the inside of his cheek like he’s genuinely entertained.

“Careful,” he murmurs, pushing off the glass, closing the space between them. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Jeremy leaned back against the velvet-lined wall, arms crossed, gaze steady. “So this is it?” His voice carried none of Landon’s theatrics. “Poker, auctions, glass boxes with strangers behind them. Is that the grand tour? Doesn’t it get… exhausting? Repeating the same tricks every night?”

Landon stilled for just a fraction of a second — not long enough for anyone else to notice, but Jeremy caught it. Then came the smile, easy, slow, dangerous. He prowled a step closer, as if the air itself were his stage. “Exhausting?” His laugh was soft, mocking. “People pay to orbit this. To be seen in my shadow. You call that tiring— I call it thriving.”

Jeremy didn’t move. “You’re performing,” he said, simple and clean. “For them. For me. For yourself. And I’m asking—what’s underneath it? Don’t you want more than this?”

That’s when Landon cut the distance. Not with words — with presence. He leaned in, close enough that Jeremy could feel the brush of his breath, the heat of a body that always seemed too alive, too charged. His eyes gleamed, not with sincerity, but with the sharpness of someone cornered and refusing to admit it.

“Depends,” Landon murmured, gaze flicking from Jeremy’s eyes to his mouth and back again. “What more are you offering?”

Jeremy’s jaw tightened. He should’ve looked away, should’ve broken the spell. But he held his ground, even as Landon’s shoulder grazed his, as if daring him to step back first.

Jeremy’s gaze flicked down before he could stop himself — the angle of Landon’s grin, the dip of his throat, the glass balanced between his fingers like it had never known the risk of being dropped. He caught himself, forced his eyes away, his jaw tight.

“I wasn’t offering,” Jeremy said flatly.

Landon chuckled, low and close. “No? Funny. You ask questions like a man who wants answers… and sound like one who’s afraid to hear them.” He tilted his head, blue eyes catching the dim light, dancing with something unspoken. “You don’t hand a starving man a menu unless you’re prepared to feed him.”

The words landed heavier than Jeremy expected. For a moment he wasn’t sure if Landon was warning him off or daring him closer.

Jeremy turned back to the dark glass, pulse a fraction faster. He should have left it there. He didn’t. “So which are you? Hungry? Or Waiting to be fed?”

Landon tilted his head, slow, deliberate, like a predator amused by the audacity of its prey. His grin didn’t widen — it sharpened.l
He leaned in, too close, like he couldn’t help himself. “Bold of you to think you wouldn’t end up on the menu.”

Jeremy didn’t flinch. He leaned back just enough to look deliberate, gaze steady. “Bold of you to think you could survive the attempt.”

The grin faltered for a fraction of a second — not gone, just edged with something darker. Landon tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. “Always so sure of yourself.”

Jeremy’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Always right.”
He held Landon’s stare like it was a challenge, jaw set, body angled just enough to make it clear he wasn’t retreating.

The corner of Landon’s mouth curled, not quite a smile, more a dare. “Careful,” he said, low, smooth. “You keep looking at me like that, and you’ll find out exactly what I am.”

Jeremy didn’t move. His pulse thudded, steady and hard, but his voice came out even. “That’s the point.”

For half a second, silence stretched. Then Landon closed the space like it cost him nothing, leaning in, his hand sliding into Jeremy’s hair, fingers threading with possessive ease. The heat of him pressed in, cologne sharp, and the faint hum of danger in his veins seemed to ignite Jeremy’s own.

“You really want to find out?” Landon murmured, voice rougher now, teasing.

Jeremy’s reply was a tilt of his head, sharp, deliberate—the smallest motion that meant yes.

Landon’s laugh was low and throaty, vibrating against Jeremy’s chest, before his mouth claimed Jeremy’s in a rush of teeth and heat, reckless and daring. The tension was electric. Hands tangled in hair and jacket, breath mingling, the world shrinking to that jagged, electric contact. Landons mouth moved expertly, licking and biting easily.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. He met it fully, pulling Landon in, refusing to yield, grounding himself against the sudden surge of fire and chaos Landon brought with him.

When they broke apart, even a fraction, Landon’s grin was bright, crooked, eyes glinting with mischief and challenge. “Well. That answers that.”

Jeremy let go sharply, muscles coiled, voice low and unyielding. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Landon’s eyes flickered, dangerous and delighted. “Darling, finishing is the easy part.”

Landon didn’t back away this time. That grin of his sharpened, and before Jeremy could move, Landon’s hand slid down, fingers curling into his collar, tugging just enough to close the gap again.

The second kiss was harder, deeper. Landon pushed, and Jeremy felt the sharp edge of his hunger—nothing polite, nothing careful. A hand squeezed his hair, a thumb dragging against the line of his throat, the kind of touch that was both grounding and possessive.

Jeremy’s pulse jumped, but he didn’t give ground easily. His hand snapped up, catching Landon’s wrist, halting the slide of fingers that were already threatening to roam lower. He broke the kiss with a sharp breath, their mouths still a breath apart.

“Enough.” Jeremy’s voice was steady, but his grip was iron.

Landon laughed against his lips, low and pleased. “Stop pretending you don’t want it.”

Jeremy tightened his hold on his wrist, meeting his gaze head-on.

The tension between them was electric, dangerous—Landon’s body pressing closer, Jeremy refusing to lean back, two forces testing the other’s limits.

For a moment, it felt like the room itself tilted, like either of them could tip it into something reckless, something irreversible.

Landon’s smile widened, sharp with mischief. His free hand landed on Jeremy’s thigh, deliberate, heat searing through fabric. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

Jeremy’s jaw locked. He didn’t say the words.

That was all the invitation Landon needed—leaning in again, lips grazing, daring him to hold the line.

Suddenly, Jeremy’s mind flicked to the walls around them—the faint sounds behind the glass, the people in the next room, just beyond reach. Had Landon planned this? The thought burned sharper than he expected, a reminder that this wasn’t just about them.

His hand shot up, firm and controlled, shoving Landon back. Not roughly—precise, deliberate—but enough to break the closeness, enough to claim space.

Landon stumbled slightly, eyes widening in surprise, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face. For a heartbeat, the performance cracked, and Jeremy caught the barest glimpse of it.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t acknowledge it. He straightened, chest tight, forcing himself to focus on anything else—the dim lighting, the faint hum of the city outside, the quiet between them.

For a moment, Landon didn’t move, just watched him go, that lazy, infuriating grin fading into something sharper, more calculating. Jeremy didn’t look back.

He was done.

Chapter Text

Landon

Let it be known: Landon King didn’t do patience. Not for long. Not for anything worth wanting. Once he tasted it, once he sensed it, he chased, he tangled, he devoured—or at least, he tried. Jeremy had been a morsel. A challenge. A live wire. And oh, how delicious it had been. Jeremy’s kiss still burned on his mouth. Sharp, defiant, hungry. He could taste it if he let himself. And he had—half a dozen times already, replaying it, twisting it, sharpening the edges until the memory cut.

It hadn’t been enough. Not nearly.

Landon laughed under his breath, a low ripple in his chest. He could picture Jeremy’s face too clearly—the jaw set, the eyes steady, the way he’d grabbed him like he was staking a claim. And then the shove, firm and precise, pushing him back. Landon had stumbled, yes, but it hadn’t bruised his ego. If anything, it had stoked the fire.

He might shove him away at first, but he’ll pull him back just as hard.

He knew it. Felt it in his bones. Jeremy wasn’t some saint above the fire. He’d tasted it too. That tilt of his head, that split-second of surrender—Landon could live on that look alone if he had to. But why settle for scraps when the whole damn feast was sitting across the table?

He pressed harder on the accelerator, the engine growling in approval.

God, the fantasies were already lining up, one darker, sharper, sweeter than the last. He imagined Jeremy leaning back against the velvet, pulse hammering, every nerve reacting to the heat Landon could make. The thought of it made Landon bite the inside of his cheek, laughter spilling out of him, loose and delighted.

He knew better than to say them out loud. Jeremy would run a mile if he had even a glimpse of the things that flickered through Landon’s head. Run, and maybe never come back.

But that was fine.
Landon didn’t need to confess a damn thing. He just needed to keep pressing, keep pushing, until Jeremy realised there wasn’t any running left to do.

The lights ahead flicked green. He leaned back in his seat, letting the McLaren slip through the traffic like water. His grin lingered, sharp and unshaken.

If Jeremy thought that kiss was the end. That the push meant something final. It wasn’t.
It was the beginning.
And Landon King had never started a game he didn’t finish.

The next morning, Landon was in a better mood than usual. Not that anyone outside his apartment would notice—he lived alone—but he moved through the space like someone who had just won a private battle, all easy confidence and low, sharp laughter at nothing in particular.

Brandon arrived for their usual coffee catch-up, and it didn’t take long for him to notice.

“You’re… unusually chipper,” Brandon said, eyebrows raised as he leaned against the counter, mug in hand. “Something happen, or did you finally win that poker hand against the universe?”

Landon’s grin spread wide, teeth flashing. “Oh, Brandon… the universe hasn’t even seen the beginning.” He leaned back, letting the chair rock slightly under him, a casual flair that suggested he was already somewhere no one else could touch. “Let’s just say… I’ve had a very productive day… and night.”

Brandon chuckled, shaking his head, clearly his mind was in the gutter.
Landon sipped his coffee, one brow arched. “Glyn flaked again. No surprises there.”

Brandon winced. “Killian?”

“The wank” Landon said, voice sharp, but there was an undertone of amusement too. “I swear, she has time for one psychopath in her life, and it’s not her own brother. Rude.”

Brandon held up his hands, the eternal peacemaker. “Hey, come on. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Landon said, grin tightening. “I’m stating. Critically.”

Brandon rolled his eyes, trying to soften the tension. “She’ll show up next time. You know she cares.”

Landon snorted. “Careful, Bran. I almost admire your optimism. Almost.” He leaned back, letting the corner of his mouth twitch. “Anyway… more time for me to enjoy my morning without Princess Glyn or her boyfriend drama.”

Brandon sighed, slightly exasperated, slightly fond. “You’re impossible.”

Landon stirred his coffee idly, watching the light hit the rim of the cup. They’d promised their parents to meet every other week, a little ritual to “ground each other” or whatever sentimental nonsense. Landon had never minded—it meant he could skip one less worried call from Mum, or at least dodge her concerns about him completely.

Glyndon clearly didn’t care about Mum’s poor nerves. And she says he has no heart.

Brandon tipped his cup toward him, all mock solemn. “So what are you doing tonight? Sitting at home with a book like a respectable adult?”

Landon arched a brow, smirk already forming. “I was thinking more along the lines of a club. Been ages since I’ve been out.”

Brandon gave him a flat look. “You were out two nights ago.”

Landon waved a hand, dismissive. “That doesn’t count. That was business. I’m talking pleasure. Loud music, bad lighting, questionable choices.”

“You mean a Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

Brandon shook his head, muttering into his coffee. “Fine. I’ll call in the morning to make sure you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Excuse me?” Landon clutched his chest, mock-offended. “Me? In a ditch? Rude.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Brandon said, voice dry. “It’s probably some poor soul who’ll be in the ditch because of you.”
-

By the time night fell, Landon was already halfway to reckless. If patience wasn’t in his vocabulary, moderation didn’t exist at all.

He dressed for it—an off-cream linen button-up, loose and soft, stopping just at his waist so that if he lifted his arms even slightly, his stomach would flash in the lights. Baggy black cargos that hung with calculated ease, cinched by a belt of gold-tipped leather. A chain at his throat, a watch glinting at his wrist. Effortless. Dangerous. Like he’d rolled straight out of someone’s dream and decided to keep the clothes.

The club swallowed him whole—bass thrumming through his chest, lights strobing red and blue across his skin. He was already on the dance floor before his drink arrived, moving with the beat like the music had been written just for him. Loose hips, sharp edges, that grin curling whenever the crowd pressed closer.

People noticed. They always did. Eyes tracked him, bodies gravitated toward him, drinks slid his way. He accepted every shot, but only after pressing the glass back into the giver’s hand first. “You first,” he’d say with a lazy dare. They always obeyed. The liquor burned smooth and hot, settling in his veins like a promise.

Not that there was any need to lace his drink. Landon King was already reckless enough to say yes sober.
The crowd was liquid, heat and colour shifting around him, but Landon had always been the brightest point in the room. Until he caught sight of him.

Jeremy.

Not across a boardroom, not behind that fortress of paperwork and order, but here—shoulders set, head tilted slightly as he listened to the man at his side. A blond buzzcut, familiar in an irritating way. It took Landon only a beat to place him. Ilya Levitsky. Jeremy’s guard.

Of course. Of course Jeremy Volkovs idea of a night out was to drag his bodyguard into a club.

The thought curled hot and sharp in Landon’s chest. Who the fuck did the guy think he was, standing there like he belonged next to Jeremy?

Jeremy didn’t even look the part. A black fitted t-shirt stretched across his chest—perfect, infuriatingly perfect—and then hidden under a leather jacket, zipped just enough to ruin the view. Dark jeans, boots. Every piece practical, controlled, the opposite of Landon’s deliberate chaos. He looked like he’d walked into the club by accident and somehow everyone else was orbiting him anyway.

And Ilya was too close. Leaning in, lips near his ear to be heard over the music. Jeremy didn’t smile, but the set of his mouth was looser, easier, than Landon had seen in days.

Landon’s jaw ticked. Jeremy tilted his head toward Ilya, the blond saying something that cut through the noise between beats. And then it happened—Jeremy smiled. Not the tight, polite thing Landon had catalogued a hundred times over, but a real one. Quick, sharp, and gone before most people would’ve caught it.

Except Landon caught everything.

And when Jeremy’s shoulders shook faintly, a short laugh pulling at his mouth, Landon went still. The club fell away for a fraction of a second, the lights, the bass, the bodies pressing in. He just stared.

He’d pulled knives out of people easier than he’d pulled half a grin out of Jeremy Volkov .And yet here Jeremy was—smiling like it cost him nothing, like it was easy. With him.

The blond leaned closer, said something else. Jeremy’s lips curved again.

Landon’s hand flexed around his empty glass, knuckles whitening.

He was going to fucking ruin this.

Landon didn’t move at first. Didn’t storm over, didn’t snarl, didn’t even acknowledge what he’d just seen. That wasn’t his style.

Instead, he let his gaze skim the crowd, found the nearest warm body—a stranger with eager eyes and too much perfume—and pulled them in without a word. His hands slid to their hips, pressing close, the music carrying him into a rhythm that was all hips and laughter, sharp and reckless.

He didn’t need to look back to know Jeremy was watching. He just knew.

A minute later, he felt it—the prickle on the back of his neck, the weight of a stare that could cut glass. Landon let the moment stretch, dragging it out until it almost hurt, before finally turning his head, slow, deliberate.

And there he was. Jeremy, across the floor, eyes locked on him, smile gone, jaw tight.

Good.

Landon’s lips curved around a laugh that wasn’t for his partner at all. It was for Jeremy. Always had been.

The bass throbbed heavy through the walls, a pulse that rattled ribs and blurred sense. Lights strobed red-blue-gold across the haze, bodies colliding in heat and sound. Landon melted into it like he was born for this—hips rolling, laughter spilling, one hand fisting in the stranger’s shirt while the other dragged lazy patterns down their waist.

The stranger tilted closer, mouth brushing the slope of his neck. Landon let his head fall back, exposing his throat, gold chain glinting under the lights. His grin was wicked, daring, loud—a spectacle.

Jeremy tried not to look. He tried. Sat back with a drink he wasn’t touching, Ilya muttering something in his ear, but the sight kept dragging him in, each second burning hotter. The way Landon’s shirt rode up, a flash of skin under the linen. The hands. The laugh. The stranger’s lips almost—almost—on his neck.

A vein stood out sharp in Jeremy’s jaw, his teeth clenched tight enough to crack. His fingers twitched around his glass. The music seemed louder, drowning thought, hammering into the place in his chest where restraint frayed.

Landon didn’t even need to glance over this time. He could feel it. That stare pinning him, scorching. He slid his hand further down the stranger’s back, hips pressing close, like pouring gasoline straight onto the fire.

Jeremy was on his feet before he realised he’d moved. He moved through the crowd like a knife through water, broad shoulders cutting a path. No one questioned it. He was all sharp lines and black leather, eyes locked on his target.

Landon only caught the shift when a hand—large, firm, unyielding—closed around his arm and yanked. Not rough enough to bruise, but no room for protest either. He stumbled into the sudden pull, chest colliding with hard muscle.

Jeremy.

To the rest of the club, it looked like a man dragging an unruly stranger off the floor, maybe a security type shutting something down. But up close—too close—Landon caught the truth in the tight line of Jeremy’s jaw, the flicker of heat in his eyes.

Jeremy didn’t let up until they reached a narrow hallway tucked behind the main floor, muffled bass rattling through the walls. A bouncer glanced their way, but Jeremy just flashed something—badge, card, whatever—and the door swung open to a small lounge room lit low and empty.

The second the door clicked shut, Jeremy spun him around, shoving him back against the wall.

“Relax,” Landon drawled, licking his teeth. “I came for a drink, a dance, maybe a little fun.”

“Do you have any idea how stupid that was? Letting strangers put their hands on you in a place like this?”
Landon tilted his head, smile widening. “You weren’t looking very protective out there. You were looking—what’s the word—jealous?”

Jeremy’s grip tightened. His eyes burned like live wire.

Landon leaned in, close enough that Jeremy could feel the heat of his breath. “Tell me, King of Restraint. Was it danger that pissed you off—” his grin went sharp— “or was it me letting someone else’s hands touch what you—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The words cracked through the air, rough and absolute.

For the first time, Landon stilled. His grin didn’t falter, but it froze—like he was replaying the sound of Jeremy’s voice, the crack of it.

Jeremy’s chest rose and fell hard. His hand was still on Landon’s arm, pinning him in place, and he hadn’t moved away.

Jeremy’s arm was still braced against Landon’s chest, holding him to the wall. He looked furious, jaw sharp, eyes dark with something Landon couldn’t quite untangle—anger, control, want.

Perfect.

Landon laughed, low and breathless, then in one fluid motion he slipped down Jeremy’s body until he was kneeling on the floor.

Jeremy froze. For once in his life, words deserted him.

Landon King—perfectly tailored, infuriatingly smug Landon—was on his knees in front of him. Hands on his hips, eyes alight with something wicked, lips curved into the kind of smile that ruined men.

“Get up,” Jeremy ground out, the command sharp, instinctive.

But Landon didn’t move. If anything, his grin widened. “Oh, please,” he murmured, voice a low purr that wound its way straight through Jeremy’s chest, “you don’t want me to get up.” His hands skimmed over Jeremy’s belt, slow, purposeful, teasing at the loosened buckle. “You want to know how far I’ll go.”

Jeremy’s pulse hammered. He should’ve shoved him back. Should’ve ended it. Instead, his hand tangled into Landon’s hair, hard enough to make him tilt his head back, eyes meeting Jeremy’s with a spark that was pure challenge.

Jeremy snapped, breath ragged. His grip tightened, pulling, commanding. “If you’re going to do it—do it properly.” He yanks his belt loose, with a sharp tug as if giving in on his own terms might soften the fall.

News flash : it won’t.

“Properly?” he echoed, grin widening as he nosed against the undone buckle, lips brushing the metal. “Darling, you have no idea how properly I can do this.”

Jeremy’s hand finally fisted in his hair, shoving him closer, rougher than necessary. His body trembled, the tiniest quake running through his thighs—and Landon felt it, devoured it. That crack in the armour. That shiver of want.

He pressed a kiss against the hard line of fabric, then another, slow and taunting. Every movement was deliberate, meant to drag Jeremy further into the fire.

Above him, Jeremy exhaled through clenched teeth, a sound Landon wanted carved into his memory. His knuckles whitened in Landon’s hair, his control fraying strand by strand.

Landon trailed lower, lips pressing slow, reverent kisses down the inside of his thigh through the fabric. Not hurried. Not yet. He wanted Jeremy to burn for it, to feel the anticipation coil until it was unbearable.

Jeremy’s breath came harsher now, rough exhalations that stuttered at the edges. His knuckles twisted tighter in Landon’s hair, the push no longer steady, more like desperation trying to masquerade as control.

Landon pulled back just far enough to glance up, eyes hooded, grin infuriatingly sure. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice a taunt, a caress all at once.

Jeremy’s jaw clenched, lips parting like he wanted to deny it, but nothing came out. His chest rose and fell too quickly, every muscle drawn taut as a bowstring.

“Properly,” Landon whispered again, kissing the line of his zipper this time, tongue flicking against the metal, slow and obscene. “I’ll show you properly.”

And then, with deliberate patience, he undid the fly and slid the fabric down—just enough. He kissed the new strip of exposed skin, softer this time, almost tender.

Jeremy cursed under his breath, low and guttural, hand shoving Landon’s head closer. No hesitation now. No pretence of restraint.

Landon’s smirk widened against him. He opened his mouth, slow, savoring the moment, and finally—finally—took him in.

The sound Jeremy made then—half-choked, half-wild—was everything Landon had been waiting for.

Landon set the rhythm sharp, unrelenting, dragging him deeper each time until Jeremy’s head tipped back, veins standing out at his neck. He wasn’t begging, wasn’t speaking, wasn’t giving Landon the satisfaction of words—but his body betrayed him, every taut muscle trembling as though barely holding against the pull.

His grip tightened brutally in Landon’s hair, trying to slow him, control him—but Landon pressed harder, taking more, forcing Jeremy to choose between stopping him or falling apart.

Jeremy didn’t stop him.

His breath came ragged, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat catching the low light. He stared down at Landon like he wanted to burn him alive and couldn’t even form the threat.

Landon pulled back for a second, just enough to grin against him, lips wet, voice a sinful rasp.
“Come on, Jere. Let me hear it.”

Jeremy’s answer was a shudder, a curse bitten so harsh between his teeth it barely left his throat—then he shoved Landon’s head down again, brutal, breaking his own restraint.

Jeremy’s hand was iron in his hair now, the other braced flat against the wall like if he let go the whole place would come down with him.

Landon worked him mercilessly, rhythm unyielding, dragging every guttural sound out of him even when Jeremy tried to clamp his jaw shut. His hips shifted, tight and involuntary, betraying him with every harsh breath.

God, he was magnificent like this—every line of control fraying, every nerve stretched taut, and still refusing to give Landon the words he wanted.

“Look at me,” Landon rasped around him, muffled, eyes glinting up through the mess Jeremy had made of his hair.

Jeremy looked. And it undid him.

The sound he made then was raw, bitten off halfway like he was furious with himself for letting it out. His head slammed back against the wall, muscles trembling, and then he broke—hips jerking, breath torn ragged as Landon took it all, deep and greedy, not spilling a drop.

It hit like a live current, heat flooding, Jeremy shuddering under the weight of it, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a war. His grip in Landon’s hair loosened, fingers trembling as though the strength had finally given out of them.

Landon lingered just long enough to savour the taste, the wreckage, before pulling back with a slow drag, lips wet, chin shining. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at him like a devil.

Jeremy was still braced against the wall, breathing hard, eyes dark, unreadable—caught somewhere between fury and ruin.

Landon’s laugh was low, smug, utterly delighted.
“Well,” he said, voice silk over gravel, “I’d say that’s a better way to shut you up.”

Jeremy’s hand was still tangled in his hair when Landon pulled back, slow, deliberate, like he was the one setting the pace. His lips were slick, his grin sharper than it had any right to be.
Then he had to ruin it by opening his mouth.

Jeremy’s voice cut through it, low, sharp.
“Getting on your knees isn’t the win you think it is.”

Landon’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, dangerous and amused. He rose smoothly, slow enough to make the air between them unbearable. His eyes glittered as he leaned in close, mouth brushing Jeremy’s ear.

“If you think I lost,” he whispered, velvet and smoke, “you’re not paying attention.”

Jeremy’s jaw clenched. His silence was stiff, defiant, but his body betrayed him—the set of his shoulders, the uneven pull of his breath. Landon saw it. He always did.

He adjusted Jeremy’s collar with a maddening tenderness, fingers dragging just enough to leave heat behind.
He leaned in, mouth grazing Jeremy’s ear, voice wicked velvet.
“Tell yourself you hated it. Lie as hard as you want. But I’ll know. And so will you.”

When he finally stepped back, it wasn’t retreat. It was dismissal. A promise.
Jeremy stood rigid, fists at his sides, breathing too fast for someone supposedly untouched.

Landon walked out first, the bass from the club swallowing him up, grin lazy, pulse still hunting.

Jeremy would follow. Maybe not tonight. But he’d follow.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

They say you can’t be surprised by Landon King.
That he’s chaos wrapped in linen and gold.
But Jeremy had been. Completely.
Because unless you’ve had him on his knees in the backroom of a New York club—
No? Then shut the fuck up.

Water beat down on him, icy and relentless. Droplets splashing onto the glass doors. The chandelier overhead threw fractured light across the shower doors, glittering like a stage. Jeremy leaned one hand against the tiled wall, head bowed, jaw tight, trying to let the cold scald him clean.

It didn’t work.
It only sharpened the memory..

Landon fucking King, with his mouth on him.
A blur. A fire. A sin.

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Every second came back in cruel detail—the scrape of teeth, the press of tongue, the way Landon had looked up through his lashes with a grin like he’d just stolen the crown jewels. Like Jeremy had given it to him willingly.

Which he had.

His jaw locked. His stomach twisted.
What the fuck was wrong with him?

Jeremy wasn’t careless. He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t the one getting cornered and unravelled in the span of a single song while the bass rattled the floor. He was the one who set the pace. Who dictated the rules. Always.

But with Landon—

God, it hadn’t even felt like losing. That was the worst part.
It had felt—good. Too good.

Jeremy switched off the water, grabbed a white towel and wrapped it loosely around his waist. He stopped by the mirror in front of him, dripping, chest heaving, staring at the reflection ghosted in the glass. Cold-eyed. Iron-jawed. His reflection stared back at him, sharp but the echo of pleasure still burned through his body, refusing to be smothered.

He wanted to shove it down, to label it a mistake, an anomaly. Something he could lock away.
But the truth was merciless. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Morning brought the silence his mind craved. The mansion was still, except for the faint hum of the heating that never stopped working, even in October chill. Jeremy had been awake for hours — he always was.

He hit the downstairs gym first, weights clanging in the half-light. The gym sat on the east wing of the mansion, glass walls looking out over the clipped gardens below. Everything gleamed under recessed lighting: matte-black racks, polished steel plates, leather benches stitched with precision. Not a speck of dust touched the mirrored walls, not a machine out of place. Jeremy didn’t tolerate clutter, not in his mind, not in his body, not in his surroundings.

He moved through his sets with the same ruthless order he gave everything else. Pull-ups until his shoulders burned. Bench press in a steady, unhurried rhythm, the kind that came from years of training, not the vanity of flexing. His body carried the proof: carved muscle stacked onto broad shoulders, chest thick with strength, stomach ridged in disciplined lines

Then a shower — hot this time. He stepped beneath the spray, letting the heat beat against his shoulders, sluicing down the ridges of muscle that still burned from the weights. scrubbing away whatever remnants of the night still clung to his skin. Heat seeped into him, soothing the knots in his back, easing the fire in his lungs. The ache in his body was deliberate, earned. This was ritual: exertion, then absolution.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, hair damp, shirt crisp, the place smelled of dark roast coffee and warm bread.

She was already there.

“Доброе утро, мой мальчик.” Good morning, my boy.

The words pulled something taut in his chest. He would never admit it to anyone, but the sound of her voice had more power to ground him than the entire empire his family owned.

“Nadya,” Jeremy said, soft in a way he didn’t use with anyone else.

Nadezhda, his nyanya. She had been there before he could walk. She was supposed to fade out of his life the way nannies always did — a childhood footnote, a half-remembered figure. But she hadn’t. He hadn’t let her.

Now, she still padded around the mansion in her slippers, still cooked his breakfast as if he were sixteen and not a man grown, still called him my boy in Russian like nothing had changed.

And Jeremy let her. More than that, he relied on it.

She slid a plate toward him — eggs, rye toast, berries — and swatted his hand when he reached for his phone. “Eat first,” she said in accented English. “Business can wait. You are too thin.” Nadya muttered, glaring at the empty corner of his plate like it had insulted her. Jeremy, six-foot-three and carved like a man who lived in the gym, bit back a laugh. It wouldn’t matter if he put on another twenty pounds of muscle — she’d still say the same thing.

By the time Jeremy sat down at the marble counter, Nadya had already set his plate in front of him. He ate in silence, the clink of silver against porcelain the only sound — until the padded shuffle of slippers came from the hallway.

“Morning,” Annika’s voice, still sleep-soft, drifted in before she did. She appeared in the doorway, dressed in a lilac blouse tucked neatly into a flowing skirt. She looked around, saw Jeremy, and a small, amused smile tugged at her lips. Without even looking up, she kissed Nadya’s cheek and stole a strawberry from the bowl.

Nadya clicked her tongue. “No manners. At least sit before you steal food.”

Annika grinned, finally glancing at her brother. “Why do you look like you’ve fought a war already? It’s barely eight.”

Jeremy arched a brow. “Because some of us don’t consider twelve hours of sleep a sport.”

“Some of us need our beauty sleep,” she shot back, plopping onto a stool.

She barely got comfortable before her phone buzzed. A smile spread across her face — soft, unguarded — as she typed something quickly. Nadya noticed immediately.

“Creighton?” she asked, knowingly.

Annika’s ears went pink. “Maybe.”

Annika was in New York for a couple of weeks since she had a holiday from University and of course her fucking boyfriend followed her because he’s a stalker with no boundaries.

Jeremy’s fork stilled against the plate. “Don’t tell me he’s picking you up from here again. I’ll have him thrown off the property next time.”

Nadya swatted his arm lightly. “Enough. He is polite. And he looks at her like she hung the moon. You should be glad.”

Jeremy muttered, “He’s a King. They’re all bad news.”
All being the keyword.

Annika rolled her eyes “You’re still my big brother Jere. Don’t get jealous.”

“Molodets,” Nadya said approvingly, kissing the top of Annika’s head. “Good girl. Don’t let your brother scare you.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes but said nothing, chewing slowly as Nadya laughed, the sound filling the kitchen with an ease Jeremy wouldn’t admit he needed.

Nadya poured him a cup of coffee, eyes softening as they flicked toward Annika. “Ах, мой мальчик… I always hope you find someone like that. Someone daring, sharp… like your sister with Creighton. Heart as strong as yours needs that too.”

Jeremy’s lips quirked. “Nadya… I’ve got you. That’s all I need.”

She chuckled softly, patting his hand.

Then his phone buzzed against the table. He glanced down, brow arching slightly.

Landon.

Good morning, Jeremy. I trust you survived the… consequences of last night’s decisions. Wouldn’t want you to think it was just a dream.

[Seen. No reply.]

Landon:
Ah, silence. Well, that isn’t too far from your normal responses, so I’ll take it you’re back to normal.

A pause. Then one more.

Landon:
Though I admit, I preferred the version of you that couldn’t keep quiet.

Jeremy’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He decided against it. Breathing out sharply, he picked up his keys and left. He had plans to visit the training centre.

Jeremy sometimes came by the training centre unannounced, just to watch, just to see which of the recruits had fire in them and which ones would burn out before they even lit. The Bratva didn’t need warm bodies; it needed men who understood loyalty, control, and the kind of discipline that didn’t break under pressure.

The convoy was already there when Jeremy arrived. Blacked-out G-Wagons lined the front of the training compound like sentries, polished to a mirror sheen despite the early hour. Engines still ticked in the cold morning air, vapour curling from exhausts. A pair of men in dark coats stood at the entrance, rifles slung across their chests, eyes sharp, backs straight.

Jeremy stepped out of his car and silence followed. No orders barked, no formal salute — just a weight of respect that rippled outward. He didn’t need ceremony. His presence was enough.

Inside, the air was heavy with sweat and gun oil. A punching bag thudded in the far corner, the rhythmic smack of fists echoing off concrete walls. Men moved through their drills: sparring, weights, precision shooting down the range. Russian voices blended with the low bass of a stereo.

Jeremy shed his coat and gloves, rolling his sleeves, moving among them as though he’d been born in this hall. And he had. Every man here knew it — they’d seen him bleed on these mats at fifteen, seen him break ribs and pull himself back up without flinching. Discipline was muscle memory for him.

“Утро доброе, brat,” one of the older captains greeted him with a nod.
Jeremy clasped his forearm, a firm grip, before stepping onto the mats.

A younger recruit squared up nervously. Jeremy’s jaw tightened, then he gestured: come on.

The first swing came too fast — clumsy speed, reckless. Jeremy blocked with ease, caught the boy’s wrist, twisted, and shoved him back. The boy stumbled, regrouped, came again. His eagerness was written in every muscle. And that was his first mistake.

Jeremy didn’t need to humiliate him. Just teach. He let the boy throw two more punches, let him taste the illusion of momentum, then swept his leg out from under him and sent him crashing hard onto the mats.

A grunt, sharp breath.

Jeremy stood over him, calm. That look in his eyes..

It was the same wild determination Ilya had when Jeremy first found him. Eager, reckless, like he wanted to prove something not just to the world but to himself. That hunger was dangerous — but with the right hand guiding it, it could be forged into steel.

The boy rolled back to his feet, a little slower this time. Good. He was learning already.

“Again,” Jeremy said, voice flat, Russian crisp.

The boy came in with more control. Jeremy let him push forward, let him strain against his guard, then used the boy’s momentum to slam him down again, this time pinning him with a knee to the chest.

He leaned down, dark eyes steady.
“Control. You lose that, you lose everything.”

The boy’s breath rasped, his pride bruised more than his body, but he nodded. That was enough for now.

Jeremy pushed off him, straightening, sweat rolling down his temple. He offered the boy his hand. Not many would have. The boy took it, surprised, and Jeremy yanked him back to his feet.

“Train harder,” Jeremy said. “Next time, don’t make me remind you twice.”

The boy gave a stiff nod, determination flashing sharper this time. Yes — he’d learn.

Jeremy adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, scanning the room. All the men had been watching. Good. Let them see. This was the standard. His father had taught him everything he knew. How to throw a punch and not break his own knuckles. How to fire a gun and clean it blindfolded. How to untie a knot under water, how to slip a lock, how to snap out of handcuffs with nothing but grit and bloodied wrists. By the time he was fifteen, he knew it all.

But knowing was one thing. Carrying it was another. Since then, he’d trained harder, fought longer, sharpened himself into steel. Every year brought more weight, more responsibility handed to him, and every time his father had made it clear: Jeremy was accountable. If he faltered, men bled for it. If he failed, the family failed.

That was the measure he lived by.

And looking at the boy still catching his breath on the mat, Jeremy knew he’d make him learn the same. He’d break him down and rebuild him until control was second nature, until discipline was written into his bones. Until there was no room left for hesitation.

That was what it meant to be Bratva.

This was the order of his life, and Jeremy was content with it.
Routine.
Family.
Brotherhood.
Business.

He woke early, he trained, he commanded, he came home. Every piece of his day fit where it was supposed to, every step carved into him with discipline and loyalty.

Nothing was out of the ordinary for him.

Until yesterday.

One night had been enough to throw the weight of his routine off balance, enough to leave a noise in his head that training and discipline couldn’t silence.

It had taken him far too long to get over it—long enough that he knew he hadn’t, not really.

And that was Landon King’s fault.

His phone began vibrating in in his pocket.
Speak of the devil and the devil appears.

He answers with a clipped, “What.”

Good afternoon, Jeremy.” Landon’s voice stretched smooth and unhurried down the line, the kind of tone that made it impossible to tell if he was mocking or serious. “I’m at your penthouse.”

Jeremy straightened in the leather seat, frown cutting sharp. “You’re what?”

“Relax,” Landon drawled. “Door was open.”

“The fuck it was.”

“Well, not for most people.” Jeremy could hear the smile in his voice, lazy, unbothered. “But I’m not most people.”

Ilya glanced at him in the rearview mirror, brows ticking up. Jeremy lifted a hand—don’t. He didn’t want commentary.

“What the hell are you doing there?”

“Oh, just… seeing if your sheets are as pristine as your reputation. Checking if you’re as disciplined as you like to pretend.” A pause.
“I’d like to see you please.” As if he was fucking booking a doctors appointment or something.

Jeremy’s hand gripped the phone tight. He didn’t answer. He cut the call instead.

“Drop yourself off at the mansion. I need to go home.” Jeremy leaned forward.

“Sir-“ Ilya began.

“I’ll drive.”

The switch of leather, the click of the seatbelt, the weight of the wheel under his palms—Jeremy’s world narrowed down to engine and asphalt. He punched the accelerator, the AMG growling through the streets.

He told himself he was going to throw Landon the hell out. That he was going to remind him this wasn’t a game, that Jeremy Volkov didn’t get caught off guard.
But the tightness in his chest, the heat low in his gut—it betrayed him.

Because the truth was, the second Landon said I’m at your penthouse, Jeremy had already decided he was going to him.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

The door slammed behind him, the echo still rattling in the high ceiling as Jeremy stalked into the penthouse. His coat was half off his shoulders, one hand still curled tight around his car keys, knuckles pale from how hard he’d gripped the wheel all the way here.

And there he was.

Landon King.
Sitting on Jeremy’s sofa like he’d paid rent, jacket off, shirt collar undone, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

Jeremy stopped in his tracks, heat flaring behind his eyes. “Get the fuck out.”

Landon didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He tilted his head just enough to look at him, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Good evening to you too, Jeremy.”

“You have ten seconds,” Jeremy said flatly, each word clipped. “Ten seconds to explain what the fuck you’re doing here before I throw you out.”

Landon didn’t even flinch. He stretched lazily, looking every bit like a cat who had wandered in to the warmest patch of sunlight. “Or what? You’ll drag me out by the collar?” He tipped his chin up. “Wouldn’t be the first time your hands have been on me, would it?”

Jeremy stalked across the living room, every step echoing in the marble and glass. His pulse was a roar in his ears. His fists curled at his sides. He hated how Landon looked so at ease in a place he had no business being. Like he owned the leather, the glass, the skyline outside the windows.

Jeremy’s nostrils flared. “You broke into my home.”

“And you broke into mine,” Landon shot back, silk wrapped around steel. “Twice. So is that the rule then? Only you get to trespass? Only you get to decide where the lines are drawn?”

Jeremy’s jaw clenched. “It’s not the same.”

“Of course not.” Landon’s voice dipped, slow and needling. “Because when you do it, it’s justified. When I do it…” He spread his hands in mock innocence. “Sacrilege.”

Landon leaned back against the edge of the sofa, casual, but the sharp glint in his eye made the posture anything but lazy. “You’re acting like I’ve threatened national security by stepping into your penthouse. Really, Volkov, it’s just four walls and a very unfortunate colour scheme.”

Jeremy’s voice was even. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“And yet,” Landon spread his hands, “you haven’t thrown me out. Why is that? You could. Easily. But you won’t.”

Jeremy’s silence hit like a crack in glass. He felt the weight of it in his chest, the urge to grab Landon by the collar and haul him out clashing hard with the sharper, uglier truth—that he didn’t want to. Not really. The thought flickered and he crushed it down, but not fast enough.

Landon’s eyes caught it, greedy, sharp, like a shark scenting blood. His smirk edged wider.

Jeremy clenched his jaw, willing his pulse into something calmer, tighter, willing the heat in his throat to read as rage, not want. But his body betrayed him, feet rooted, fists flexing without moving forward. If he touched him, it wouldn’t be to drag him out. And they both knew it.

The silence stretched a second too long.

“Come now, darling. You like to control the board. But what happens when someone plays your game back at you?”

Jeremy’s breathing was uneven, but he held his ground. “You think this is a fucking game?”

“Of course it’s not,” Landon replied, his tone smooth as honey, though the smirk lingered. “If it were, you wouldn’t be so bad at it.”

Landon paused, as if contemplating whether to say what he was thinking next. He did anyway.

“For the record, I think last night was the first honest thing you did.”

For a moment, the air between them was alive — fury and want tangled up until Jeremy could hardly tell them apart.

Jeremy’s laugh was sharp, humourless. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Landon’s smirk tilted, eyes narrowing with that infuriating glint. “Because I remember a very different man last night. One who didn’t mind crossing lines. One who—if my memory serves—kept pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.”

Jeremy’s jaw clenched, fury colliding with something hotter, more dangerous. “That was a mistake.”

“Was it?” Landon’s voice dropped, rich with provocation. “Funny. Didn’t feel like one.”

They stood there, two shadows in the dim light, a handful of feet apart but locked as though there was nowhere else in the world. Jeremy turned his face away first, dragging a hand over his jaw. He forced his voice calm, controlled, as if sheer discipline could smother the fire crawling through him.

“It can’t happen again. It’s not professional.”

For the first time, Landon laughed outright—low, dangerous, amused. “Professional?” His gaze swept over Jeremy like a challenge. “Darling, you run the Bratva. I deal in temptation and vice. Exactly which part of this,” his eyes flicked between them, “was ever supposed to be professional?”

Landon tilted his head, watching him with the kind of patience that was more dangerous than fury. Then, slowly, he stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that Jeremy felt the pull, the charge of him.

“Alright then,” Landon said, his tone smooth, deliberate. “Let’s be logical.”

“You’re thinking in terms of right and wrong, rules and boundaries. Professionalism, all very noble. But tell me—how exactly does this affect business? I’m not in your bratva meetings. You’re not in my gallery. Our worlds don’t overlap except when we choose to overlap. And that—” he leaned in a fraction closer, voice low and deliberate “—makes this the safest indulgence you could possibly have.”

Jeremy’s glare was sharp, but Landon only smiled sharper.

“You think this is about professionalism? No. That’s an excuse. It’s safer to say we shouldn’t than to admit you want to.” He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to something more intimate, more needling. “And the truth is—we’re not going to fall in love. That’s not what this is. I can’t. You won’t. So where’s the danger?”

Jeremy exhaled, hard, like he’d been struck. His hands flexed at his sides, a visible crack in his control.

Landon caught it, seized it, pressed harder. “If you strip away the excuses, what’s left is simple. You want me. I want you. Everything else is noise.”

Jeremy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Landon’s words had landed, clean and sharp, and for once Jeremy couldn’t parry them.

He hated it.

Because Landon was right—this wasn’t some grand romance waiting to implode. They weren’t going to fall in love. They would burn, scorch each other raw, and then walk away. That was all. Landon couldn’t fall in love with him, and Jeremy… Jeremy would never let himself.

But love wasn’t what terrified him.

It was the want.

The way his body remembered last night in painful clarity. The way he’d lost control—and worse, the way it hadn’t felt like losing. He’d told himself that if he ever stumbled, if he ever let desire strip him bare, it would mean weakness. But with Landon, it hadn’t. It had felt like—
Jeremy shut the thought down with a breath sharp enough to sting his throat.

Jeremy’s jaw worked as if he was chewing on the words before letting them out.
“This will never touch business. Ever. If I even think it’s interfering—”

Landon held up a hand, mock-serious, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Scout’s honour. Business stays business.”

Jeremy shot him a flat look. “I mean it.”

That smirk curved back, lazy and dangerous. “And I mean it too, Jeremy. You’ll have me when you want me, and when you don’t, I’ll disappear. It won’t touch your empire. Not unless you want it to.”

Jeremy hated how the last line dug under his skin, hated the rush of heat low in his stomach. He’d meant to draw a line in the sand, but Landon had turned it into an invitation.

The silence stretched, taut as a wire, Jeremy’s chest heaving with the effort of keeping himself composed. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, could feel the burn of Landon’s stare daring him to move first.

Then Jeremy exhaled, low, ragged. “Fine. Fuck. Come here.”

His hand shot out, fisting in the front of Landon’s shirt, dragging him forward, the other snapping up to grip the back of his neck. It wasn’t gentle. It was possession, frustration, hunger all at once.

Landon laughed, breathless, right before Jeremy’s mouth crashed against his. The impact rattled through him like breaking glass. Hot, hard, unrestrained.

For a second, Landon let himself be hauled around, reveling in the brute force of Jeremy finally giving in. Then his own hands were everywhere—skimming down Jeremy’s sides, clutching his hips, clawing at his back like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

Jeremy slammed him back into the wall with a thud, kissing him like he’d wanted to deny this until his lungs burned. Landon moaned into it, triumphant, greedy.

The taste of Landon’s mouth, the sound of his laugh caught against his lips—Jeremy hated how much he wanted it. Hated and wanted in equal measure.
Their hands roamed around each other bodies. Landon’s in his shirt, cold hand against warm muscle. Jeremy’s bruising Landons hip and another twisted in his hair.

Landon’s fingers brushed his buckle, slow, deliberate, teasing. Jeremy’s hands twitched at his sides, unused to this, unused to anyone daring to touch him like this. He swallowed, tension coiling in his chest. Jeremy catches his wrist for just a second. His breath is sharp, uneven.

“I’ve never—” he starts, words jagged, almost reluctant. Landon smirks, eyes glinting like he already knew what Jeremy was going to say and dips his head close enough that his lips brush Jeremy’s jaw.

Then you’re lucky,” he murmurs, deft fingers already working the buckle loose. “Because I’m very, very good at this.”

Jeremy’s pulse spiked. His mind screamed what the fuck are you doing to me, but his body betrayed him, leaning closer, magnetized. Landon’s confidence radiated, irresistible, and for a moment Jeremy forgot all his rules, all his discipline.

Landon dipped forward, brushing his mouth along Jeremy’s jaw, trailing down his neck. Jeremy’s breath hitched, a sound he didn’t even realise he was making, and Landon chuckled against his skin, hands firm on his hips, pressing him back. He switched their positions so that Jeremy was against the wall.

Jeremy barely registered the change in position. His hand was busy in unbuckling Landon’s belt. Landon stopped kissing him to watch the way Jeremy’s hand moved on him. Jeremy yanked down, just enough to free him then began tracing his fingertips around his lower stomach.

“Fuck you.” Was Landons response, but it was breathy and missing the bite. Jeremy held his smirk.

Then, carefully, expertly, Landon took their hands held them both in his hand—his and Jeremy’s—so that they moved together. Jeremy’s fingers stiffened at first, hesitant, unfamiliar, but Landon’s touch was steady, patient, confident. He jerked them together once. Breaths caught.

Landon’s hands moved with precision, slick and sure, drawing both of them closer to the edge. Jeremy’s vision swam, pulse hammering in his ears, every nerve lit on fire as he watched Landon’s hair stick to the sides of his face, darkened with sweat. Those eyes—black with desire, sharp, hungry—locked onto him, devouring him, unafraid to show exactly how much he wanted him.

Jeremy didn’t have the energy to resist. His hand found Landon’s throat, wrapping around it, fingers pressing just enough. He felt Landon’s grip tighten instantly on them both, eyes rolling back for the barest moment, and a low, guttural sound escaped him.

“Oh fuckk.” Landon choked out.
His other hand moved faster, tugging harder, deliberate, and Jeremy’s nails dug in, pressing into his throat. Their bodies were already dangerously close to toppling over, and yet neither cared.

“Im gonna…”, Jeremy couldn’t hold it in any longer. The way Landon was working them was fucking relentless. He sucked in a gasp sharp and quick.

“Me too” Landons voice a whisper.

“Holyfuckholyfuck I can’t...” Jeremy’s voice was fucking hoarse. Hearing himself made him flush red. The words hit Landon like a live wire, grounding him even as his control unraveled. And then it was simultaneous—a shattering, dizzying release that left them breathless, foreheads pressed together, bodies shaking. If they weren’t holding each other, they’d probably fall over completely.

For a long, perfect moment, neither moved. Only the pulse of their racing hearts filled the silence, the taste of desire and heat hanging thick between them.

Landon leaned back, slowly, deliberately, until the heat of their bodies separated just enough for space. His chest still heaving, he allowed himself a small, crooked grin, catching Jeremy’s gaze for a moment too long.

Jeremy stood stiffly, tugging at his shirt, throat dry, pulse still hammering. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the suddenly quiet penthouse. The chandelier above glinted off the polished surfaces, crystal prisms scattering light across the room, highlighting just how real this was.

“I’ll get us some towels.” Jeremy started, averting Landons gaze completely.

The tension hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Words felt unnecessary, too dangerous, too loaded. Landon’s eyes roamed over Jeremy for a brief moment—the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell, the subtle shiver that ran down him—and Jeremy caught it.

Landon shrugged “Okay.” He moved to the right so that Jeremy could walk past him.

Jeremy came back from the bathroom with a damp towel, dropped one onto Landon, who had moved to the sofa, and without a word, and started cleaning himself off. Landon caught it, wiped lazily, smirking like nothing monumental had just happened.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Landon drawled, tossing the towel onto the floor like it was disposable.

Jeremy ignored him, buckling his belt back in place. “This doesn’t happen again without rules.”

That actually made Landon laugh — sharp, amused, disbelieving. “Rules? Christ, you’re boring. Fine. Lay them on me.”

Jeremy’s jaw flexed. “No interference with business. Ever. This stays out of work.”

Landon spread his hands like he was sealing a pact. “Done.”

“No one finds out. Not family, not the Bratva, not your little entourage. No one.”

“Secrecy. I like it,” Landon said, eyes glinting. “Makes it hotter.”

Jeremy shot him a look cold enough to kill the smile, but Landon only leaned back against the sofa, stretching like a cat.

“And this,” Jeremy added, voice harder now, “is only physical. Nothing else. No public bullshit. Only in my place or yours.”

For a moment, Landon’s smirk twitched into something darker. Then he tipped his head, almost mocking. “Relax, Jeremy. You think I’m looking to fall in love with you? Please. You’re not my type.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t rise to it. Instead he simply said, flat and final:
“Good. Then we understand each other.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t meant to be.

Jeremy leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “One more thing.”

Landon, still half-sprawled on the couch, arched a brow. “What now, a contract in blood?”

“I don’t like surprises,” Jeremy said flatly. “I don’t play it by the moment. I want to know where the lines are.”

That earned him a slow grin, sharkish. “Lines? Christ. You really are a control freak.” Landon sat up, closer now, voice low but mocking. “Here’s the truth: I don’t plan. I don’t like rules about who does what and when. You’ll just have to… keep up.”

Jeremy’s jaw clenched. He hated the vagueness, hated how Landon sounded like he had all the leverage.

“Don’t worry,” Landon added, with a flash of teeth. “You’ll like the way I play.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes made it clear: this conversation wasn’t over.

A beat passed. Landon stood first, smoothing his shirt back into place, all sharp angles and calm control like nothing had just happened between them. “I’ll see myself out,” he said, tone too casual, too easy.

Jeremy didn’t answer. Didn’t even move. Just tracked him with his eyes, jaw clenched, until the soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the silence.

Then it was only him. The dark glass windows, the skyline sprawling beyond, the faint smell of expensive cologne still clinging to the air.

Jeremy sat there, elbows braced on his knees, chest heaving like he’d just gone twelve rounds in the ring. He should feel clearer now. Cleaner. He’d gotten it out of his system. That was the point.

But instead, his head was a fucking mess.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like… relief. Like he’d been starving and finally gotten a taste of something he didn’t know he needed.

He cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Landon King. Out of all the people. Out of all the vices in the world, Jeremy had gone and picked the most dangerous one.

And worse—he wanted more.

God help him, he already wanted more.

It didn’t matter how many times he told himself it was a mistake, that it would screw with his discipline, with his control. He’d spent his whole life mastering himself, bending every instinct to routine and rule.

But Landon… Landon didn’t fit into any fucking rulebook. And for once in his life, Jeremy wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.

Chapter Text

Landon

The thing no one tells you about victory is that it’s flat.

Not empty—never empty. Emptiness implies some sort of wound, a hollowed-out cavity that aches. I don’t ache. I don’t bleed. It isn’t sadness or despair. It’s just… flat.

Like the aftertaste of smoke. Like the way a room smells once the music’s stopped. The silence presses in on you, unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and you realise—ah, so this is why I always reach for something else. A drink. A line. A body.

Tonight, that body had been Jeremy Volkov’s.

And yes, I’d got what I came for. The great Volkov had cracked, his hands on me, his control slipping like sand through his fists. He’d kissed me like a drowning man. Touched me like he couldn’t stand not to. The memory alone should’ve been enough to keep me warm all night.

But here I was, buttoning my shirt again, watching him avoid my eyes as if avoiding me could erase the taste of my mouth from his. And the flatness was already creeping in.

I should’ve been satisfied. I’d executed the plan perfectly: press, push, provoke until he admitted the truth neither of us wanted to name. That he wanted me. That he’d break his rules for me.

Mission accomplished.

So why did I still feel that low hum in my veins, that restless itch that always followed the high?

Because Jeremy Volkov wasn’t cocaine. He wasn’t whiskey. He wasn’t some nameless boy I could bend over a hotel balcony and forget by morning. He was worse. He was addictive. Not because he was special—but because he was disciplined. And there’s nothing sweeter than breaking discipline.
Jeremy had rattled off his rules like he was chiselling commandments into stone. No business. No witnesses. No feelings.

I agreed to Jeremy’s rules, of course. Nodded in all the right places, pretended to be listening. I even repeated one back to him so he’d think I cared. Something about no business crossing into pleasure, or maybe no pleasure crossing into business. I can’t remember which way around. Doesn’t matter. He needed to hear the words, and I needed to get what I wanted. Transaction complete.

Because that’s all it is. A transaction.

The only thing I do remember, with surgical precision, is the way his jaw tightened when he told me to look at him. The rasp in his voice when he came apart. That’s not something I’ll forget.

So yes, I’ll play along. Let him pretend this is all mapped out, contained in neat little boxes. It costs me nothing to humour him. If it makes him more willing to keep letting me in—to keep giving me what I want—I’ll nod at every rule he invents.

Because I know the truth. He’s already lost.

And me? I don’t lose.

I don’t feel regret. Or guilt. Or whatever it is people like Jeremy drown in at night. I don’t lie awake thinking about what it means. I just want more. More heat, more friction, more proof that I can bend him, make him crack. That I can see the perfect machine stutter.

He wants this too. Don’t let him fool you with his careful silences and his meticulous rules. Jeremy Volkov doesn’t make rules unless he’s afraid of breaking them. Which means he’s already broken. I just have to keep pressing.

The truth is, Jeremy is useful. He’s sharp, disciplined, untouchable to almost everyone else. But with me? He lets go. That makes him both leverage and entertainment. A rare combination. Most people are only one or the other.

And me? I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. But I want him—like a gambler wants another hand, like an addict wants the high he swears he can quit. The flatness gets worse if I stop. So why stop?

Well, Dr Gabriel would have a field day if he could hear my thoughts right now. He’s obsessed with origins. Always wants to know when it started, as if a single moment made me the way I am. He doesn’t get it—there wasn’t one. It’s just always been this way. I’ve always known who I am.

My parents didn’t. Or maybe they did, and they just couldn’t say it out loud. They wanted to believe I was normal, that I’d grow out of it. They didn’t want me to think I was different. But I knew. I was seven when I realised it for sure. A boy at school started crying because his mum was late to pick him up. Big, heaving sobs, face blotchy and red. Everyone else was rushing to comfort him, and I just… watched. I didn’t get it. Why waste all that energy over something so small? I went home that night, stood in front of the mirror, and practised. The crying faces, the sounds. How to make the right kind of tears. It was easy enough. Performance has always been easy for me.

I got good at it fast. Mimicking sadness, excitement, fear. I practiced in mirrors until the expressions felt second nature. Eventually I didn’t even have to think about it. People saw what they wanted to see. And the adults? They were worse than the kids. Always telling themselves stories about who I was. My parents especially. They didn’t want to admit I was different. They wanted to believe I’d grow out of it. I let them. Easier that way.

And then came the therapists. A parade of well-meaning professionals who tried to prod me into feelings. They’d say things like, “And how did that make you feel?” I’d tell them the truth—“It didn’t”—and watch them squirm. They tried to hide it, but I saw it in the way they tightened their grip on their pen, the way their eyes skittered to the clock. That’s how I knew they were useless. Pretending at detachment, terrified underneath.

But then came Dr Gabriel. I met him when I was 19. He looked a little like an older version of my uncle Aiden, which I noticed first - broad shoulders, dark hair with a streak of grey, lines carved deep around the eyes. But he didn’t act like him. He wore Christmas jumpers from November and he gave out chocolate bunnies on Easter. But more than that—he didn’t flinch. Not when I told him stories, not when I pushed for a reaction. I told him once, just to test him, about the time I watched a boy drown at the public pool. Everyone else panicked. I walked away. “What did you feel as you walked?” he asked. Calm. Like he was asking the time. No judgement, no revulsion. Just interest. It irritated me and intrigued me in equal measure. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a sociopath too.

I kept him. I still see him. Not because he’s changing me—he isn’t—but because he’s useful. He’s a tool. A way to sharpen myself, learn the language of emotions I’ll never actually feel. Better masks, smoother lies. That’s what therapy is for me. Everyone else plays at honesty. I play at performance. And I always win.

Landon slid into the armchair like it belonged to him, one ankle balanced lazily on his knee. “You look tired, Gabriel. Lydia keeping you busy?”

Gabriel glanced up from his notes, pen hovering. “Not unusually.”

“Hmm,” Landon hummed, lips quirking. “I imagine perfectionists make terrible company in the evenings. All that unfinished business on their minds.”

Gabriel allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “She’s doing well. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” Landon said smoothly, as if this were just casual conversation between old friends. “I like Lydia. She has taste. More than you, actually.”

“That so?”

“You still haven’t changed these curtains. Distracting. Dreadful shade.” He tipped his head, eyes half-lidded, watching for any flicker in Gabriel’s expression. “I’d say you were too sentimental to replace them, but that doesn’t quite fit, does it? Pragmatic to the bone, our doctor.”

Gabriel made a note. Didn’t look up. “Interesting theory.”

Landon smiled faintly, letting silence stretch before he spoke again. “So what’s today’s puzzle? Am I supposed to talk about my feelings?” His tone was almost bored. “Or should we both admit we’re just here to keep my parents happy and you in business?”

Gabriel’s eyes finally met his, calm and unwavering. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Something about the answer—unshaken, utterly even—earned the doctor the smallest nod from Landon, like an unspoken approval.

Gabriel finally glanced up, calm as ever. “How’s your week been?”

“Predictable.” Landon gave a little shrug. “I don’t bore easily, but I nearly did. Had to find… diversions.”

“Diversions.”

“Yes,” Landon said smoothly, lips quirking. “You’d be surprised what people will give you if you ask the right way. Or the wrong way, depending on your taste.”

Gabriel let the silence breathe. “And how did those diversions make you feel?”

Landon chuckled, low and dry. “You always do that. Slip the word ‘feel’ in like it belongs. Clever. But you know I don’t feel the way you mean.”

“Then tell me your way.”

That earned Gabriel a look—sharp, assessing, almost entertained. Landon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Flat,” he said finally. “That’s the best word. Flat until it isn’t. And then I burn through whatever high I’ve carved out, and it’s back again. Same dullness. I don’t mind it, I’m used to it. It’s just… inconvenient sometimes.”

“Why inconvenient?”

“It’s irritating. Like a song stuck on loop. Not bad enough to smash the radio. Not good enough to keep listening. So you find noise to drown it out. Better noise.”

Gabriel nodded once, jotting something, but his voice stayed steady. “And lately, what’s been your better noise?”

Landon’s smile sharpened, lazy and cutting at the same time. “Now, if I told you that, Gabriel, you’d start prying in places you shouldn’t. And we both know I only let you dig where I want you to.”

The doctor’s gaze was steady, not rising to the tease. “True. But I’m still going to ask.”

There was a long beat of silence. Then Landon leaned back again, lacing his fingers behind his head like a cat stretching in the sun. “Well —” he dropped his arms suddenly, gesturing loosely, “—I did find something. Or someone. Stimulating enough to cut through the static.”

Gabriel’s expression didn’t shift. “A relationship?”

“No. An arrangement.”

“And what’s this person like?

Landon taps on the armrest before speaking.
“He’s different. Strong. Obsessively controlled. He sets rules for sex. Can you believe that?”
Landon laughs loud and sharp.

Gabriel’s pen moved slowly across the page. “Why did you agree?”

“Because it amused me.” Landon’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because the rules matter to him, and watching him cling to them makes it easier to pull them apart. Because if I refused, the game would’ve ended before it began. And I’m not done playing.”

Gabriel leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “What do you get from this game, Landon?”

“Distraction. Fun.” Landon said after a beat. His voice dropped, smooth, deliberate. “For a while, I don’t have to think about how dull everything is. He wants control, I want distraction. We both get what we want. Simple.”

“Transactional,” Gabriel said softly.

“Exactly. Transactional.” Landon pointed at him as if he’d scored a point. “No illusions. Not love. Not care. He gets to feel powerful, I get entertained. Clean, efficient. Almost… elegant.”

He leaned forward suddenly, sharp smile playing at his lips. “And that, Gabriel, is fascinating. Because I’ve spent years making other people believe things. And here comes this man—believing in his own rules as if they’re iron—and I let him. I let him think he’s holding the leash.”

Gabriel didn’t look unsettled, didn’t even blink. “Maybe you let him because it keeps the arrangement alive. Because part of you doesn’t want it to end.”

Landon tilted his head, amused. “Maybe not.”

Gabriel didn’t let it go. “Why not?”

For the first time, Landon hesitated. Not long enough to admit it was hesitation, just a breath too long before he spoke. He smoothed it over with a faint smile. “You know me. I enjoy the theatre of it. Watching people perform their little roles. He’s more entertaining than most.”

Gabriel’s eyes stayed on him. “That’s a surface answer. What’s underneath?”

Landon gave a quiet laugh. “What makes you think there’s an underneath?”

“There usually is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—at least not for Gabriel. Landon leaned back, stretched out as though to show how unaffected he was, but his gaze had gone unfocused, tracking some thought across the ceiling.

“Why not,” he echoed finally, almost to himself. “Because maybe…” He caught the word before it could fall fully, pressed his tongue against his teeth, and changed direction. “Because maybe it’s rare. And rarity, Gabriel, is a currency I respect.”

Gabriel didn’t challenge that. He just wrote something down.

Landon’s mouth twitched. “What did you put in your notes just now?”

“Something for me to remember,” Gabriel said evenly. “Not for you.”

“Unfair,” Landon drawled, though there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leaned forward suddenly, sharp again. “Tell me, Gabriel—have you actually read all these books? Or are they meant to make you look smart only?”

A laugh rumbled out of the older man, genuine, warm in a way Landon wasn’t used to hearing. “I’ve read them more than once.”

“Of course you have,” Landon muttered, rising from his chair without asking. His movements were easy, deliberate, like he owned the room. He drifted toward the shelves, running a finger along the spines, pulling out a volume at random. Marcus Aurelius. Meditations. He flipped it open, flicking through the pages without reading a word, then shut it with a soft thud and replaced it.

“Do you keep them alphabetised, or is there some hidden code?”

“Neither,” Gabriel said. “It’s instinct. I like them to be within reach when I need them.”

“That sounds chaotic.” He plucked out another—Freud, predictably—and arched a brow over his shoulder. “This one’s a cliché. I expected better.”

Gabriel smiled faintly. “Even clichés have teeth, if you know where to look.”

Landon hummed, unimpressed, though he didn’t put the book back right away. He skimmed a line, lips quirking at the dense jargon. “You really enjoy this? Or do you just pretend so patients think you’re clever?”

“I enjoy what I learn from them,” Gabriel replied evenly. “And I enjoy when patients try to catch me out. Like you’re doing now.”

Landon snapped the book closed and finally set it back. “You’re hard to rattle, I’ll give you that.”

He wandered further, trailing fingertips along the row of leather bindings. “You know,” he said casually, “someone might think this place is a shrine. To wisdom. To human feeling. To everything I don’t particularly care about.”

“And yet you’re here,” Gabriel said, his voice calm but deliberate. “Week after week.”

Landon’s hand stilled on a spine. He didn’t turn. “Because my parents like the idea of me being here.”

“Only that?”

There was a pause, short but sharp. Then Landon laughed softly, dismissive. “Don’t start congratulating yourself, Doctor. I’m not secretly yearning for enlightenment.”

“I wouldn’t insult you with such an assumption.” Gabriel’s voice had that steady weight again, the kind that pressed without raising its tone. “But maybe you are here because you recognise something—even if you wouldn’t name it. Something unfinished.”

Landon turned then, that flash of teeth returning, equal parts charm and threat. “Or maybe I just like watching you squirm when I bring up your wife.”

Gabriel chuckled, unruffled. “Then by all means, ask about her again.”

Landon tilted his head, considering. Then he sauntered back to his seat, dropping into it with a fluid sprawl. “Later. Right now, I want you to tell me which one of these books you think I’d actually finish.”

Gabriel smiled at that. “I was worried you’d never ask.” Gabriel’s gaze flicked to the desk, where a slim book sat apart from the others. Landon followed it, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh no,” he said, dragging out the words like they tasted sour. “Don’t tell me that’s for me.”

Gabriel folded his hands. “It’s a suggestion. Not homework.”

“Homework,” Landon repeated with a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “What are we, twelve? You going to grade me if I dog-ear the pages?”

“You’re free to ignore it.” Gabriel’s tone was mild, but his eyes stayed steady on Landon. “But I thought you might enjoy it.”

Landon stood, drawn despite himself, and picked up the book. It wasn’t thick, maybe a hundred pages. The cover was plain, the title embossed in worn gold. He read it out loud, incredulous: Notes from Underground.

“Oh, very funny,” he said, lips curling. “A miserable little Russian ranting in his basement. Subtle, Gabriel. Real subtle.”

Gabriel smiled faintly. “You’ll find he doesn’t rant so much as dissect. Himself, others, the absurdity of society. It’s not about sentiment—it’s about perspective.”

Landon flipped it open, scanning a paragraph before snapping it shut with a sharp clap. “Sounds like a whiner with too much time on his hands.”

“Or a man who saw more clearly than most.”

“Uh huh.” Landon tossed it lightly onto the chair beside him, like he was done with it already. But he didn’t kick it away either.

Gabriel didn’t press, just watched with that maddening patience.

Landon stretched, restless. “You know, for a therapist, you’re awfully fond of dead people’s words. Guess it’s safer than dealing with the living.”

“Sometimes,” Gabriel said quietly, “people find themselves more honestly in the words of the dead.”

That landed heavier than Landon expected. He didn’t show it, just smirked and dropped back into his seat. “Well, I’ll be sure to let Dostoevsky hold my hand next time I’m feeling lonely.”

“Not lonely,” Gabriel said gently. “Just…isolated. There’s a difference.”

Landon’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing. The book remained where he’d left it, within reach.

The clock on the wall clicked softly, pulling Landon’s attention. Gabriel followed his glance but didn’t move to end the session, not yet.

Landon stood, stretching lazily, and then reached for the book on the chair. He turned it over once in his hands, thumb brushing the spine, before slipping it under his arm.

“Don’t hold your breath,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gabriel said evenly. “See you next week, Landon.”

“Unfortunately,” Landon shot back, lips curling. He slid his sunglasses on even though the sky outside was already losing its light.

The door shut behind him with a quiet finality. Gabriel exhaled once, slow, and glanced at the empty chair where the book had sat. He smiled faintly.

Landon didn’t notice, because he was already gone—book in hand.

Chapter Text

Landon

It had been a week since he’d seen Jeremy.
Seven days, which in Landon’s world might as well have been a year.

He’d counted. Each morning he woke up and didn’t see Jeremy at a gallery or a dinner or one of those meaningless fundraisers, the rhythm ticked louder. Each night he went to bed and thought he should’ve come by, it got worse.

He wasn’t the kind of man who waited.
He didn’t do waiting. He didn’t do yearning. Or pining or any of those other words which suggested innocent patience.

And yet here he was, restless in his own penthouse, pacing between windows and his bar like some caged executive cliché. Every glass of scotch went half-finished. Every distraction — the usual ones — felt cheap. He’d had opportunities; there was a model, a collector’s assistant, two men at a gala last night who would’ve crawled after a glance.
He didn’t even bother.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t have them — it was that he didn’t want to. None of them would look at him like Jeremy did. Like they were deciding whether to shoot him or kiss him. And fuck that’s exactly the poison he chose.

He told himself absence makes the heart grow fonder. As you can imagine that didn’t work. His heart definitely didn’t grow at all, but somewhere down south grew considerably. Maybe, Jeremy was genuinely as busy as he made out to be, and he was not trying to distract himself from his own desires.
And yet, the quiet was starting to feel like mockery.

He thumbed his phone open, looked at their old thread — short texts, clipped, clinical. Not a single one was warm.
Typical Volkov.
Too principled to admit what he wanted, too proud to ask for it.

Landon typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.

Landon: You’ve been busy.

He stared at the message for a few seconds, then punched out another.

Landon: You’re avoiding me.

The reply came quicker than Landon expected. But it did nothing to soothe the discomfort in his chest.

Jeremy: I’m working.

Landon: I don’t care if you’re orchestrating a coup. Be at my penthouse by 9. Or I’m storming your family home so help me God.

He sent it, tossed the phone onto the counter, and exhaled.

If he were a better man — or a different one — he might’ve left it there. But patience wasn’t in his DNA, and self-restraint wasn’t exactly one of his hobbies.

He wanted to see that look on Jeremy’s face again. That barely-contained fury when Landon pushed too far. The tremor of want beneath the control. He wanted to ruin that composure again — methodically this time.

A week of pretending indifference was enough.
He spent the next hour pretending he wasn’t waiting.

The thing about pretending, though, is that it always looks like pretending.
He moved through his penthouse like a man rearranging his own alibi — a glass here, jacket off, jacket on, pacing from window to window until the skyline blurred into white noise.

He checked his reflection once. Twice. Fixed his cufflinks. Undid them again.
He told himself he didn’t care if Jeremy came. He just didn’t like being ignored. That was all.
(He said it twice in his head, which made it sound less convincing.)

By 8:50, there was still no message.

The scotch he poured wasn’t for taste — it was to keep his hands busy. He sipped, tongue catching the burn, eyes flicking to the elevator at the far end of the hall.
He remembered the last time Jeremy had been here — the mess, the sound, the way his control had almost broken.
He didn’t like thinking about it. He liked feeling it, though.
He wanted the tremor again, that exact shiver when Jeremy had finally said his name like it was something he wasn’t supposed to.

He was halfway through his second glass when the intercom buzzed.
One sharp tone.

Landon smiled — that slow, deliberate smile that never reached his eyes.

Of course Jeremy was late.
Of course he didn’t text.
It was so very him.

He set the glass down and crossed the floor, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the polished marble. He didn’t rush. He wanted Jeremy to wait a few seconds longer in the hallway — just to feel it. The imbalance. The fact that Landon could make him wait.

He pressed the button to unlock the door and leaned against the frame, voice lazy, rich, deliberate.

“Volkov,” he drawled, “you took your time.”

Jeremy Volkov was a sight for sore eyes. And Landon’s eyes were very sore.
Dark hair stuck in messy tufts from his helmet, almost black under the slick of rain. It was pouring outside — Landon could tell from the way the water glistened down the leather clinging to Jeremy’s arms. God, those arms — carved muscle and violence, they could strangle him if Jeremy wanted to. And maybe Landon would let him.

He smelled like rain, asphalt, and something darker that Landon couldn’t place. His eyes were grey, almost black in the low light, with a single strand of hair falling into one of them.

“You going to stare any longer, or can I come in?” Jeremy tilted his head.

Fuck. Landon wasn’t exactly discreet.

He smirked instead, stepping back and retreating to his place by the counter. Jeremy’s boots clicked on the white marble floor, each step echoing beneath the high ceilings — an unhurried threat. He stopped halfway through the room, eyes roaming across the walls. Massive canvases hung side by side, bleeding darkness and abstraction. Landon hated landscapes; he preferred things that unsettled people, that made them look twice.

Jeremy was looking, and Landon couldn’t tell what he was seeing.

“Next time you fucking threaten me, Landon,” Jeremy said without looking at him, “I won’t be as gracious as to show up at your beck and call.” His voice was low, taut, and still locked on the painting across the room.

“Sounds like something you need to convince yourself of,” Landon said, sliding off the counter, steps soundless on marble. He came closer, his voice softening but not losing its edge. “So why are you here, Jeremy?”

Jeremy’s throat moved — a small, betraying swallow that Landon caught immediately. Delicious.

“Here to dictate more rules?” Landon murmured, taking another step closer. “Or are you finally going to stop running away from what — or more specifically, who — you want?”

He stopped inches away. Jeremy’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Because I’m right here, Jeremy.”
His voice was low, the whisper slicing the air between them.

Jeremy reached out, grabbed him by the neck — again. He really did need to learn gentler ways to kiss. But Landon didn’t have the energy or the interest to argue. He met him halfway, crashing into the kiss, fingers digging into the leather at Jeremy’s elbows and pulling him closer. One arm looped around Jeremy’s neck as he groaned into the kiss, swallowing Jeremy’s breath, letting him bite his lip raw.

Jeremy’s tongue tasted like heat and defiance.

Landon pulled away first, chest heaving, eyes flicking down to Jeremy’s lips as they parted — and almost leaned back in when Jeremy instinctively followed. He pressed a hand to Jeremy’s chest instead.

“Wait.” His voice was steady, low. “Before we go any further, I need to know you’re fine with bottoming tonight.”

Jeremy’s eyes snapped open. His hands dropped instantly. The temperature between them changed — not cold, just sharper.

“Whoa,” Jeremy said, stepping back half a pace. “The fuck? I’ve never even been with a guy — let alone have a man—”

“So?” Landon interrupted. Calm. Measured. “I’ll teach you. I’ll go slow. I just—” he swallowed, the smirk faltering into something rawer, needier, “I just need it tonight. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

Jeremy paused.
His reply came like a gunshot.
“Only if you beg.”

The smirk on his face made something feral unfurl in Landon’s chest. It wasn’t anger — it was hunger. Deep, embarrassing, human hunger.

Beg?

He could get anyone he wanted with a glance, a grin, a hand on a thigh. But here was Jeremy, telling him to drop the crown for once. To crawl, not command.

Humiliating? Maybe.
But it would only be humiliating if Landon thought it was. Landon controlled his own mind thankfully.

He took a breath, teeth sinking into his cheek.
“Please,” he said softly, stepping forward until there was no space left between them, “Let me fuck you like you deserve.”

Jeremy’s smirk disappeared. His eyes, stormy grey, burned with something Landon couldn’t read. Then, without a word, Jeremy grabbed him by the arm — hard — and stalked toward the bedroom.

Landon followed, pulse singing.

Landon’s head hit the back of the door as Jeremy shoved him into it. The impact drew a rough exhale from his throat, half pain, half something far darker. Jeremy had removed his jacket somewhere between the hallway and here, and was now dragging his shirt off, the fabric clinging for a moment before coming loose. Landon’s eyes followed every movement — the ripple of muscle, the brief flash of skin, the dark lines of his tattoo shifting with each breath.

“Seriously,” Jeremy said, his voice a low rasp, “you’ve got a staring problem.”

“You’re the problem,” Landon shot back, his tone caught between a growl and a sigh as he dragged Jeremy back in.

The sound of his belt coming undone was sharp, deliberate — a metallic click that cut through the air like a promise.

Clothes fell away in uneven rhythm, quick hands, sharp breaths, brief moments where one of them paused to look, to take in what they’d both been waiting for. Then Landon shoved — a single push that sent Jeremy stumbling back until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He landed on it with a low thud, steadying himself on his palms as Landon followed, eyes locked.

The air between them crackled. Every move felt inevitable.

Landon dropped to his knees. His palms found Jeremy’s thighs, thumbs tracing the tense muscle, pressing just enough to feel the heat beneath skin. He ran his hands up and down few times, and basked in the way Jeremys hairs stood on end, a shiver raking through his body. Landon leaned forward, pressing a kiss against the sharp line of Jeremy’s stomach, feeling it rise under his mouth.

“We have to prep,” Landon murmured, voice rough, grounded.

Jeremy shot him a look, sharp and impatient. “Yes. I’m not a fucking idiot, Landon.”

Landon huffed a laugh, low and brief, pulling open a drawer beside the bed. He held up a douche between two fingers.

Jeremy takes it and walks into the bathroom. Before disappearing inside, he glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t start without me.”

Fuck him. That was an impossible task.
Landon waits for what feels like an eternity, at some point he felt like breaking the door down, Landon’s laugh was quiet, but his pulse didn’t agree.
Waiting felt like being strung out on wire — every sound in the apartment suddenly too loud, too slow. He sprawled back on the bed, failing miserably at following orders.

By the time Jeremy returned, Landon was sitting up again, chest rising a little too quickly.

“Come here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of something that had been simmering for far too long.
Jeremy didn’t take the offered hand, but he crossed the space anyway, steps heavy against the marble. Landon reached for him, caught him, switched their positions in one smooth motion. Their mouths met again — this time without hesitation. The sound of it filled the room, raw and desperate.

Landon’s lips traced the edge of Jeremy’s jaw, down his throat, down further, each touch more deliberate, more claiming. Jeremy’s hand buried in Landon’s hair, grip tight but not to pull him away — just to hold, to anchor. He continues his path. Jeremy watches him with intensity. He settles between Jeremy’s legs. Tongue licking and kissing the inside of his thighs. Until it goes lower- and Jeremys hip jerks.

“Jesus-“ he hissed. Hands gripping the sheet.

“Not quite,” Landon smirked, coming back up, lips wet. “But I do like the way you pray.”
His head disappears again and Jeremy’s knuckles go white.

“Fuck that feels weird.” He mutters through clenched teeth.

“Good weird?” Landon’s voice came from somewhere below, teasing, breathless.

Jeremy didn’t answer immediately. His eyes fluttered, his jaw tightened. “I don’t know. Just weird.”

Landon reaches for a bottle on the nightstand, and pours the liquid on his fingers.

“Okay. This one might feel weirder” he says before pushing a finger in.

And with that, the air in the room changed — slow, deliberate, drawn tight like a held breath. Every sound, every movement, every exhale became a moment stretched to its limit.

Jeremy’s lip gets caught between his teeth and his eyes roll back. Landon pushes up to his knuckle and pulls out again. He watches for a reaction, but Jeremy doesn’t give one. He does it again a few times until it’s easy enough, then he pushes in a second finger. That gets Jeremy to crack just a little. A groan escapes his mouth and one his arms go above his head, gripping the pillow.

Landons fingers trace and stroke, pressing all the right angles, all while kissing Jeremy wherever he can reach.

Then, a curl of his fingers causes Jeremy to jerk suddenly. His muscles pull taut and a sharp gasp is pulled out of him. They make eye contact and Landon smirks. Jeremy’s breaths came faster, short gasps punctuated with quiet groans, his stormy eyes never leaving Landon’s.

Then Landon stops. Jeremy’s breath hitches, and for a moment neither of them move. Landon begins to pulls away, and aligns himself.

Landon pauses then leans in. Lips hovering Jeremy’s ear. “Ready?” He murmurs, voice low.

Jeremy’s chest rose sharply, grey eyes wide, pupils blown, stormy yet focused. He nods once.

“Good,” Landon whispered, smirking against the curve of his jaw. “Because I need you all in this moment.”

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed in. Jeremy gasped sharply, a startled sound that became a low, ragged moan as Landon shifted, easing him down against the bed. The new sensation was overwhelming, alien, hot, and Jeremy’s body arched instinctively, hands gripping the sheets, one digging into Landon’s side.
Landon stills for a moment once he’s fully inside.

“You’re so tight,” Landon murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Jeremy’s shoulder, his voice both praise and coaxing. “Fucking perfect. Just like this.”

Jeremy let out a sharp exhale, grey eyes flicking to Landon’s, stormy and intense. “Fuck… it’s-.”

Landon runs his hand in Jeremy’s now damp hair. “You feel amazing. Can you feel me inside you?”

“Yes.” Jeremy exhales again, moving his hips tentatively.

Landon starts thrusting, slow at first, letting Jeremy adjust. His body shivered, chest rising falling unevenly, a mix of surprise and craving etched on his face. Landon leaned down, brushing his lips along Jeremy’s jaw.

“I love the way you take me, Jeremy. Don’t stop. Keep that focus.”

Landon went deeper, his speed increasing as he builds a rhythm.

Jeremy let out a strangled sound, gripping Landon’s shoulders tighter, one hand moving in his hair, the other clutching the sheets. “Oh fuck…”

“Let me hear you, Jer,” Landon murmured, face was buried in Jeremy’s neck.

He pressed deeper with the next stroke, eliciting another sharp exhale from Jeremy, who instinctively tilted back, hips moving with the motion. “Ugh… Landon… holy fuck,” Jeremy groaned, chest rising rapidly.

“Yeah?” Landon teased, smirking, holding Jeremy’s gaze. “You love it? Take it, Jeremy. Take all of me.”

Jeremy’s breath hitched, hands tightening. “There…oh fuck”

“That’s it.” Landon murmured, lowering his voice, coaxing, seductive. “I’m not going anywhere. Keep going, let me feel you.”

The rhythm grew faster. Each movement was precise, controlled, a mixture of tenderness and raw heat. Landon’s hands roamed, guiding Jeremy’s body, his own movements measured, teasing, relentless.

“Fucking perfect,” Landon growled, hips pressing harder, aligning to hit every angle. “Holy fuck, this is it. I’m going to fuck you like you deserve, Jeremy. Just like this.”

Jeremy’s eyes fluttered, grey storms wide and glossy, teeth biting his lip as he exhaled sharply, each thrust pushing him further into a haze of sensation. His hands dug into Landon, every muscle taut, every nerve alive.

“Come on, Jer,” Landon whispered, voice low, insistent. “Make me come. Make me come. Make me come.” The last one turned into a whine.
His breath fell on Jeremy, who shivered at the words.

Jeremy moaned, hips bucking involuntarily, following Landon’s rhythm, pushing back into him, meeting every thrust, meeting every word. “Fuck… yes… Landon… ugh…”

Landon moans against his skin, voice rasping, fingers clutching Jeremy’s hip. “Fuck me like that.” He repeated in every thrust, Jeremy fucking him so good.

Their bodies moved in sync, the rhythm building, slow at first, then gradually quicker, deeper, more urgent. Jeremy’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his exhalations ragged, every gasp punctuated by Landon’s encouragement, praise, and guiding whispers.

“You’re mine,” Landon murmured, teeth grazing Jeremy’s shoulder. “Mine, and perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Jeremy’s head fell back, collapsing into the sheets, body arching, lost in the intensity. “Landon…”

Landon leaned down, pressing closer, every thrust measured, relentless, bringing them both closer to the edge. “Jeremy” His voice was high, a tell that he was almost over the edge. “Make me come, make me come, I’m going to come, I’m going to-“
Landons breathed in sharply as his orgasm hit him. Jeremy’s eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping, teeth biting into his lip, chest heaving. And then, together, they tipped over the edge—intense, shattering, the room filling with ragged breaths, groans, and the overwhelming heat of release.

They collapsed into each other, Landon holding him close, Jeremy trembling under him, sweat-damp and spent, every nerve still alight. The rhythm had slowed, but the connection lingered, heavy and intimate in its own way, both catching breaths, the tension settling but not dissipating entirely.

Landon lay next to Jeremy’s shoulder, chest still heaving, muscles tight with the remnants of the storm between them. He turned his head, just enough to glance at Jeremy. One arm was thrown over his eyes, shading the light, hiding that familiar intensity, though Landon could still make out the lines of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest. He looked… calm. Like nothing had happened, and yet he’d left a mark that Landon couldn’t quite name.

“Hey. You okay?” Landon asked, letting his voice break just a little.

Jeremy exhaled, low and sharp. “You talk too much.”

Landon laughed, short, low, letting it roll over the tension. “You didn’t seem to mind it a few minutes ago.”

A flicker of something—smirk, amusement, maybe pride—tugged at Jeremy’s lips. Landon caught it, letting himself linger on it for a heartbeat longer than he probably should.

His arm slid from his face, brushing damp hair from his forehead, eyes hooded but still alive, stormy. That small movement made Landon shift closer, though he told himself he wasn’t. Not really.

Jeremy muttered, almost under his breath, half asleep, “Next time… I’m in charge.” Then he turned his head.

Landon laughed, low and quiet, letting the sound fill the space between them. “We’ll see,” he whispered back.

Jeremy didn’t respond after that. His breathing evened out, slow and deep, surrendering to sleep. Landon stayed on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands splayed across the sheets, pretending he wasn’t thinking too hard. Pretending that wasn’t his chest tightening every time Jeremy shifted slightly, the scent of him lingering in the air like smoke.

Minutes passed. The storm inside him didn’t quiet, though he convinced himself it had. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the chaos, letting the weight of the night press in. Every nerve screamed with memory: Jeremy’s hands, his smirk, that sharp exhale that had made Landon want to rip him apart and worship him at the same time.

And even as exhaustion claimed him, Landon knew one thing with crystal clarity: he was completely, irreversibly fucked. Not in the way he wanted to admit. But fucked all the same.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

The first thing Jeremy registered was the light. Not sunlight — not yet. It was the soft pulse of blue and gold from the massive fish tank pressed against the wall opposite the bed. Dozens of bright fish drifted through the glow, colours rippling like slow sparks through water. The tank was rectangular, sleek, taking up half the wall. Typical Landon — expensive, excessive, a little bit showy.

The rest of the room was dark, shadows stretching long across the marble floor. Jeremy blinked once, and the digital clock on the nightstand came into focus. 4:03 a.m.

He hadn’t needed to check it. His body always woke him at that hour — years of habit, the kind that didn’t fade with comfort or company.

He turned his head slightly. Landon was still asleep beside him, sprawled across the sheets, one arm thrown over his head, breathing slow. The faint light from the fish tank washed over his skin, painting him in shades of blue. For a moment, Jeremy just looked — not out of softness, but calculation, the way he might study a map before moving across it.

He slid quietly out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor without a sound. The air was cooler out here, sharper. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt, just reached for his watch and checked the room once more. He crossed the hallway, moving through the penthouse with deliberate quiet, eyes tracing corners, shelves, the edges of the ceiling.

The world outside the glass walls was still asleep — the city below a muted stretch of dark blue and steel. Dawn was close but hadn’t arrived yet; it was that suspended hour where everything felt paused, like the world hadn’t quite decided to start again.

The living room stretched out in muted greys, shapes half-swallowed by the dark. Jeremy crouched near the edge of the couch, sweeping his hand underneath it. Dust, cold marble, nothing else. He moved to the opposite corner — checked behind the leg of a console, under the base of a sculpture, behind a loose panel near the floor. Each search was silent, systematic.

When his hand slipped beneath the bar counter, he paused. There — a small dip in the wood, almost imperceptible. His fingertips brushed it again, confirming the spot.

He reached into the pocket of his discarded jacket and pulled out something small — no larger than a coin. Black. Flat. It caught a fragment of the aquarium light and gleamed for a second before he turned it in his fingers.

He pressed it against the wood just beneath the ledge, firm enough for it to catch. His thumb hovered over the switch. One blink — green. Then gone. Then he straightened, ran his palm flat across the edge to make sure it was flush.

That was all it took.

He stepped back, eyes scanning the room once more, taking in every reflection, every angle, making sure nothing looked disturbed. The penthouse looked exactly as it had before.

Then he turned and walked back the same quiet path to the bedroom. Landon hadn’t moved. The fish tank still glowed faintly, the only light in the room. Jeremy slipped back into bed, careful with the sheets, settling on his side, facing away. His breathing evened out within seconds.

When Landon woke up two hours later, Jeremy would already be pretending to sleep.

-
Landon slept like a man who didn’t expect consequences — sprawled, arm flung over the pillow, mouth slack. During the night he’d turned enough times to almost qualify as a hurricane; more than once his weight had landed on Jeremy’s chest. It should have irritated him. It didn’t.

He had considered leaving. He’d rolled over and counted the seconds, imagining the ease of slipping out before dawn, but the thought of what that would look like if someone noticed — if Landon noticed — stopped him. It was simpler to stay and look unremarkable than walk away to become suspicious. So he stayed.

He’d heard the shift first — the faint rustle of sheets, the quiet exhale that always came before movement. Landon rose slowly, careful, like someone trying not to disturb a dream. The sound of skin against linen, the soft stretch of muscle, then stillness again.

Then, Jeremy could feel him looking. That steady, lingering stare. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing even.

He heard Landon clear his throat — once, low — then the bed shifted again. The warmth left the sheets. Footsteps padded across the floor, and a moment later the bathroom door clicked shut. Water started running.

Jeremy opened his eyes.

He turned his head, just enough to see the edge of the door, the sliver of light slipping out from underneath. He stayed there for a while, unmoving, gaze tracing the ceiling. His mind replayed the night before, it didn’t really feel real, but the sore ache in his back brought the memories flooding back.

He pushed the sheet off, swung his legs over the side, and stood. The city outside had woken up — faint hum of traffic, a siren far away. Jeremy began to put himself together. Clothes littered the corners of the bedroom like informal flags; Last night Landon theatrically threw his clothes in random corners of the room. A small, stupid grin creased Landon’s face when he did it. Jeremy found it amusing. He dressed in the dark, sleeves rolled to the elbows and made his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was an exercise in tasteful excess: jars of food arranged in glassware, everything labelled and perfectly aligned, as if someone had staged it for a catalogue. He found the coffee machine behind three panels and cursed it under his breath — complicated things were a preference you paid for, not one you understood. He knew better than to change anyone else’s setting. He made two coffees: his black, bitter and uncomplicated; Landon’s with milk, a concession he wouldn’t have allowed himself if Nadya were watching. Nadya’s voice skittered through his head for a second — eat first, she’d say — and then he set it aside.

Landon came in like a photograph left to move: hair dripping, a white T-shirt clinging to the angles of him, grey shorts loose at the thigh. Water trailed against his throat and didn’t seem to bother him; he didn’t wipe it away because why dilute a tableau with practicality?

“I could get used to this,” Landon said, sliding a barstool out and perching opposite him. His smile was lazy, half-teasing. “Breakfast in bed, coffee service, Mr Volkov the domestic.”

Jeremy handed him the mug without looking up. He set it down in front of Landon with the calm precision of someone placing evidence on a table. “It’s just coffee. Barely a service.”

Landon snorted and wrapped both hands round the mug, heat misting on his fingertips. “I expected nothing worse than an empty bed this morning.”

“So most people leave.” Jeremy’s voice was flat, factual. He’d practiced the sentence in his head and found it suitably indifferent.

“Most people are afraid to see what I am at dawn,” Landon said, taking the first sip and making an intentionally dramatic face at the taste. “I guess that doesn’t apply to you though.”

Jeremy looked at him. The man did not blink. “Did you want me to?”

Landon shrugged, still smiling. “Depends what you think I look like when I’m sober at seven a.m.”

Jeremy lifted his own mug and took a long swallow. The coffee was dark, a bite at the back of his throat. “You look human enough to fool someone.” Jeremy looked up at Landon. “Not me though” He added with a smirk.

“Ah.” Landon leaned forward, elbows on the bar, the towel falling from his wet hair to reveal that ridiculous angle at his collarbone. “That’s how you get what you want, isn’t it? So simple. You just pay attention.”

Jeremy’s hand brushed a damp curl away from Landon’s temple and stayed there, fingers resting light as a question. He didn’t let the touch do anything it wasn’t supposed to do. He was not sentimental. He was testing a boundary.

“You’re annoyingly theatrical,” Jeremy said, folding his arms like he’d been born with them that way. “Eat something.”

Landon’s mug paused mid-tilt. “You offering?” His grin was wet-knife bright, the kind that made ordinary sentences mischievous.

“No.” Jeremy shrugged one shoulder, the motion practised and cold. “I have things to do. People to see. Not all of us can justify lying in until seven a.m. as a lifestyle choice.”

Landon barked a laugh. “Seven? Amateur. I woke up at six and spent an hour convincing a cactus it was not dead.”

“That’s called your schedule,” Jeremy said. “And I pity the cactus.”

Landon mock-pouted, then tapped his mug like it was an offended companion. “When’s this happen again?”—the question was casual, but his eyes were betting the house.

Jeremy paused in the doorway, hand on the handle. He looked back with that very particular expression people only gave when they meant to lend you a rope and a noose in the same breath. “Desperation doesn’t suit you,” he said, dry as winter sunlight.

Landon’s smile stretched, half challenge, half dare. “Oh, I disagree,” he said. “Desperation is very becoming. It makes you interesting. Also, not modest.”

“Good to know,” Jeremy answered. “Modesty was never in fashion around you, was it?”

“Fashion is invented so I don’t have to dress like everyone else,” Landon offered, mock-solemn. “But fine—if you’re that busy, I’ll set up a tent on your terrace and wait. Bring snacks.”

Jeremy made an offended noise that could’ve been either a scoff or a promise. He stepped out; the door closed with a soft finality. Behind him the aquarium cast a cool blue wash across the room, turning marble and dust into something that looked almost religious.

The rules had been spoken and then folded into silence. That pleased him more than it should have.

Outside, the city was slow to wake. Inside, the kettle hissed, the coffee machine cleaned itself, and a man who never let things surprise him deliberately kept one small thing undecided and delicious.

The mansion never felt small. Even in sleep it occupied space like it had been built to hold people and secrets both — high ceilings, dark wood panelling that drank light, and rugs thick enough to muffle footsteps into polite suggestions. The servants moved through it on soft soles and softer schedules: a maid lifting a crystal shade here, a gardener’s boy wheeling away a crate there. Everything had been arranged so that nothing screamed, everything whispered.

Jeremy liked it that way. He liked the hush. It made decisions simpler.

He left his office door open as he walked. The corridor smelled faintly of polish and old paper. A chandelier threw patterned light across the floorboards; the wood creaked under his boots in a way that sounded like a verse of an old song — familiar, not alarming. He passed his father’s suite without thinking to knock. His father’s door was closed; the man liked his mornings private. The old man had taught him most of the things that mattered: the discipline at dawn, the slow anger in a deal gone wrong, the art of looking calm while moving with speed.

He walked past the portraits with their painted gazes and the grandfather clock that refused to be hurried. In the kitchen the morning staff were already at work, voices muffled, the clink of cups. He thought of nothing and a thousand small things at once; that was how his mind worked when it was properly awake.

Back at his desk the monitors were already awake, blue light carving his face into planes. He sat, sleeves rolled, and began the slow, almost ritual scraping through the ledgers. Transfers, routing numbers, client tags in shorthand — the day’s muscle memory. Work felt like a blade: precise, satisfying, a way to make disorder take order. He preferred the ledger’s certainty. People were messier.

He moved over the Zurich column. Small movements first: a duplicate, a line slipped in between two authorized runs. The sort of thing that would vanish into routine if no one sharpened an eye. He leaned in.

The name on the recipient’s line was polite and bland enough to be anonymous: Alabaster Holdings. A consulting shirt-and-tie of a name. Jeremy didn’t recognize the registration string. He flicked to the metadata, then to the chain of hand-offs. Someone had routed money through a company that didn’t exist in his immediate set of trusted entities. That single fact set off a cascade of other checks in his head — dates, beneficiaries, ports, shell crosslinks — a mechanised, efficient cascade because this was what he did.

He called Roman, his analyst. He didn’t need to sound alarmed — alarm spooked people into mistakes. He told the analyst to trace ownership quietly, full sweep.

Waiting was the worst part, because waiting gave the mind permission to imagine everything. Jeremy slowed his breathing and let the ledger occupy him. He checked two other routes while he waited, not out of impatience but because idle fingers were trouble. He shifted his posture and felt the old training in his shoulders. The bratva taught you to hold still and wait until the move presented itself. It was habit and virtue and survival.

Roman’s ping arrived as a single tight file. He opened it with a practiced hand, eyes skimming for the small line that would tell him whether this was a slip or a tie.

Primary account holder: L. King.

For a second the room tilted in a way his rational mind corrected quickly. Landon King. The name sat on the page like a thrown gauntlet.

Jeremy did what he always did when the world threatened unpredictability: he catalogued the possibilities. Either Landon had quietly established a legitimate-looking route through channels Jeremy didn’t know about — which meant Landon either had reasons Jeremy had not been briefed on, or was more entangled with certain players than Jeremy had assumed. Or someone was using Landon’s identity as a cover to funnel money — which meant sloppy internal security at best, a deliberate frame at worst.

Both options were dangerous for different reasons. If Landon had set it up himself, he’d either been reckless or infinitely clever — and Jeremy wasn’t sure which would be worse for the people who trusted the King name. If it was someone else, then the King name had a leak and the wrong person finding out could turn a whisper into a hurricane. Either way, it made the thing personal.

He closed the report and reopened it because the ritual made him feel less like a man caught off-guard. He flicked through registration data, cross-checked IP addresses, dates of incorporation. Each line offered the same two ugly possibilities and trimmed away safer ones.

A lesser man might have called the Brigadir at once. Or sent a flurry of messages to stir a web of colleagues into motion. Jeremy thought of that and did the opposite. He encrypted the file, set a read-only flag, and filed it in a compartment only he could access. The choice was deliberate: the problem needed to be observed, not announced. Fear shrivels men who act. He needed time to watch how the thing moved, who touched it, whether the name blinked on other ledgers.

There was another thought, uninvited and quick: Landon. The aftertaste of the living room, of last night, the way Landon had occupied his space like a claim. Jeremy told himself it was irrelevant to the ledger. He told himself it was separate. He was very good at partitioning.

Still, he thought of the fish tank, that strip of blue light that somehow made Landon seem less like a threat and more like an enigma. He thought of the way Landon laughed, reckless, and the way people under his sway moved as if gravity had been adjusted by charm alone. He thought the thought and corrected himself. Personal did not belong in business.

He set the monitor to sleep mode, left Roman a second line with a single request — keep it quiet, keep it thorough — and rose. The staff were still making their quiet rounds. He passed the father’s suite again, the door still closed, and for a moment considered speaking to the man. He didn’t. Some things were better left intact.

Back at the desk he made the smallest of decisions: watch, do not involve, record. If the name flickered in other places, he would move. If it turned out to be brute stupidity from a junior officer, he would fix it quietly. If it was deliberate, he would make it personal in a way that would hurt the perpetrator more than their profit.

He sat a beat longer, watching the faint green cursor blink on the encrypted file. The house hummed its dignified, indifferent life around him. Outside, the city kept its own kind of slow pulse; people moved through markets and offices, unaware.

Jeremy taped his thumb to the edge of the report and, without a show of drama, leaned forward to close the lid of his laptop. Whatever this was, it had just gone beyond bookkeeping. It had crossed into the realm where names could be weapons — and someone was holding a blade with Landon’s name on it.

He didn’t like surprises. He didn’t like blades. He liked solutions. He would find one.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

The rain had been steady since dawn — soft, persistent, the kind that blurred the view of the old iron gates when Jeremy drove through them.

The Bratva mansion looked the same as always: high wood panels, muted chandeliers, a quiet hum of people who knew not to meet his eyes. The air smelled faintly of wax and polish — expensive, but tired.

He took the back stairwell up to his office, the one lined with oil portraits of dead men in darker suits. The door swung open on silent hinges.

On the desk, his laptop was still open from the night before, the ledger frozen mid-scroll. Jeremy loosened his cuffs and sat down. He rubbed a thumb against the edge of his jaw, eyes flicking back to the same entry that had been bothering him for hours:

Transfer #4716 – Alabaster Holdings – $380,000

He hadn’t authorised it. Hadn’t even heard of Alabaster Holdings.

He clicked into the metadata. Offshore intermediary. Routing code masked. Local confirmation — Chechen banking link.

Jeremy’s mouth curved faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t mean amusement. He picked up the phone and dialled a secure extension.

“Roman,” he said.

A pause. Then: “You sound awake too early.”

“Check the 4716 transfer. I want the trail in fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t pay me enough for miracles.”

Jeremy didn’t bother replying. He ended the call, leaned back, and stared at the ornate ceiling for a while. The seconds crawled by. When his phone finally buzzed, the screen lit with a message:

ROMAN: Offshore broker in Malta. Filtered through Chechnya. Local contact: Ibragim Sadoev.

Jeremy’s fingers stilled on the desk. Ibragim. The name slotted into place — one of his father’s older Brigadiers. Known for longevity, not brilliance. Loud laugh, thick hands, the kind of man who mistook surviving for winning.

Another message came through:

ROMAN: Registration lists Landon King as affiliate owner.

Jeremy’s face didn’t move, but his pulse ticked once in his throat.

Landon King.

That wasn’t right. It could’ve been him — Landon had the reach, the money, the audacity — but no. Landon wasn’t subtle enough to hide it under a fake holding company. He’d brag, or at least taunt.

Which meant someone was using his name.
That was dangerous. For everyone.

Jeremy sat forward. If Landon wasn’t aware, and this blew up, it’d put the Bratva in a line of fire no one wanted. If he was, then Jeremy had a different problem entirely.

When he left the mansion it was not with the theatrical fury of a man wronged; it was with the silent economy of effect. He took his bike because he liked the rumble of the engine and the rain on his back. The rain cut the city into clean strips. He drove as if he were steering on a map made only of small actions that added up.

Sadoev’s building was the kind of place that had once been respectable and for some decades had been learning how to pretend it still was. The lobby smelled like cheap coffee and older men who had decided that pride could be rented.

The man himself was sitting behind a desk cluttered with files, a half-drunk glass of whisky beside a thick cigar. His build was still large — solid, like someone who thought muscle excused mediocrity. His beard was greyed, his shirt half unbuttoned, a heavy gold cross glinting against his chest.

When Jeremy stepped inside without knocking, Ibragim smiled. A wide, yellow smile.
“Ah, young lion,” Sadoev said before Jeremy had reached the chair. His voice was warm in the way of men who were used to being liked. “Come to check on us old men?”

Jeremy did not sit. He had no need to make an entrance; he preferred to be the thing that made the room rearrange itself around him. He took two steps in, hands at his sides, voice low and even.

“You moved three hundred eighty thousand dollars through an Alabaster account,” he began. He said the words with the flatness of facts, nothing more.

Sadoev laughed like a man telling a private joke. “Business is business. Names are convenient. We’ve used many. The King name moves interest. Works to our advantage.”

“You used his name without authorisation,” Jeremy said. Now the sentence was not curious — it was a scalpel. “You used his name without asking him, and you used it without telling me.”

Sadoev’s grin tightened. “You already use him, don’t you? It’s common practice to shuffle names. It’s efficient.”

“Do you know what efficiency becomes when someone mistakes it for immunity?” Jeremy asked. He took one step and didn’t stop until his face was two feet from Sadoev’s. The brigadier smelled of tobacco and sweat; Jeremy leaned in despite himself. He spoke slowly, each phrase chosen.

“You look at the world like an old man looks at ports and thinks he owns the tide. You keep the crates and you keep the stories. You tell yourself your risk is small because history hasn’t ended you yet.”

Ibragim’s laugh left like a small bubble. “Come now, Jere-“

Jeremy’s hands stayed folded at his back. His voice did not rise. “When my father was young, he told me about a lieutenant who thought he was invisible. Small crimes first — a missing crate here, a second there. The lieutenant got cocky. He started to assume the silence was permission. He thought the system owed him complacency. He misread what silence meant.”

Sadoev inhaled, as though ready with a cutting reply, but Jeremy didn’t let him speak. He let his story hang — a slow, comfortable noose.

“He took too much,” Jeremy continued. “So one morning they asked him to open his own container. Inside were his things and the men who’d replace him. No ceremony. No justice. Just the quiet efficiency of consequences.”

The brigadier shifted. He was large and tried to be immovable; his eyes flickered because the story had walked the room and set a mirror that reflected his own appetite.

“You can make this problem small,” Sadoev said finally, voice pitched at the level of supplication a man uses when feeling the first chill of being unprotected. “We can adjust. Names can be changed. Accounting can be cleaned.”

Jeremy’s smile was a thing of small, clean menace. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not interested in adjustments. I’m interested in whether you understand the difference between being useful and being necessary.”

He reached across the desk with one smooth motion and laid his palm flat on the ledger Roman had printed — the rows of accounts, the transfers that looked so neat until you understood the implication of the names. Sadoev’s fingers twitched against his cigar.

“You have spent your career learning how to make your life survivable,” Jeremy said, voice still patient as a scalpel. “That will no longer be enough. If you move money in my network again without clearance, you will stop being in my network.”

The brigadier’s jaw worked. He tried a laugh, then swallowed it away. “You’re making threats,” he said.

“No,” Jeremy replied. “I’m offering you a professional truth. You have a choice. You can be small and useful, or you can be bold and gone.”

Sadoev stood. He wanted to be furious; he wanted to show teeth. He put on the actor’s face of a man who had seen threats and had survived. Jeremy liked the performance. It meant the man still thought he could bluff.

“Who do you think you are?” Sadoev asked. “You think you can walk in and—”

Jeremy closed the distance with a motion that was not hurried but felt immediate. He gripped Sadoev’s wrist like a locksmith closing a tumbler and twisted. The brigadier’s face bled the language of surprise into pain; his mouth made a small, involuntary sound. The hand around the cigar loosened. A snap — not melodramatic, just sharp — moved through the room like a punctuation. Jeremy did not shout. He did not need to. The room was quiet enough to hear the rain.

Sadoev cursed under his breath and tried to wrench free. Jeremy tightened his hold. He did not crush a bone; he let the pain be precise, a message delivered with the economy of someone who understands the difference between breaking and teaching.

Jeremy tutted. “Listen to me,” his tone was almost conversational, as if they were discussing a meeting time and not the man in pain on the other side of the desk. “You do not get to decide the price of my silence. You do not get to put someone else’s name on a ledger like it’s a trinket. And if I ever see that name in one of your accounts again, I’ll take more than a wrist. I’ll take your legacy, the same way you took my father’s patience.”

He let the wrist go then, not because he felt magnanimous but because the lesson had been administered. Sadoev huddled, massaging his palm, trying to rearrange his expression so it read as a bruise he could file away.

“You will contact your broker,” Jeremy said. “You will unpick this transfer. You will leave the King name out of any of your operations. You will convince everyone under you that it is not to be touched, and you will do it within twenty-four hours. If you hesitate, I will be back. And next time I will not be so forgiving.”

Sadoev cleared his throat, an attempt at composure. “And if I don’t?”

Jeremy straightened, smoothing his cuff as if tidying a crease. “Then you will find out how quick replacement looks when it is deliberate.”

He walked out of the office with the same slow, measured rhythm he had used to come in. The rain hit the lobby as if eager to wash the sound away. Outside the building, Jeremy paused under the awning. The city had smeared its colors into long, solemn strokes. He did not immediately drive away.

He thought of Landon then — the studio, the marble dust, the look that had been both bait and blade. He thought about names and ownership and how some men treated other people as toys until toys bit back. He had not known whether Landon knew about the ledger. He still wasn’t sure. That uncertainty sat in his chest like an ember.

He swung his leg over his bike because he wanted the sensation of wind and machine to clear his head. The engine coughed to life and the rain leaned into him. But before he put on his helmet he stood a moment with one hand on the cool metal, feeling the thin electric ache of being both protector and potential destroyer.

Then he rode away.The rain washed the road in streaks of silver. He didn’t go straight back to the mansion. Instead he found himself drawn to the artery of the city, the way a compass needle twitches to metal. He stayed out of sight beneath the storm’s anonymity longer than he planned, circling Landon’s building once, twice, the bike’s headlight slicing the dark into lines.

He stayed until the rain had turned the curb into a small, grey river and the leather of his jacket felt less like armour and more like a second skin cold through to the bones. The bike hummed beneath him, an animal that trusted him without question; he had always liked that in machines — their straightforwardness. They didn’t ask why. They only obeyed. People were not so simple.

Twenty floors up, Landon’s window pulsed a faint, impossible blue. The fish tank threw long, lazy bars of light across the glass, a slow heartbeat in the dark skyline. Landon, in the shape the world knew him, was probably inside that light. Maybe he was talking, laughing, bending someone’s ear with one of those stories he told so well. Maybe he was hunched over marble, fingers white with work. Maybe he was leaning against the counter with a cigarette and a grin. Maybe he had already forgotten the way Jeremy’s mouth felt last night.

Jeremy told himself it was none of his concern. He went through the reasons why he was here. He told himself that he was here on business — curiosity, oversight, maintenance, whatever the word that allowed him to go up without admitting he was waiting. He told himself he was only checking a thought, a line in his head he needed to cut neatly. The words slid off like water, leaving a dark, damp stain that would not be ironed out.

The visor lifted with a soft click, and rain hit his face like the cold truth. He let it sting. It was useful to feel something that wasn’t words. He breathed in the city — and for a sliver of a second he considered standing up, walking inside, climbing those twenty floors and doing what idiots do when they want to fix the thing that is broken by touching it.

He pictured the door opening and Landon looking up and seeing him. That image was ridiculous and acute at once: absurd because it would make no sense — the precise, measured Jeremy Volkov showing up wet on Landon King’s doorstep — and sharp because every irrational thing about Landon had the ability to wedge itself into him and refuse to be moved.

A memory — no, a sensation — rose up uninvited. Landon’s laugh just before the kiss, the way his fingers had fit into Jeremy’s hair like they belonged there, the rush of something hot and stupid when Jeremy had let himself be hauled close, had not pushed him away as he meant to. The memory surprised him by how small, how unbearably specific it was: the faint taste of scotch on Landon’s lips, the scrape of collarbone against jaw, the obscene way the world had narrowed to that moment.

He told himself this was nothing. He had been here before, been with more women in worse positions. That it was novelty. His first time with a man, his first time being unraveled in such a way. It was only a novelty, a distraction. But it lodged. And Jeremy had to leave before it sunk in.

The bike’s engine was a steady counterpoint to his pulse. He found that the throttle jutted his fingers toward the grip without permission. The headlight cut the street open, revealing puddles that reflected neon and the occasional hurrying figure. He rode slowly, not the full-speed arrogance he sometimes favoured.

He took the long way down three blocks, then four. Houses slid past in a blur of lit windows and darkened curtains. He passed two late taxis, a litter of broken bottles by a shopfront and a stray cat folding itself into a drain. He passed a florist whose awning sagged with rain, the cheap roses sweating under the plastic. All of it—every small, mundane detail—felt like evidence that life continued in its steady rotation while he was stuck on one small point of friction.

At one set of lights, he stopped and took the helmet off. The air filled his ears: rain, a bus coughing, someone shouting down the phone. He cupped the wet shell of the visor in his gloved hand and let his thumb trace the rim, mind running a ledger of impressions he could not tally. What was this if not the simplest, most irrational human thing? Wanting. Wanting someone who could break his discipline with the casualness of a man flicking ash.

He pictured walking up. He imagined the absurdly domestic scene of this morning — Landon, messy hair, the towel at his waist, that ridiculous fish tank throwing blue across the room. He pictured saying two words: “I’m here.” He imagined Landon looking up and the world tilting because that look would be something both terrifying and confessing. He imagined being exposed to that look and how it would devour strategy and replace it with hunger.

He didn’t go.

Instead he thumbed the visor down, the decision made by the same small, stubborn voice that had kept him out of Landon’s life for so long. He rode on because there was an architecture to who he was — schedules, towers of responsibility, a thousand tiny obligations that kept him from dissolving into impulse. He used them now, clinging to them as if they were ropes.

Still, the ride home was full of a slow, furious ache. Every streetlight bled into the next like a wound that would not close. He tried to catalogue reasons: the risk, the rules they’d drafted in breathless, late-night agreement, the business lines that had to stay clean. He told himself he was protecting himself — and maybe, he thought with a raw honesty that tasted of iron, he was protecting Landon too. If the arrangement went wrong, if it uncovered something that could be used against either of them, it would not be a tidy ending. He imagined consequences and the image of the ledger flamed again behind his eyes.

When he finally pulled into the mansion courtyard, the rain had softened to a fine drizzle. He killed the engine and sat a long time listening to the coils wind down. He could have gone upstairs then. No alarms would have raised, no one would have been watching. He could have crossed the marble hallway, slid into the penthouse and been honest in the simplest, most dangerous way: tell him everything or tell him nothing, make a demand, make a promise, break himself open or slam the door.

He chose the door.

He swung his leg off the bike and stood with the wet jacket clinging to him, the leather cold, the rain gathering in the seams like collected confession. For a second he let himself feel ridiculous — a man playing at the epic when all the world wanted him to be precise and cunning. And then he let the absurdity be small and honest and the only thing left to do was walk inside, hang up his jacket, and pretend that the blue light had not scraped him raw all evening.

He went up to his bedroom instead. The routine was there, waiting. It was sensible, it was concrete. It would not demand anything of him except his attention. But the blue window kept returning in the periphery of his mind, steady and impossible: a point of light that meant he had left something unfinished, and it would not let him sleep until it was closed properly.

Chapter Text

Landon

Remington’s seasonal parties were a calendar event — not fortnightly, not casually, but once every quarter with theatrical devotion: Spring’s white nights, Summer’s chrome and citrus, Autumn’s velvet and smoke, Winter’s glitter and wolves. Tonight the townhouse is a fever dream of gilt and smoke: a three-tier champagne tower that someone swears is worth more than half a small country, a roped-off corner where string performers make human knots, and a peacock—yes, a live peacock—preening on a raised plinth because Remington thought it would be “iconic.” It is, of course, ridiculous. It is, of course, perfect.

I stand where the room funnels into itself, glass in hand, a slow magnet for whatever humanity is trying to orbit me. People drift close and talk in the way they always do—too small, too rehearsed—waiting for the moment I nod so they can tell themselves I noticed them. I let them. It’s easier than pretending not to.

“Landon King.” Someone practically beams at me like I cured their headache. “Do you miss any of Astor’s parties?”
“Only the boring ones,” I say, and they laugh as if I was joking
. Across the room Remi catches my eye and salutes me with the neck of his glass. He’s in one of those velvet missteps he thinks is daring; I think he looks like a child in a throne. He mouths, with all the intimacy of a man who’s practically family, “Prick.” And I mouth back an obscene gesture because that’s our language.

A woman snags my sleeve and drags me toward the dance floor. She smells like a sponsored perfume and confidence; she talks about a show she did in Rome. I half-listen, because the music is a pulse at my ribs and the world narrows to bass and skin. Someone offers me a pill—small, pale, innocuous. MDMA, that night’s chosen indulgence, glitter disguised as chemistry. I don’t ask. I tilt my head back and swallow it the way you take a bet you know you’ll win. The first warmth is nothing like warmth—more like the room has been turned up a degree and your fingers can finally feel the coldness of a glass. Edges sharpen. Laughter comes easier. The room smells sweeter and more dangerous.

People touch me tonight. They always do. When they lay hands on my arm, on my shoulder, on the small of my back, it’s meant to be flattering. It should be. But tonight each touch makes me recoil a little inside, like an animal at the wrong kind of light. The drugs hum under my skin and all the sensation is louder—too loud. Touch becomes a thing to be catalogued and deflected. I move through it with the kind of practiced grace people mistake for ease.

Remi finds me later, collapsed into the back corner sofa like a king who’s decided thrones are overrated. He’s yelling at someone about an ill-advised toast and then, seeing me, swoops in with that grin that says he thinks everything will be fine because he will make it so.

“You look like a fever dream,” he says, because that’s how we talk. “Steal anything from my bar yet?”
“You should lock the pantry if you want to keep my taste out.” I take his cigarette, not because I like it, but because I like him watching me take it. He laughs, half cruel, half fond. “You’re an awful influence.”
“Only to people who can’t keep up,” I tell him.

There’s laughter, clinking glass, someone making a toast I don’t hear. The music rolls into something slower and low, soft enough to become a thought rather than noise. I stand, irritated by the way the room keeps leaning into me like it expects me to perform an emotion I don’t own. The balcony is a promise of cold air and empty distance; I walk into it like a man going to his appointment. The air on the balcony bites sharper than it should. Music still leaks through the open doors, low bass bleeding into the night. The city stretches beneath us—glassy, endless, slightly unreal. I rest my forearms on the railing, a cigarette burning slow between my fingers. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the fizz of it when I draw.

Remi drifts out a minute later, hair ruffled, jacket slung over one shoulder like he’s starring in his own film. He’s laughing at something someone shouted behind him. “Had to escape before I started threatening people,” he says, stepping up beside me. “You’ve got the only clean air left in this place.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I tell him, flicking ash over the edge. “I charge rent.”

He grins. “You’d charge rent for breathing if you could.”

“I’d charge you double.”

“Because I’m worth it.”

We stand there like that—no need to fill it. He taps a lighter against the rail, lights his own cigarette, the tiny flame painting his jaw for a second. It’s the kind of moment that would be sentimental if either of us had the capacity.

Remi exhales. “You’ve been quieter tonight.”

“I’m drunk,” I lie.

“Yeah, but you’re never this kind of drunk. Usually you’re charming-drunk or don’t-look-at-me-drunk. This one’s new. You’ve got the existentialist filter on.”

I glance at him, smirking. “Since when do you analyse people?”

“Since you started looking like a Greek tragedy with better shoes.” He bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “You good?”

I snort. “You asking me that because you care or because you’re bored?”

“Bit of both,” he admits, grinning. “But mostly because if you keel over, I’ll have to explain it to Eli, and that’s a headache.”

“Tragic.” I drag on the cigarette. “Tell him I died doing something worthwhile.”

“Like what, ignoring my hospitality?”

“Exactly that.”

He laughs—a bright, unguarded sound that breaks the night a little. “You’re such a dickhead,” he says, but it’s soft, almost fond. “You know, for someone who hates attention, you make damn sure everyone stares.”

“Jealous?”

“Terrified,” he says, smirking. “Because next to you, I look like I’m paying rent in mediocrity.”

“Don’t worry,” I murmur, flicking the cigarette into the dark. “You do that regardless.”

He laughs again and shoves me lightly in the shoulder. I shove back. It’s stupid, easy, familiar—the kind of rough affection only men like us are allowed. The kind that covers what can’t be said.

He studies me for a second, probably trying to read that, then lets it go like he always does. That’s what I like about Remi—he never digs too deep. He’s not built for it.

He nudges my arm. “You’re a pretentious bastard.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Flattered.” He flicks his cigarette off the balcony, the ember falling like a red drop through the dark. “Alright, psycho, let’s go back before someone starts a rumour that we’re having feelings.”

“That’d ruin your reputation,” I say.

“Yours too.”

I grin. “Mine’s already ruined.”

He laughs, and for a second the sound almost feels like an anchor—stupid, solid, human. Then it’s gone, swallowed by the bass spilling out from inside.

We head back in. The air turns hot again, perfumed and alive. Someone cheers our names when we reappear, and Remi grins, playing to it. I just raise my glass, all charm and detachment, pretending the night doesn’t feel heavier than it should.

The music’s still pulsing when I walk back in from the balcony — bass so low it vibrates in my ribs, in the half-empty glass I’m still holding. Everything smells like perfume and champagne and money burning. There’s a smear of red lipstick on my sleeve I don’t remember earning.

And then — like a break in the noise — I see him.

Jeremy.

He’s standing near the bar, hands in his pockets, the room folding around him like he’s not a part of it. Cashmere polo, navy, sleeves pushed to his forearms, white slacks that shouldn’t work but do. It’s not even a fucking outfit — it’s just him. Unbothered. Beautiful in that disciplined, military way.

My pulse stutters. Just for a second.

He’s watching me, and it’s the kind of look that strips the air out of your lungs — calm, furious, too quiet to make sense of.

I smile — that easy, lazy curve of the mouth that gets me out of most situations. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place,” I say when he’s close enough to hear me over the bass.

He doesn’t answer. He watches me for what feels like an eternity. His eyes flicking from one place to another.
Then he reaches out, fingers closing around my wrist — firm, cold, not a question. “We’re leaving.”

I laugh, soft and sharp. “You’re joking.”

Jeremy’s eyes don’t even flicker. “Now.”

There’s something so fucking controlled about him that it almost pisses me off more than if he’d raised his voice. I pull back — or try to. His grip tightens. People barely glance our way as he drags me through the crowd, and I can’t decide if it’s the MDMA or the fact that no one has ever manhandled me before that makes my blood run hot.

Upstairs is quieter. The music dulls to a pulse beneath the floorboards. He pushes open a door — some guest room, lights low, everything too pristine.

The door clicks shut behind us.

He drops my wrist. I turn, half-smiling still. “You planning to fuck me or lecture me? Because I didn’t realise either were in your job description.”

“You’re off your head,” Jeremy says, voice even, eyes dark.

“And?”

“You look pathetic, Landon.”

That stings — not because he’s wrong, but because he sounds like he believes it.

I tilt my head, tongue pressing to my cheek. “That’s a big word from someone who showed up uninvited.”

“I came because I didn’t trust you not to destroy yourself.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “You say that like you’d care if I did.”

Jeremy doesn’t rise to it. That’s what gets under my skin — he never does. He just stands there, still, like nothing I say can touch him.

“You’re so fucking smug,” I say, stepping closer. “Walking in like you’ve got it all figured out. Like you’re better than the rest of us. What do you even want from me, huh? You come here, drag me out of my own night — for what?”

Silence.

He looks at me. Not angry. Not soft. Just there. And somehow that’s worse.

Something in me snaps.

I grab his collar and shove him hard into the door. The thud reverberates through the wood. I’m close enough to taste the smoke on his breath, close enough to feel how steady he still is.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” I hiss.

He doesn’t answer.

So I kiss him.

Hard. Desperate. My hands in his hair, my mouth on his like I’m trying to shake some reaction out of him. I press him back against the door, hips to his, heat flaring through every nerve. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss back. Just stands there, solid, unyielding, and it burns worse than rejection.

I pull back first. My chest is heaving, and my throat tastes like metal.

“So you didn’t come for that?” I ask quietly, trying to sound amused, but my voice comes out rough.

Jeremy just looks at me. And that’s when I see it — that flicker of pity in his eyes. I fucking hate that look.

He straightens, pushing off the door like nothing happened. “Get your coat,” he says. “Meet me in the car.”

I swallow down the bitterness clawing up my throat. He turns before I can say anything else. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

I stare at it for a long time. The bass from below still hums through the floor. The laughter, the music, the lights — all of it feels suddenly stupid. Pointless.

There’s nothing left for me at this party.

The city slides by in streaks of gold and white — rain-slick asphalt, traffic lights bleeding into glass. The night feels colder now, stripped bare of music and warmth.

Jeremy hasn’t said a word since we left.

The hum of the engine fills everything. Low, steady. Every time he changes gear, the sound shudders through the cabin, rough against the quiet. The indicator clicks — sharp, rhythmic, too loud for what it is.

I don’t do silences.
Never had to.

Usually, someone fills them for me — laughter, chatter, a body pressed too close, a joke dropped at the right time. Noise is easy. Noise keeps you from hearing yourself think.

But Jeremy doesn’t fill the silence. He makes it. Builds it like a fucking wall around us. And right now it’s thick enough to choke on.

I stare out the window, cheek resting against my knuckles. The streetlights blur into long golden veins across the glass. My reflection looks unfamiliar — eyes too sharp, mouth drawn too tight. I look pissed off. Because I am.

Every turn he takes is too smooth, too controlled. Even the way his hand moves on the wheel is deliberate. It spins, slides back into place. Effortless. Efficient. Like he’s trying to pretend none of this happened.

My jaw aches.

I could say something. I should. Something cutting — I’m good at that.
But every time I open my mouth, nothing feels sharp enough.

He glances my way once — just a flicker. The headlights catch his profile. Calm. Composed. That kind of quiet that drives me fucking insane.

So this is what it’s like, I think.
To be dragged home like a kid who’s done something stupid.
To have someone decide for you when the night ends.

I press my forehead to the cool window. Watch the reflection of his hands, the veins under his skin, the knuckles tightening around the leather wheel whenever he hits a turn.

When we stop at a light, the glow flashes red across his face. I can feel the words crawling up my throat — sharp, mean, defensive.
But the light turns green before I can let them out.

The car moves again.

And the silence stretches on — long and merciless, filling the space between us like a punishment.

By the time we get home it’s 2 am. The lift hums, low and mechanical, but it feels like it’s breathing with me. The air’s too thin, or maybe too heavy—I can’t tell anymore. Everything hums under my skin. The metal railing glints, sharp enough to cut. Jeremy stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor numbers blinking up, up, up.

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable. The longer I look at him, the more the colours warp—his navy shirt looks almost black, the light bouncing off the fabric in soft waves. I can still taste champagne and smoke in the back of my throat. I should say something, anything, but the words are trapped behind my teeth.

My heart keeps kicking against my ribs. The world hasn’t slowed down yet—it’s still too loud, too alive—but Jeremy’s presence is this impossible stillness inside it, like gravity refusing to let go.

When the doors slide open, the cold air from my flat rushes in, and it hits me how far I am from the party. The sound of laughter and bass is gone. Just this—muted space, the distant hum of the city, and him.

When the doors open, the penthouse greets us in silence. No music, no people, no noise — just the faint echo of the city through the glass. He moves past me like he’s been here before, flicks on the low light by the counter.

“You should drink some water,” he says.

It’s not a request. It’s an order.
I hate that.

I throw my coat somewhere near the sofa and stalk to the window instead, pressing my hand to the cold glass. I can still feel his eyes on me. He doesn’t trust me to stand upright for five minutes.

“Are you going to keep staring or do you want to say something useful?”

Jeremy doesn’t take the bait. He takes two glasses, fills one, sets it down beside me. “You’re burning up.”

“No shit,” I mutter, but I drink anyway. The water tastes like metal.
The silence stretches.

Then, quietly, like it’s an afterthought: “What the fuck were you doing back there?”

I smirk over my shoulder. “Having fun, apparently. You should try it.”

“Getting high out of your head in front of half the city isn’t fun, Landon.”

“And what are you, my fucking sponsor now?” I turn, finally, leaning back against the window. “You think you can just drag me out of a party because you don’t like what you see?”

He looks at me — really looks — and it’s almost worse than yelling. “I dragged you out because you couldn’t see anything at all.”

The words hang there, sharp and cold.

For a second, I want to hit him. For another, I want to kiss him again. Instead, I just laugh. “You love the moral high ground, don’t you? You think I’m the fucked-up one, but you keep showing up. What does that make you?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “Tired.”

That shuts me up for half a beat. He moves past me, opens the fridge, finds another bottle of water. He’s too at ease in my flat. Too composed. Like he’s seen all of this before — the mess, the sharp words, the crash.

I hate him for that. I hate that he makes it all look small. Manageable. Like I’m some phase he’ll clean up after and forget about.

I drain the rest of the glass and set it down too hard. “You can go now.”

He doesn’t move.
“You’re still not sober,” he says, voice quiet, flat. “I’ll leave when you’ve slept it off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s so calm it burns, “you’ve been trying to.”

That gets me. Just enough to make me look at him — really look at him.
His jaw’s tight. There’s a muscle flickering near his temple. His eyes are dark, but there’s no anger in them. Just that terrible patience.

And suddenly I don’t know if I want to scream or laugh or collapse.

So I just turn away again. “Do whatever you want.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. I just turn and head for the bedroom, peeling off my jacket as I go. The sound of my shoes against the floor is too loud in the silence.
In the bathroom, the light is too bright. My reflection looks like a ghost—dilated pupils, damp hair, skin flushed and pale in all the wrong places. I splash water over my face until the cold starts to bite. The taste of MDMA still lingers at the back of my throat—chemical, sour, the ghost of a good time turned ugly.

I turn away from the sink and start undressing. I turn the shower hob. The water’s too hot, but I don’t turn it down. I just stand there and let it run over me until my skin burns and the tiles steam up. The noise of it fills everything—loud enough to blur out the thoughts circling in my head, loud enough that I can almost pretend I’m fine.

The mirror’s fogged over by now. My reflection’s gone. Good.

I scrub hard, dragging my hands over my arms, my shoulders, my chest. The smell of the soap— cashmere and cedar —fills the air. I breathe it in until my lungs sting a little. It’s almost grounding, in a way that feels unfair. Forty minutes, maybe more, pass like that. I lose track somewhere between the heat and the sound. I just want to wash everything off. The sweat. The smell of smoke and perfume. The feel of Jeremy’s voice still echoing behind my ribs.

When I finally twist the tap off, the quiet hits harder than I expect. It’s almost disorienting. I towel off, dragging it through my hair until it sticks up damp and uneven. I dress slow—black cotton shirt, soft pyjama bottoms that hang loose at the waist. My slippers wait by the door where I left them. They’re grey and look stupidly comfortable. I slip them on anyway.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the door. There’s a knot somewhere under my ribs. I don’t know if I want him gone or if I want him to still be here. Probably both.

The air outside my room is cooler. Dim. The only light is what leaks in from the city outside, catching on glass and metal, turning everything a little blue. The apartment smells faintly of the shower steam I dragged out with me.

He’s still there.

Jeremy’s sitting on the sofa, half-slumped but upright enough to make it look like he tried to wait. His head leans back against the cushion, mouth slightly parted, the collar of his shirt creased. His eyes are closed. He’s breathing slow.

It’s nearly three. I check the clock to be sure. Of course he’s asleep. He probably sleeps at nine, I think, and the thought almost makes me smile. Almost.

I walk over. He doesn’t move. For a second, I just stand there, looking at him. The thing about Jeremy is he never looks unguarded—not ever. But now… now he does. And it throws me off. I want to hate him for it. I want to shake him awake and make him look at me the way he always does—with that sharp, infuriating control. Anything but this.

Instead, I reach for the throw draped over the side of the couch. It’s soft, warm, and smells faintly like cedar. I unfold it and set it over him carefully, tugging it up to his chest. He doesn’t stir. His lashes twitch once, then still again.

I crouch down and untie his shoes. Not because I care—because I need to do something with my hands. The laces slip free, and I set the shoes beside the sofa, neat and deliberate.

I look at him one more time. He’s still, completely. No walls. No barbs. Just… there. And I still don’t understand him. Not really.

I straighten up and mutter, “Don’t snore. I’ll kick you out.” My voice comes out rougher than I expect.

Then I turn away and head back to my room. The door closes behind me with a quiet click. The air feels heavier somehow—but cleaner. The silence settles again, and for the first time all night, it doesn’t press down. It just… stays.

Chapter Text

Landon

I wake up to the kind of silence that feels wrong. It’s not peaceful. It’s waiting.

My head’s a mess — the aftermath of whatever cocktail I took clawing behind my eyes. Everything’s too bright, too sharp. I half expect Jeremy to be standing over me already, ready to lecture me, drag me through another one of his righteous tirades.

But the penthouse smells like coffee and toast.

I drag myself out of bed, every step heavy, deliberate. I don’t bother with brushing my hair, just throw on a T-shirt and head toward the kitchen.

Jeremy’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up, moving like he owns the place. He doesn’t look up when I walk in.

“You’re being abnormally nice,” I say, leaning against the counter, voice rough.

He glances over his shoulder, deadpan. “Want me to punch you instead?”

I almost laugh, but my throat catches on it. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

“I have regrets,” he mutters, flipping whatever’s in the pan.

The corner of my mouth twitches. He doesn’t mean it, but I like the sound of it anyway.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air feels thick, like if one of us breathes too loudly, it’ll collapse into another fight. I keep waiting for him to start on me — about the pills, the party, the way I looked under those lights.

But he doesn’t. He just sets a plate down in front of me.

“Eat.”

I look at the food, then at him. “Tell me honestly, did you get disowned? Do I need to hire you to be my nanny?”

He sighs. “Eat, Landon”

Something about the way he says it makes me grin. Then, I clear my throat. Sudden awkwardness flooding me as I relive last night. I hate feeling indebted to someone. Even though I don’t owe Jeremy anything. Yes, I was high and drunk, but spare me the theatrics, it was with Remi for fucks sake. His face might look like a crime scene but I promise he is as harmless as a gnat. Anyway, Jeremy sees it as him fucking saving me, so it’s the same difference. I hate that he thinks that.

I sit up a little straighter. “I’m bad at apologies,” I tell him, stabbing at the eggs with a fork. “So, you know… unfuck you or whatever.”

Jeremy’s mouth twitches — not a smile, exactly, but close enough to make something in my chest stumble. “Try thinking before you act next time,” he says. He taps a finger against his temple. “Listen to the little guy up here.”

“That motherfucker is lobbying for arson and wants me to kill people,” I reply.

He gives me that look — the one halfway between disbelief and disappointment — and shakes his head “Then maybe find a new voice.”

I grin despite myself. “Maybe you could lend me yours.”

His gaze lingers a bit too long, just a fraction longer than it should. I notice the small details — his sleeves rolled up, the way his jaw flexes like he’s weighing what to say next. The air shifts, so subtle I almost miss it.

Somehow the space between us feels smaller, even though we haven’t moved. His eyes flick toward me for a second too long.

And suddenly, he’s close — not quite touching, but close enough for me to feel it. His voice drops, quiet but sure.

“Or,” he starts quietly, “if you really want to apologise,” he says, “there are better ways to show it.”

“Oh?” I arch a brow because being flattered on an empty stomach is a new high. “Do tell. Enlighten the pauper.”

He steps closer, close enough I can smell him—something faint and clean, not sharp; soap and a hint of something woody. He’s stopped smiling. He looks dangerous the way a calm sea is dangerous: smooth, deep, full of currents.

“You could show gratitude,” he says, quietly. “Physically.”

“Physically?” I echo, like I haven’t heard what he meant. My fingers curl on the counter. My heart, traitor, picks up the tempo.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move away. “You could start by..” He pretends to think about it “getting on your knees.”

I blink. The words are neither joke nor order. They hang there, clinical and intimate. For a moment I think about the absurdity of it: me, Landon King, on his knees in his own kitchen. Pride is supposed to choke me. Instead something like heat floods my face.

“Is that a threat or a favour?” I ask, attempting sarcasm, but it sounds thin.

“Both,” he says. “And start with thank you.”

The words hang there, electric.

For a second, I forget to breathe. My pulse is everywhere — throat, wrists, stomach — and I can’t tell if I want to hit him or drag him closer. His tone isn’t commanding exactly, but it’s got that weight. The kind of weight I always end up obeying.
The room shrinks to the gap between us. I stand up from the seat and come round the kitchen Island. Jeremy watches me intently. He turns his body to face me as I approach him, his lower back now leaning against the marble.

We haven’t broken eye contact. Jeremy’s eyes are tracking me like a hawk, he watches as I sink to my knees in front of him.

“You want a demonstration, is that it?” I say, with my hands resting on the buckle of his jeans.

“Only if it’s sincere.” Jeremy answers. His hands are leaning casually on the counter behind him.

I click open his buckle, pulling it through the loops, and unzipping his dark jeans. Black underwear peaks through. I look up.
“Maybe you should wear less black.”

“Maybe you should shut your fucking mouth.” He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls tight. Eyes glinting in intensity. I hold back a groan, but fuck, how does he know I like having my hair pulled?

“Now tell me,” he says casually “What are you thankful for?”

I pull down his black boxers, and take him into my hands, all the while looking up at him. “Thank you.” I say softly. Hopefully he accepts that.

Nope. He pulls my hair again, eliciting a loud moan from me, not consensually.

“Thank you for what?” He asks sharply.

I close my eyes momentarily, recovering from the pain pleasure at my head. “Thank you for..”I slowly start to pump him, “taking care of me last night.”
God, this was humiliating, but fuck I’ve never been so turned on.

I take him into my mouth and that makes him break finally eye contact. He throws his head back. He quickly recovers though, hand tightening in my hair, guiding my head, forcing me down deeper on him.

Then he pulls me off. “What else?” He asks.

Saliva slips down my chin. He catches it with his thumb, slow, deliberate, like he’s claiming it.
“Hmm?” His voice drops. “What else are you grateful for, baby?”

My pulse stutters.

Baby.

It hits somewhere low in my stomach. He’s never called me that before. Should make my skin crawl. I’ve never been one for that kind of thing—too soft, too real. But my body doesn’t seem to care about semantics. Heat crawls up my neck anyway, traitorous.

I swallow, trying to find my voice again.
“Thank you for..” I’m barely audible, but Jeremy’s staring at me as if I’m telling him the winning lottery numbers. “For this” I saw looking down at him in my hands.

He scoffs, a short, sharp sound. “You’re grateful for my dick?”

I nod.
Because what the hell else am I supposed to do down here? Pride’s already on the floor with me — may as well kick it aside.

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Pathetic.”

My pulse jumps. I hate how that word lands. How my body reacts like it’s a compliment.

“Mm,” he adds, voice dipping dark. “Desperate little thing.”

Then his hand fists in my hair — brutal, decisive — jerking my head back until a sound slips out of me, uninvited.

“Well,” he mutters, leaning down just enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek, “I’m grateful for this mouth.”

No pause. No warning.
He drags me closer by the roots of my hair, the pain sharp enough to make my eyes water.

“Open,” he orders.
Not a request. Not even a question.

His grip tightens, forcing compliance, pulling me exactly where he wants me..

He’s relentless.

Not rough for the sake of it — focused. Like he’s trying to fuck the air out of my lungs and watch what I look like without it.

At some point I choke around him, a quick, involuntary gag, and instead of letting up his hand tightens in my hair — a low, filthy groan pushing out of his chest like it spurred him on.

My nails dig into his thighs. Hard.
I don’t even realise I’m doing it until he twitches against my tongue. My jaw aches, my throat burns, but stopping isn’t even on the table.

It feels like an addiction — stupid, chemical, embarrassing.
Every time he grinds deeper, my body just reacts like it’s starving for it.

He pulses once — sharp.
Then again.

Close.

I swallow around him, slow and deliberate, and his breath snaps into a curse as his hips jerk, fingers yanking my head like he’s fighting not to lose control right there.

“Fuck.”

The groan rumbles low in his chest, deep and ragged, vibrating through my skull. I feel him shiver and jerk against me, his fingers twisting in my hair like they own it, like they own me. My throat clamps around him, my jaw burning, my hands gripping the curve of his thighs just to keep myself steady. I can’t stop — wouldn’t even if I tried.

Then he pulls out abruptly. I can’t help it — I stick out my tongue, a mixture of defiance and need, and he’s right there, letting go. He spills across my tongue, dribbling down my chin, down to my shirt. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s mine now, even if he doesn’t want it to be.

His chest hitches, every exhale a curse, a growl, a claim. I swallow a little, just because I can, tasting him, feeling the burn in my jaw, the sharp ache in my teeth, and the ridiculous heat pooling lower.

Even as he leans back, smirking and regaining his composure like he’s never lost it at all, I’m still trembling, still caught in the aftershock of him, of this. My hands still clutch his thighs, my lips tingling, my pulse screaming — and I know that if he wanted, he could have me again before I even thought about it.

I drag my tongue over my lips, deliberately slow — the kind of move that would make anyone else blush, but I do it just to see Jeremy’s jaw flex. He watches me like I’ve just pulled a trick out of my sleeve, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or break something.

Then he moves. No warning, no hesitation. His fingers hook under my shirt and pull it up in one clean motion, the hem catching for a second on my chin before it’s gone. He uses it to wipe my neck and my face. Then he tosses it aside like trash.

“I accept your gratitude,” he says, smirking like he’s won something.

Jeremy holds his hand out.

I stare at it like he’s offering me a charity donation.
My first instinct is to scoff, ignore it, keep my pride intact—

But then I remember:
his dick was literally in my mouth five minutes ago.
Hard to pretend we’re maintaining dignity at this point.

So I take it.

He doesn’t just lift me — he yanks me in, chest-first, like I’m a thing he’s claiming by proximity. His arms come around my waist, solid and unhesitating.

And suddenly I’m right up against him.

He’s taller — just enough to be irritating — and broader in that dense, athletic way that reminds me why he’s the only person I’ve met who can physically push me around.

I’m not small.
I’m built like someone who has never lost a fight on purpose.
People stare at me everywhere I go.

His eyes drag over my face, shameless and slow, like he’s cataloguing every feature. Normally I’d bask in it, because I know exactly what I look like — too handsome for my own sanity, too symmetrical to be trusted — but this feels different.

I keep my expression perfectly neutral, the way I always do when someone gets too close.

Jeremy tilts his head a little, gaze fixed intensely on mine. He studies the blue — the shade people comment on like it’s a personality trait — and something darker flashes through his eyes.

Then he says, voice low, rough, and way too sure of itself:

“Stop looking at me like you want me to ruin you again.”

It hits me right in the spine.

My mouth curls before I can stop it — arrogant, automatic.

“I look good wanting things,” I murmur. “It’s not my fault you’re susceptible.”

His fingers tighten at my waist. My pulse spikes.
He feels it — I know he does, because his thumb presses subtly over the spot where my heart gives me away.

Jeremy’s thumb stays pressed against my pulse like he owns the damned thing.
Then his gaze flicks down to it — deliberate, hungry — and when he looks back up, something in his expression has changed.

I don’t recognise it.
I don’t know if I like it.
But I don’t stop him.

He leans in, slow enough that I feel the heat of him before anything actually happens. My breath snags. I tell myself it’s annoyance. Obviously.

His mouth hovers right over the spot his thumb was. His breath ticking my throat.

Hot, wet pressure right against my pulse point.
My knees actually try to buckle, which is humiliating, but his arm tightens around my waist and holds me upright like he anticipated it.

The first pass is gentle — tongue smoothing over my skin like he’s mapping it, learning it.

Then he bites.

Hard.

A sharp, claiming pressure that sends a shock straight down my spine and punches a gasp out of me before I can choke it back.

He bites again — deeper — and I feel the drag of his teeth, feel him marking me, and my hands fist in his shirt because what the hell is happening to me.

Jeremy groans, low in his throat, like I taste good.
Like this is something he’s wanted.

He sucks at my skin, slow and cruelly thorough, and I feel the heat of a bruise blooming under his mouth — vibrant, deliberate, impossible to hide.

No one marks me.
Ever.

I don’t let people leave things on my body.
I don’t let them have proof they touched me.

But Jeremy isn’t asking.

When he finally pulls back, he drags his tongue over the bite — soothing the sting he caused, like that makes it better. His breath is ragged, brushing my skin.

He drags his thumb over the bruise — slow, deliberate, admiring his own work — then tilts my chin up with that maddening, smug control.

His mouth brushes my ear when he says it, low enough to vibrate straight through me:

“Now I’ve come down your throat and marked it. Perfect.”

For half a second — half — my brain blanks.

Because fuck.
It sends a hot, involuntary jolt down my spine — which is infuriating, because I didn’t sign off on that reaction.

I tap the bruise lightly with two fingers, tilting my head as if I’m checking the work:

“Still… fascinating that you got that possessive over my throat.”
I raise a brow. “If you’re that desperate to claim real estate, Jeremy…”
A beat.
“…you should’ve started with my mouth. It’s the part you liked most.”

Jeremy’s arms are still locked around my waist — heavy, solid, like he hasn’t remembered to let go yet. His thumb keeps brushing the edge of the bruise he put on my throat, almost absent-minded.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, voice low, “but I’m patient.”

His breath is warm against my jaw.
Too warm.
Distracting.

“And when I want something,” he goes on, tone roughening just slightly,
“I don’t stop until I get it.”

I drag my fingertips slowly down his forearms, feeling how stupidly solid they are, the way he tightens around my waist when I touch him.

“Yeah?” I say lightly. “So what is it you want?”

I let the smirk bleed into my voice.
“Me?”

He doesn’t answer fast enough, so I twist the knife. “Like how I had you?”
My fingers slip over his wrist, tracing the vein there. “You want that?”

Jeremy breathes out once — not a laugh, not denial. Something else.

“That’s…”
He swallows, eyes flicking down my face like he’s trying to track a thought he didn’t mean to speak aloud.
“That’s one way.”

I blink.

One way?
One way of what?

Before I can dissect it, he adds under his breath — too low, too unguarded:

“Not the only way.”

My mouth goes dry.

I stare at him, trying to read his face, but he’s already looking somewhere over my shoulder, jaw tense like he didn’t realise he’d said it out loud.

I force a lazy smile anyway, sliding my hand up his bicep like the whole thing amuses me.

Jeremy huffs a quiet breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a denial — and his grip tightens subtly around my waist, like he’s anchoring me there.

And suddenly I don’t know what the fuck that means either.

The vibration cuts through the air, sharp and insistent — definitely not my phone.
Jeremy’s pocket buzzes again, harsher this time. He freezes for half a second, jaw ticking once before he lets go of my waist.

Instant temperature drop.

His hands leave me and I feel the absence like a shove, but I don’t move. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

He steps back just enough to reach into his pocket. The second he sees the caller ID, his whole posture changes — spine straight, eyes sharpened, all that heat he had on me a breath ago tightened into something lethal. Professional.

He answers without looking at me.

“Да?”

His voice drops an octave — clipped Russian, low and precise.
I catch: “Нет. Уже еду. Подождите.”
Then another short exchange, all consonants and command.

I lean a shoulder against the counter and watch him, openly curious because why the hell not. He’s still got the taste of me on his tongue; the least he can do is put on a show.

He ends the call and slips the phone back into his pocket with that same clean efficiency he uses for everything he doesn’t want me reading into.

His eyes flick to mine — just once. A quick assessment. A silent something.

Annoyingly, he holds my gaze longer than he needs to.

Then he switches back into English, tone flat but threaded with something like warning… or promise. Hard to tell.

“I have to go.”

No explanation. No apology. No softness.

Just fact.

He moves toward the front door, steps smooth, already slipping back into whatever world exists past the threshold. But he backs up for the last two steps — facing me, walking away without turning from me.

Showoff.

His hand lifts slightly, a small, wordless signal — a stay there, don’t follow, don’t ask type of gesture. Casual. Controlled.
Like he gives commands just by existing.

The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, not anything warm. More like he’s amused with himself for stopping this first.

Then, half under his breath but perfectly clear:

“We’re not done.”

And he’s gone.

Door clicks shut.

Silence snaps back around me.

I exhale once through my nose, slow, bored, brushing my thumb across my lower lip like I’m wiping off dust — not him.

Hickey burns on my throat.
I refuse to touch it.

I grab a piece of toast from the counter, take a bite, and mutter:

“Yeah. Didn’t think we were.”

Chapter Text

Landon

Dr Gabriel’s office smells like peppermint tea and old books — both of which irritate me for reasons I refuse to unpack.

He looks up as I step in.
“Morning, Landon.”

“Hey.” I reply, sitting on the sofa opposite Gabriel’s chair. He sits down. His hair looks greyer than last week, and his clothes are a little wrinkled. Hm. Wonder if everything is okay at home.

He gestures to the small hardback on the table between us.
“You didn’t bring the book.”

“Bold of you to assume I read it.”

“I assumed you’d bring it back.”

“I assumed you’d forget you gave it to me.”

A tiny smile tugs at his mouth.
“You left it untouched.”

“Incorrect,” I say, leaning back and crossing my arms. “I looked at it with disdain multiple times. Does that count as emotional engagement?”

“Did you relate to it?”

“To the cover design?” I shrug. “Not really my aesthetic.”

He waits.

I hate when he does that.

I sigh dramatically, “Fine. I opened it. Once.”

“And closed it?”

“Immediately.”

“What stopped you?”

“The paragraphs. The words. The pages. You know — book things.”

“Hm, well I really thought you’d like it if you give it a try. But that’s fine, you can bring it back whenever you want.”

He folds his hands.
“Can I ask about your family today?”

I stretch my legs out onto the table in front.
“Ask whatever you want. I’m under no obligation to answer.”

He takes that as permission, somehow.
“Tell me something you enjoyed about your childhood.”

I actually laugh — real, warm.
“Winning. Definitely winning.”

His eyebrows lift.
“Winning what?”

“Art competitions. Brandon and I used to attend them all the time when we were younger. We would destroy everyone every single time. It was a slaughter.”
I grin.
“The looks on their faces were priceless.”
The poor kids. Not.

He watches me with that interested, gentle expression.
“You two seemed very connected then.”

My smile thins.
Barely, but still.

I study a loose thread on my jeans.
“We were a good team.”

“And now?”

I pretend not to hear the question for a few seconds.
Not rude — just selective.

“He’s… doing his own thing.”

“Painting?”

I shrug.

“Does he paint the same way he used to?”

I hesitate.
Bad move. He sees it.

“…he paints differently.”

“Different how?”

I sit forward, rubbing my thumb along my knuckles.
“He plays it safe now. Landscapes. Pretty skies. Trees. Stuff you buy for a dentist’s waiting room.”

“Maybe his style evolved.”

“No.” Too quick. I roll my eyes.
“I walked in on him a few months ago. He was working on something way more interesting. And he nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised I’d seen it.”

Gabriel tilts his head.
“Afraid you saw it, or afraid of the painting itself?”

I blink at him.
He does that—asks something that sounds simple but feels like it’s poking around in my ribs.

“Does it matter?”

“It mattered enough for you to bring it up.”

I huff.
“He won’t talk about it. Not to me. Not to anyone, probably.”

Gabriel nods once.
“You care about the work he’s hiding.”

“I care that he’s wasting his talent,” I snap, then soften it with a shrug.
“He could bring people to their knees with what he used to make.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to.”

I scoff.
“Who wouldn’t want that?”

Gabriel’s voice stays maddeningly calm.
“You mentioned he’s more sensitive than you.”

“Right. He swallowed all my emotions in the womb.”
I flick my hand.
“He feels double what I do.”

“Then perhaps standing in that kind of spotlight doesn’t feel safe for him.”

I don’t answer that.
Not because he’s right.
But because he might be.

He continues, gently:
“Have you considered talking to him about it?”

I lean back, crossing my arms.
“We’re… not on the same schedule.”

“That’s not the same as ‘we don’t talk’.”

He’s good.
Annoyingly.

I sigh.
“He’s wrapped up in his relationship right now. And good for him, I guess.”

“A boyfriend you don’t approve of?”

“I don’t approve of anyone who occupies all his time.”
A beat.
“It’s inconvenient.”

Gabriel smiles faintly, like he’s just found a thread he’ll tuck away for later.

“Landon, people make time for the ones they feel safe with.”

I stare at the ceiling so I don’t have to stare at him.
“You’re saying it’s my fault.”

“I’m saying connection doesn’t happen by accident.”

I don’t reply.
My jaw tenses — which he definitely sees — but I pretend it’s nothing.

“We can come back to this another time,” he says.

I shrug again, more casual than I feel.
“I don’t care.”
I drop my feet from the table.

Dr Gabriel lets the Brandon thread go — thankfully — and shifts his gaze to my neck.

His eyes flick to the mark Jeremy left.
The bite. The bruise.

Then, calmly:
“Is that” he points to his own neck “from the man you mentioned last week? The one with all the rules?”

The phrasing of that makes me laugh.
It bursts out of me before I can stop it.

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back like this is all a comedy. “Him.”

Dr Gabriel waits, which is annoying.
He’s got that interested but not prying expression that somehow makes me want to say more just to ruin it.

So I roll my eyes, gesture vaguely at my neck.

“Look at him, huh? Breaking all his own rules. But if I do it—”
I snap my fingers. “All hell breaks loose.”

Dr Gabriel’s mouth twitches.
Not a smile — he never gives me those for free — but something that says he’s filing this away.

“Does that bother you?” he asks softly.

I scoff. “What, that he’s a hypocrite? No. That’s half his charm.”

But he keeps watching me, and I suddenly become very aware of the heat under my collarbone. “So… is it still casual?” he asks.

I snort. “What else would it be?”

He hums like that answer is a data point.
A wrong one.

“And have the two of you talked about the… rule-breaking?”

I grin. “No. I don’t do debriefs after sex. Sounds like homework.”

Gabriel doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does.

“I’m not asking for a debrief,” he says. “I’m asking if you want clarity.”

“About what? He bit me. Congratulations to him.”

“That’s not all he did,” Gabriel says quietly.

I go still.

Not because he’s wrong — he’s not — but because he said it like he knows something I didn’t say out loud.

He waits. I don’t give him anything.

So he continues, “A boundary was crossed. I’m wondering if you’re curious why.”

I roll my eyes hard enough to strain something.

“Curious? No. I already know why.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he wanted to.” I shrug. “People do things they want. It doesn’t have to be deep.”

Gabriel’s brow lifts — subtle, almost invisible.

“You’re sure that’s all it is? Something he wanted?”

“What else would it be?”

“You tell me.”

I scoff, loud. “Come on. Don’t psychoanalyse the bruise. He got carried away. Impulse control issues. I attract those.”

Gabriel studies me.

Not the mark.
Not my posture.
Me.

Then he says, “It sounds like you’re pretending not to care about something you very much noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed,” I say, leaning forward, smirking. “I’m not blind. He’s good with his mouth.”

Gabriel doesn’t flinch. “I meant the contradiction.”

“What contradiction?”

“You don’t let people mark you. Atleast I’ve never seen it before and I’ve known you for many years.”

He clocks it. Of course he does.

“So,” he continues gently, “why him?”

I lean back, stretch out like this entire conversation bores me.

“Maybe I didn’t notice,” I lie.

“And you’re lying,” he says calmly.

My eyes cut to his.

He holds the stare. Not aggressively.
Just… confidently, like he’s not afraid of whatever I throw back.

Then he adds, “You don’t strike me as someone who loses track of his body.”

I hate him.

But I also… like him.

Not in a normal way.
In the way you like a worthy opponent.

“So,” Gabriel says, folding his hands, “if you didn’t miss it… and you didn’t stop him… what do you think that means?”

I smirk slowly, all teeth, knowing exactly what he’s getting at. I don’t answer him. Of course not. That doesn’t stop him though.

“It means you let him. And that,” he says, “is the part I’m interested in.”

Then I shake my head lightly.

“Actually,” I say, “we should drop this.”

Gabriel’s expression doesn’t falter, but I can feel him paying closer attention.

I continue, casual, offhand, like it’s nothing, “Technically? Even talking about this is kind of… rule-breaking. I’m not supposed to mention anything to anyone, so—” I flick my fingers between us, “—this whole conversation? Off-limits.”

It’s a lie.
Or half a lie.
But it’s a good enough excuse to slam a door in his face.

Gabriel tilts his head. “You’re concerned about his rules?”

I snort. “I’m concerned about avoiding unnecessary drama. I wouldn’t want to be there if he ever finds out, somehow. He knows way too much.”

Gabriel waits. I don’t elaborate.

“So.” I clap my hands once, like we’ve wrapped up a neat little topic. “We’re done. I’m not getting myself in trouble so you can write notes about my attachment issues.”

He doesn’t take the bait — doesn’t argue, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t say he’s not writing anything.
He just watches me.

“Alright,” he says finally. Calm. Accepting.
Too accepting.

“But you brought it up,” he adds quietly, “not me.”

He’s right, but I’m not giving him that.

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “And I’m now un-bringing it up. Magic.”

“Landon.”

“Nope.” I gesture like I’m closing a book. “Topic retired. Buried.”

He leans back in his chair, hands loose in his lap — relaxed, but not backing off.
He switches tone, softer but more pointed.

“I’m not interested in getting you into trouble,” he says. “I’m interested in why you think talking is dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous,” I shoot back. Too fast.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Then why the sudden need to shut it down?”

I give him a cold little smile.

“Because,” I say, “I don’t owe anyone explanations. Especially not about him.”

My voice comes out sharper than I planned.
It gives something away.

Gabriel hears it.

But he nods, letting me have the illusion of control.

“Alright,” he says gently, “we can drop it.”

I stand up without warning.

Gabriel blinks, just once, like he’s recalibrating.
Good.

“Well,” I say, brushing off my trousers even though there’s nothing on them, “this has been… nice?”

I’m already heading for the door when I remember something.
I turn back slightly, hand on the doorknob.

“Oh — and apologise to Lydia for whatever you did.”

That gets him.

Gabriel’s eyes widen just a little.
Not much.
But enough.

Perfect.

I tilt my head, let a slow smirk spread.

“She was probably right, let’s be honest.”

His mouth opens like he’s about to respond, but I’m already stepping out, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

Score.

The hallway feels lighter.
My chest too.
Therapy is stupid — except for moments like that, when I walk out feeling like I’ve actually won something.

No idea what I won.
Doesn’t matter.

Feels good.

Always does

Chapter Text

Jeremy

My father turns fifty-nine today, which means two things:
1. There will be too much food.
2. There will be too much chaos.

It’s tradition — every birthday, every anniversary, every “we survived another year without burning the city down” celebration — all of it happens at the mansion. No matter how old we get, no matter how many empires get built or burned, everyone ends up here eventually.
The moment I step inside, it hits me like it always does:
Home. Noise. Ridiculousness.

Rai and my mother have disappeared somewhere — which usually means they’re conspiring. The last time they vanished during a party, they returned with fireworks that nearly set the fountain on fire. Kyle still swears he wasn’t the one who authorised it. No one believes him.

The dads — mine, Kyle Hunter and Asher Carson are in the living room arguing with the intensity of men who’ve seen war… over whether the grill outside needs to be “properly seasoned.” Adrian is defending his method like someone insulted his first-born child.

The house is dressed in birthday decorations, but not the formal, pretentious kind. No gold-leaf banners or ice sculptures. Just huge silver 59 balloons, strings of lights Annika probably hung crooked, and the old framed photos my mother insists on putting out every year — Adrian with a mullet in the 90s (criminal), baby Annika eating dirt in the garden, me with a missing front tooth and a black eye from falling off a tree I swore I could climb.

And then there’s him.

My father.

Standing in the middle of it all with two of his brothers-in-arms gripping his shoulders while he laughs — loudly, freely — the kind of laugh that tilts his head back and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Relaxed.

It’s not a look that belongs to Adrian Volkov. Or at least not the version the world sees.
But here? Surrounded by people who would commit war crimes for him?

He looks…happy.

The chaos hits me the moment I enter the living room.

Annika is leaning back in her chair, arms folded, smirking like the smug little gremlin she is.
Creighton sits beside her, whispering .
Across from them, Niko is pacing like an attorney preparing a closing argument.
Killian has dragged a dining chair backwards and is straddling it like a cop interrogating a drug dealer.
Gaz looks like he wants to call the police on all of them.

And in the middle of the table sits the Monopoly board.
Except it looks like Monopoly had a baby with Uno, Vegas, and a law firm.

Kill looks up the moment I appear.
“Finally. The Judge has arrived.”

Niko bows. Actually bows.
“Your Honour.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why are we litigating a board game?”

“Because,” Annika says sweetly, “Niko cheated.”

“I did not cheat,” Niko snaps. “I strategised.”

“You bribed the banker,” Gaz says flatly.

“That is a LEGAL MECHANIC,” Niko declares.

“It’s not,” Gaz mutters.

Niko slams his hands on the table. “OBJECTION—”

Kill clears his throat loudly. “We’re using indoor voices today, remember?”

“Right,” Niko says, then continues in a whisper-scream: “Ob. Jec. Tion.”

I drop into an empty seat.
“Someone catch me up.”

Kill turns the chair toward me like a theatre director. “Okay. So. Annika landed on Niko’s Boardwalk.”

“It’s not his,” Gaz interjects. “He stole it.”

“ALLEGEDLY,” Niko hisses.

“And instead of paying the rent,” Kill continues calmly, “Annika Uno-Reversed him.”

“That is NOT—” Gaz starts.

“IT’S AN AGREED RULE,” Annika says brightly, tapping a printed list. “Rule #12.”

I read it.

Rule #12: Uno Reverse may be used once per player per game to swap any financial burden with the original owner, but only if executed with confidence.

I look at Gaz.

He throws his hands up. “I got cornered! They ganged up! Niko threatened to eat the rulebook!”

“I WOULDN’T HAVE,” Niko says.
Beat.
“…probably.”

Annika flips her hair with villainous grace. “Point is: I played by the rules.”

“She did not,” Niko argues, pointing dramatically at Creighton. “He whispered advice. That’s collusion.”

Creighton blinks. “I only suggested buying utilities—”

“UNDER OATH!” Niko shouts.

Kill slaps the table. “WE ARE USING INDOOR VOICES.”

Niko whisper-shouts again. “Under. Oath.”

I gesture lazily. “Fine. Creighton, step forward.”

Creighton stands like he’s about to face a firing squad.

“Did you or did you not advise the defendant in a strategic manoeuvre that directly impacted the financial outcome of the game?”

Creighton: “I—yes?”

Niko gasps. “HE CONFESSED.”

Kill looks at me with dead seriousness. “Judge. We need sentencing.”

I lean back, steepling my fingers.
“Hmm.”

Everyone holds their breath.

Annika taps her nails on the table, smug.
Niko looks like a raccoon pleading for leniency.
Gaz looks exhausted.
Creighton looks ready to pass out.

I clear my throat.

“In light of Creighton’s confession,” I say, solemn, “and Annika’s correct use of Rule #12—”

Niko groans.
Annika smirks.
Creighton looks hopeful.
Gaz mutters “finally.”

“—I rule,” I continue, “that Annika’s Uno Reverse stands.”

Annika beams triumphantly.

Creighton sighs in relief.

“And,” I add, “Creighton must go directly to Jail for crimes against common sense.”

Creighton freezes. “Wait—what? But I’m not even playing.”

Kill slams a hand on the board. “JUSTICE.”

Niko cheers like a stadium crowd.
Gaz shakes his head. “I hate it here.”

Annika pats Creighton’s hand. “It’s okay. Jail is comfy.”

Kill adds helpfully, “You can meditate. I’ve been doing it for forty minutes. I think I transcended.”

Niko snorts. “You drooled on the Chance cards.”

Killian suddenly points at Niko with pure outrage.
“And he keeps distracting people on purpose so he can steal their properties!”

Niko gasps dramatically. “I would never. I merely asked Gaz if he thought pigeons have accents.”

Gaz: “…You asked me that for nine minutes.”

“And in those nine minutes,” Killian says, “he stole Mayfair, Park Lane, and the Water Bill extra tax card.”

“What water bill?” I ask.

Gaz sighs. “Another amendment.”

“Oh my god.” I have to get out of here before I descend into madness. It seems to have gotten to the rest of them.

Still I can’t help but laugh. Because this is insane.
Utterly, gloriously insane.

But it feels like home.

Like warmth.
Like childhood.
Like belonging.

Even if I’m planning to throw Creighton off a balcony later.

The hallway outside feels blissfully quieter, like stepping out of a concert and suddenly remembering what regular human decibels sound like. I follow the faint sound of laughter, softer this time. Warmer.

The kitchen and adjoining lounge glow with low golden light, and the atmosphere is entirely different from the testosterone-fuelled disaster happening in the other room.

The women are gathered around the marble island, wine glasses in hand, looking like a Vogue editorial titled Dangerously Elegant Matriarchs You Do Not Want To Cross.

My mother, Lia, is laughing at something Rai just said — head tossed back, the kind of laugh that makes her look ten years younger.
Rai Sokolov is swirling her wine like she’s holding court.
Reina Carson leans on the counter, smirking, probably planning someone’s downfall with minimal effort.

“I made the blinis,” Reina says, lifting a small porcelain plate toward me. “Eat before the men arrive and trample the table.”

I take one. It’s ridiculous how much comfort a warm pancake and sour cream can give in a room full of grown, complicated people.

“Where are Mia and Maya?” I ask as casually as I can. My voice is lower than the chatter; I don’t want to be the one to break whatever quiet joke they are safely stitching.

“The girls won’t be joining us tonight.” Rai lifts her glass, eyes twinkling. “Both of them came down with… how did they word it? ‘A catastrophic, twin-level illness.’”

Reina snorts softly. “It’s a cold.”

Rai — who never sugarcoats — nods with the smallest, resigned smile. “Yes, but—Maya said she was ‘on death’s door,’ and Mia refused to leave her alone ‘in her final hours.’”

They laugh like it’s the deadliest drama, and even their laughter is affectionate. I nod and tuck a blini in my mouth, the noise of the kitchen folding into something domestic and safe.

Dinner is called and the room rearranges itself: I end up between Dad and Annika. Dad squeezes my shoulder once before reaching for the wine. Annika is trying very hard not to laugh at something Creighton whispered to her; she fails, snorting into her water glass, which sets Killian off, which sets the entire left side of the table vibrating with second-hand laughter.

Dinner begins with the usual small talk: updates about work, about shipments, about who said what to which idiot cousin last week. It’s loud but not sharp — the kind of noise you don’t have to guard yourself against.

Kyle raises his glass first. Of course he does. “Alright, alright,” he booms, already flushed from wine. “To Adrian, who somehow hasn’t crumbled into dust—”

“Fuck off,” Dad says, dry as gravel.

“—and who also, apparently, refuses to age like a normal human being.”

Nikos adds, “We should test his DNA.”

“We already did,” Killian says solemnly. “Results inconclusive. Too much ego in the sample.”

The table erupts. Dad only smirks, shaking his head like he’s heard every one of these jokes before — because he has — but Lia is laughing like she’s twenty again, eyes bright, hand slipping effortlessly into his under the table. The kind of small gesture that isn’t meant to be seen.

Kyle continues, “Anyway. To the old man. Happy birthday.”

Glasses lift. The clinking fills the room.

Dinner goes on — longer courses, louder jokes, the easy burn of conversation. At one point, Gaz starts telling a story about a shipment that went wrong because someone (Nikos) forgot which dock number was correct.

“I said it was number fourteen!” Nikos insists.

“You said forty,” Killian replies.

“I said fourteen!”

“You slurred. Two different things.”

“I was sober—”

“No,” the entire right side of the table choruses.

I lean back a little as they argue, letting their voices wash over me. Background noise I’ve always known. Nothing special, which is what makes it good. This is what Dad built. A house people want to come back to. A table no one drifts away from unless they’re forced to.

And the thought flickers — intrusive, sharp.

I could ruin this.

All of it.

I cut the thought off before it can take shape. There’s a boundary even in your own head sometimes.

“Malysh,” Dad says, nudging my arm. “Tell them how well you’ve been doing at work recently.”

I shrug. “It’s nothing special.”

“Don’t downplay it,” Dad says. His voice isn’t loud, but the table still quiets a little. “What he’s done these past few months—” He clears his throat, not one for speeches. “He’s steady. Reliable. I don’t say it often, but… the boy’s becoming someone I can depend on.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck — not embarrassment exactly, something closer to pressure. Dad rarely makes statements like that in front of anyone.

Lia squeezes his hand, smiling at me with that soft, warm look that she gives no one else’s children. Dad lifts his glass again, this time only slightly, an almost-private gesture.

“I’m proud of you. That’s all.”

For some reason, it hits harder than it should.

My chest tightens — a flicker of guilt, sharp and uninvited. Thinking about Landon earlier. Thinking about everything that could go wrong.

I hold Dad’s gaze, nod once, and lift my glass. “Thanks.”

He taps his knuckles gently against my shoulder — affection disguised as something rougher.

Conversation slowly resumes. Lia leans into him, brushing a kiss to his cheek after some quiet joke he murmurs in her ear. His thumb strokes the back of her hand once, unconsciously, like muscle memory.

It’s the sort of love that’s survived more storms than anyone at this table knows how to name. A kind of certainty I’ve never been able to imagine for myself. I’ve been useful. I’ve been reliable. I’ve been necessary.

Wanted…? That one is harder.

The table bursts into song — off-key Russian, with Killian dragging the tempo and Nikos singing like someone stepped on his foot. Adrian blows out the candles, Lia laughing into his shoulder, and the sound fills the room so easily it feels older than all of us.

I look around the table.

This is home.
This is the thing I could break if I’m careless.

I should’ve known better.

That’s the first thought that hits me when I step out onto the front steps of the mansion and the cold-night air slaps me clean.

Because this thing with Landon?
It’s a mistake.
A big one.
The kind that bites back harder than it ever felt good.

Nothing is casual with Landon King.
He doesn’t do simple.
He doesn’t do clean.
He casually burns down mansions when he’s bored — why the hell did I ever convince myself he could be uncomplicated?

And the worst part?
I’m getting invested.
Not in some romantic, starry-eyed way — God forbid — but invested enough that I’m thinking about him when I shouldn’t.
Wanting him when I shouldn’t.
Letting him get under my skin deeper than anything should be allowed.

That’s the threat.
Not feelings.
Just… exposure.

It could come back and bite me in the ass.
It will.
If I don’t end it now.

Inside, the house is winding down.
People are leaving in clusters, coats slipping on, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter.
The place feels softer now, almost sleepy.

My parents are staying the night in the mansion, even though they live close enough to walk home if they wanted.
“Tradition,” my father said, clapping my shoulder.
My mother just smiled.
I kissed her cheek and stepped out.

And now I’m here.
Helmet under my arm.
Ducati Panigale humming like a threat under me as I ride away from warmth and safety and everything sensible… straight toward the one person I need to cut off.

I don’t slow down.
Not once.
Not until I’m parked in front of Landon’s building, pulse still vibrating from the speed.

End it.
It has to end.

I know the code to his door.
Could walk in without hesitation — I’ve done it before.

But tonight… I don’t.
Tonight I knock.

My knuckles echo once, twice.

There’s a good chance he’s asleep.
It’s almost one in the morning, and he’s the kind of person who either passes out early or doesn’t sleep at all.

I wait.

Silence stretches.

Then footsteps.
A soft shuffle.
The click of the lock turning—

The door cracks open.

And Landon stands there.

Landon stands there blinking at me, half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing pyjama bottoms that should not be legal and a cotton shirt that hangs loose on his frame. He looks soft. Warm. Human.

He looks like something I can’t have.

He squints at me, voice low and rough with sleep.

“…Jeremy?”

Say it.
This is the moment.
You rehearsed the words in your head the entire night.

End it.

My mouth won’t fucking move.

We just… stand there.
His eyes adjusting.
Mine losing every ounce of resolve I had.

He shifts slightly, one hand on the doorframe, watching me with that quiet, unreadable focus he gets when he’s trying to see through people.

“Are you… okay?” he asks softly.

That’s all it takes.

My breath stutters.
My thoughts crash.
My chest tightens like something inside it snaps loose.

I open my mouth—

Nothing comes out.

Not “we need to stop.”
Not “this was a mistake.”
Not anything that would save me.

Just silence.

Hot, humiliating silence.

And he steps a little closer. Barely an inch. But it’s enough to undo me completely.

His voice drops, gentler than he probably means it to be.

“Jeremy…”

Say it.

End it.
Walk away.
Do the smart thing.

I don’t. And any words I came here to say —
any resolve, any logic, any plan to end this —
falls straight out of my head like I never had them in the first place.

I grab the front of his shirt and crush my mouth against his.

All that careful control, all that logic, all that weight sitting in my skull… gone. Burned out in a second. His lips are warm, soft from sleep, and he gasps into the kiss like he didn’t see it coming but he’s already pulling me in anyway.

His fingers slide into my hair, grip tight at my nape, dragging me closer, kissing me back with this slow, hunger that makes my knees almost give out.

I’m supposed to be ending things.

Instead, I’m drowning in him.

And Landon—
Landon just holds me there like he knew I would.

Jeremy’s lips find his jaw, trailing heat down the sharp line of it. He can feel Landon’s pulse jump under his mouth, can hear the tiny intake of breath he tries to hide.

And then Jeremy freezes.

Because there—just beneath Landon’s jaw, half hidden by the angle of his head—

Is the faintest purple mark.
A hickey.
His hickey.

Shit.

Jeremy goes still.
Totally, utterly still.

He’d forgotten about that.
He forgot about that.

Landon feels him tense.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, glancing down at him with that heavy-lidded, unreadable look he gets when he knows exactly what Jeremy’s thinking before Jeremy himself does.

Jeremy’s gaze flicks once more to the faint bruise on Landon’s neck.

That stupid mark on Landon’s neck is proof of exactly why Jeremy came here tonight.

And something inside him snaps.

“No,” he says again, voice low. Final. “This is a mistake.”

Landon doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Just watches him with that deceptively calm, half-lidded stare — the one that makes people forget there are knives behind it.

Jeremy forces a breath.
“I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t be… doing any of this.”
A sharp gesture between them.
“This is insane.”

“Right,” Landon murmurs. “A mistake.”

Jeremy drags a hand through his hair.
“I’m ending it.”

A beat.

Then Landon’s mouth curves into a slow, cruel little smirk.

“Shocking. Truly.”

Jeremy bristles.
“Don’t start.”

“Start?” Landon laughs — soft but razor-edged. “Sweetheart, you started this the moment you kissed me at the door.”

Jeremy’s jaw tightens.
“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh?” Landon lifts a brow. “Does it make the breakup too intimate?”

Jeremy’s temper flares, quick and vicious.
“You think this is funny? You think any of this is a game?”

“It’s always a game to you,” Landon fires back. “You show up, you touch me, you leave. You make the rules, you break them, then you pretend I’m the unpredictable one.”

Jeremy steps in, furious.
“You are unpredictable. Unstable. You—”

“Go on.” Landon’s voice drops. “Say what you really want to say.”

Jeremy doesn’t hesitate.

“Can you really blame me?” he snaps.
“You’re a fucking mess.”

Landon goes still.

Jeremy barrels on, too far gone to stop now.

“You think I’m supposed to be calm about this? About you?” His hands cut sharply through the air. “About someone who’s been a public nuisance since he was sixteen? Someone who snorts anything he can get his hands on when he’s bored?”

Landon’s eyes sharpen — not hurt, not surprised — dangerous.

But Jeremy doesn’t stop.

“You don’t give a fuck about your own life,” he spits. “So forgive me if I don’t trust you with mine.”

Landon’s expression shifts — barely.
Something hollow, something sharp, something… dangerous.
Gone in an instant.

“Finished?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Jeremy snaps. “Not even close.”

He steps closer, chest heaving.

“You don’t care who you drag down with you. You never have. And I’m not letting you drag me — or my family — into your spiral.”

Landon’s voice is ice.
“This where you tell me I ‘ruin everything I touch’ again?”

Jeremy meets his eyes, steady, lethal.

“You will,” he says. “You always do.”

A long, terrible silence. For three full seconds, Landon doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

He steps closer, invading Jeremy’s space until Jeremy has no choice but to meet his eyes.

“You know what your problem is?” Landon asks softly. “You’re terrified I’ll drag you down… because you already want to fall.”

Jeremy’s scoffs at that.
“You’re insane.”

“No,” Landon says. “I know you.”

He leans in.

“You’re addicted to this. To me.”

Jeremy’s breathing turns sharp.
“That’s not—”

“Save it,” Landon cuts in. “You don’t come back here because you care about your family. You come back because being with me lets you be the reckless piece of shit you’re dying to be, but only behind closed doors.”

Jeremy’s face flames with anger.

“And you know what else?” Landon tilts his head, smile poisonous.
“You want to talk about ‘ruining everything’? Let’s. Because you’re already doing a fantastic job ruining yourself.”

Jeremy goes rigid.

Landon’s voice softens — the softness right before the knife goes in.

“You hide behind rules and reputation because without them, you’d be nothing but scared and furious and craving things you can’t admit.”
A beat.
“So don’t fucking lecture me about chaos. You’re drowning in your own.”

Jeremy swallows hard, jaw locked.

Landon’s smile fades — replaced by something hard, cold, merciless.

“You don’t get to come into my house, kiss me, then stand there acting like I’m the one who can’t stay away.”

He steps back.
Just far enough.

“You want out?” Landon gestures toward the door.
“Get out.”

Jeremy doesn’t move.

Landon’s voice drops to a final, vicious whisper. “Run home to your perfect life, Jeremy. Before you ruin that too.”

Jeremy doesn’t answer.

He just steps back, something shutting down behind his eyes, and turns toward the door.

His movements are calm, controlled — almost careful.

He opens it.
Pauses for half a second, not looking back.

And then he pulls it closed behind him with a soft, final click.

That’s it.

The end of whatever this was.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

I tug my rucksack higher on my shoulder, breath misting in the cold as the dads shuffle around the drive like it’s noon instead of seven in the morning. Someone’s already opened a bottle of vodka—of course—and it’s making its way between a cluster of Russian uncles who absolutely should not be drinking before handling rifles. I don’t comment. None of us do. It’s too early for common sense, apparently.

My fingers sting inside my gloves as I shove them deeper into my pockets. The snow must’ve fallen sometime before dawn; it covers everything in a clean, almost fragile layer. Last night was the first time I noticed it. I’d been walking out of Landon’s building, head full of things I didn’t know how to name, when a single flake drifted past my cheek. Soft. Slow. I didn’t even register what it was until the cold bit my skin.

I look down at my boots now—white dusting the toes—and something in my chest twists. I still haven’t checked my phone. I should’ve by now. Normally, I scan for emails, messages, missed calls the second I wake up. But the thought of unlocking it and seeing nothing… seeing no message from Landon, no tiny flare of attention or anger or anything—it makes my stomach feel like it’s falling.

I tell myself I don’t want a message.
I tell myself it’s better if he doesn’t reach out.
But I keep circling back to the same pathetic truth: I just need to know if it’s affecting him at all.

The way he told me to get out yesterday—it wasn’t furious. It wasn’t explosive. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. And I hated how much that rattled me. I’d gone there expecting… something else. Maybe even hoping for it. Some part of me thought he’d shove me into the doorframe, kiss me senseless, scream at me, threaten to throw me off the balcony—anything but that quiet, wounded look.
He looked like a cornered animal that had finally run out of places to hide.

Killian calls out something about hurrying up, and I nod without looking at him, pulling open the truck door. The heater blasts my legs, thawing the numbness in my jeans, but my mind drifts—uninvited—back to earlier this morning.

⸻

I’d walked into the kitchen expecting Nadya—she’s usually the first person I see on mornings like this—but it was my mum instead. Standing by the stove, stirring something slowly, methodically, like she had all the time in the world.

She glanced up when I entered, and her eyes did that quick mother-scan thing—taking in my face, my posture, the way I was carrying myself.

“You look tired, sweetheart,” she said, gentle but too observant. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yeah,” I lied, reaching for a glass of water to avoid her eyes. “Just got up early.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment.
Not a long moment—just long enough that I knew she didn’t believe me.

But she didn’t press.
She never presses.

She just nodded once, lips pursing faintly like she was choosing to swallow the instinct to do more. Like always.

She told me to have fun. Told me to drive carefully. Told me she’d make soup for when I got back. And I nodded along, pretending everything felt normal.

Sometimes I wish she did press.
Just so I wouldn’t feel like the only one carrying whatever this is.

⸻

Snowflakes start to melt down the truck window as the engine rumbles under us, and I blink out of the memory, back into the present where Nikolai is still laughing too loudly and someone’s trying to figure out which idiot left the keys in the other car.

And still—my hand hovers near my phone.
Still—my chest tightens at the thought of what I won’t find on it.

The convoy looks ridiculous, even by our own excessive standards—three matte-black G-Wagons in a neat little line cutting through the snow. Technically those cars are meant for bratva operations only, but Adrian said, “It’s my birthday,” and that was the end of the discussion.

The first G-Wagon is already a hazard: full of the older men, full of smoke, full of vodka at seven in the morning. I swear I see someone light a cigarette before the door even closes. They’re laughing, shouting, talking over one another. I’m not convinced that car is road-legal.

The last G-Wagon is the silent one—guards, equipment, rifles in heavy cases. Professional. Boring. Safe.

And then there’s mine: me, Nikolai, Killian, and Gareth.

Niko claims shotgun immediately, already reaching for the aux cable. Killian drags himself into the back seat with a dramatic sigh. Gareth slides in beside him, quiet, expression rested in that permanently unimpressed line.

I start the engine. The heater groans awake. Snow dusts the edges of the windscreen.

“Jeremy,” Killian says before we’ve even pulled out, “please tell him he’s not allowed to touch the aux.”

Niko glares at him. “My taste is immaculate. Actually immaculate.”

“Your taste is a war crime,” Killian replies.

Gareth snorts—barely—but for him, it’s basically hysterical laughter.

“You don’t even know what he plays,” I say, merging behind the smoke-fogged lead car.

“I do,” Gareth says dryly. “It’s whatever was trending on TikTok three days ago.”

Niko gasps. “You come for me too?”

“You make it too easy,” Gareth mutters, staring out the window.

I almost smile. Almost.

“Just put on something that isn’t going to shake the bolts loose,” I say.

“You need bass,” Niko mutters rebelliously, already scrolling through my playlist.

Killian leans forward. “Put something atmospheric. Something… heritage.”

“You need therapy,” Niko fires back.

“It’s 7 a.m.,” I remind them flatly.

“And?” all three of them answer.

The snow thickens as we drive deeper into the forest, branches heavy and white overhead. It’s the kind of cold that makes the world feel muted, insulated. Peaceful, in theory.

Except there’s nothing peaceful about three men arguing over music at full volume.

Niko stops scrolling. “Jeremy. Why is there a playlist called ‘Running’?”

“Because I run.”

Gareth snorts again. “From what?”

Killian doesn’t miss a beat. “His problems, obviously.”

I say nothing.

For a while, the noise is… good. Distracting. The kind of background chaos I can pretend to get lost in. The first G-Wagon is still just ahead—red taillights glowing through the white haze—while the guards’ car follows steadily behind us.

By the time we pull up to the old hunting cabin, the sun is still dragging itself over the treeline. Snow covers everything—thick, untouched, except for the deep tyre tracks our G-Wagons carve behind us. Breath steams from everyone’s mouths the moment we step out. It’s the kind of cold that bites.

The place itself is small but solid, dark timber, stone chimney already smoking. The older men spill out of the first car immediately, loud as hell, still half-drunk from whatever they started pouring at seven in the morning. Someone lights a cigarette. Someone else tells him to put it out before he sets the forest on fire. He doesn’t listen.

Typical.

We’re hunting boar—because the snow makes it easier to track them, and because boar are mean bastards who fight back. The men love that part.

The second and third cars unload the rifles, the gear, the supplies. Snow crunches under boots. Metal clinks. Niko and Gareth go straight into tactical mode, checking equipment, making sure everything’s accounted for.

Nikolai clicked his tongue.
“Animals can smell fear, you know,” he muttered. “And stupidity. We are surrounded by both.”

Killian snorted. “Pretty sure they can smell your cologne from space.”

“Better than smelling like wet dog,” Niko shot back.

That was the one that made me laugh for some reason.

Adrian clapped me on the shoulder.
“Jer. With me.”

He smelled like leather, pine, and authority — the kind of man who could command a room without raising his voice. Nikolai and Kill fell in behind us. Gareth and his dad veered off with a few others; better chances of finding fresh tracks in different directions.

“First team to bring something back,” Adrian said, amused, “gets to choose dinner.”

“Ooh,” Killian said. “Excellent. I will enjoy watching Gavin eat mushrooms again.”

“He hates mushrooms,” I said.

“Yes. That is why it is funny.”

We moved deeper into the trees, boots crunching over frost. Snow hung in the branches like heavy lace, and the air was sharp enough to bite through my jacket.

We walked for nearly twenty minutes before we found fresh signs — snapped branches, disturbed snow, a patch of churned-up earth still steaming faintly in the cold.

Adrian squatted beside it, gloved fingers brushing the ground.
“Close,” he murmured. “He’s moving fast.”

Killian let out a low whistle.
“That’s a big bastard, isn’t it?”

“Most things look big to you,” Nikolai said.
“Vertically challenged problems.”

Killian elbowed him. “Say that again when I bury you in the snow.”

Their bickering faded into background noise as we followed Adrian through the narrow trail between the pines. Snow dripped from branches in slow, heavy drops. My breath fogged the air. Every sound felt magnified — the crunch of ice under my boots, the click of the rifle sling against my jacket, Adrian’s steady stride ahead of me.

We stopped abruptly.

Adrian lifted a hand.

Tracks. Fresh. Deep. Angled toward the frozen stream up ahead.

“Alright,” he said. “Quiet from here.”

The forest obeyed.
Even the wind held its breath.

I stepped forward, scanning between the tree trunks. My heart wasn’t racing, but it wasn’t calm either. More like… tuned. Wound tight, waiting for the note to break.

Nikolai whispered from behind me, “Five o’clock. Movement.”

I followed his gaze.

A shape pushed between the undergrowth — slow, deliberate. Heavy bristles. Thick shoulders. Snow dusted across its back like ash.

The boar.

Bigger than I expected.

It grunted once, low and warning, pawing at the snow.

Adrian nodded toward me.
“Take position.”

I lifted the rifle.

The world funneled into the scope — the boar’s dark eye, the twitch of its jaw, the steam of its breath spilling into the cold.

My finger hovered over the trigger.

And like the trees themselves breathed it out—

“You’re a fucking mess.”

My own words landed in my chest like a blunt hit.
Not real.
Not here.

But suddenly I was back in that apartment, air thick with anger and adrenaline and the taste of something I’d never fully admit.

I blinked. Steadied.
Tracked the boar’s movement.

It took a step.

Another echo, sharper this time:

“You don’t give a fuck about your own life.”

My jaw clenched.

The boar’s ear flicked. It snorted, pawing at the snow again. A warning. It was seconds from bolting.

But the memory didn’t stop.

Another voice — Landon’s, cold, quiet, lethal:

“You’re terrified I’ll drag you down… because you already want to fall.”

A muscle jumped in my throat.

I adjusted the sight.
Exhaled.
But the air trembled coming out.

“Run home to your perfect life, Jeremy.
Before you ruin that too.”

My finger tightened.

The boar lifted its head, its dark eye catching a sliver of morning sun.

I squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked — louder than it should’ve been, shattering the stillness. Birds exploded from the trees. The boar stumbled, staggered, then collapsed hard into the snow.

Silence returned slowly, cautiously.

Nikolai muttered, “Christ. That thing didn’t even have time to flinch.”

Killian grinned. “Look at him. Assassin.”

But Adrian didn’t joke.

He stepped toward me, hand warm and solid on my shoulder.

“Good work,” he beamed. “You handled the shot well.”

I nodded, but something in my chest kept tightening, like the recoil hadn’t finished moving through me.

The others moved forward to tag the boar, but I didn’t.
Not yet.

The steam rising from its body looked too much like breath.
Too much like something fading.

Adrian called back to me, “Jer! You coming?”

I forced my boots into motion.

“Yeah,” I said.
“Coming.”

Even though everything in me was still standing in that doorway last night, replaying every word he threw at me like they were part of the forest now — woven through the branches, clinging to the cold.

We started the trek back to the cabin, the dead weight of the boar slung over a pole between Niko and Killian, both of them grunting like they were doing hard labour and not showing off for each other.

Nikolai replayed the shot for the fiftieth time.
“Clean. Fast. The boar didn’t even get to die angry. That’s respect.”

Killian snorted. “Jeremy’s just compensating for the fact he can’t fish for shit.”

I rolled my eyes, adjusting the strap of my rifle.

That’s when my phone buzzed. Then again.

I almost didn’t check it — but muscle memory won. I pulled it out, the cold stinging my fingers.

One name flashed on the screen. Wrong name.

Mila. She was a girl I had slept with a few times… definitely more than twice. She worked as a bartender at one of our casinos. She was pretty. Not complicated.

Mila : Haven’t seen you around recently…

I’ve been replaying that thing you did with your mouth and now I can’t focus on anything else.

Killian leaned over my shoulder.
“Bro, who’s blowing up your phone?”

I locked it instantly. “No one.”

Because that’s exactly who it was. A nobody.

Then I shoved it deep into my jacket pocket like it burnt.

When I looked up, Dad was watching me. Not nosy. Not judging. Just… seeing. Really seeing.

A second later, he clapped a hand on my shoulder—easy, casual, but intentional.

“Boys? Take the boar back,” he called out. “Jeremy and I are going to grab some more firewood.”

Killian blinked. “There’s heaters in the cabin.”

Niko rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on the boar. “For the marshmallows later, idiot. Go.”

Dad didn’t wait to see if they listened—just turned and headed toward the tree line. I followed without needing to be asked.

We walked for a while in that quiet he’s always been good at. Not awkward. Just space.

Then he said, “You know… I used to think dealing with everything alone made me strong.”

My chest tightened, but I didn’t answer.

“Didn’t want to burden anyone,” he continued. “Didn’t want anyone—especially your mum—to see I wasn’t as put together as I pretended.”

That startled me. Dad didn’t talk about himself like that. Not often.

“I damn near lost her over it,” he said. “She wanted a partner. I kept giving her a fortress.”

I kicked a pine cone aside. “You’re not perfect.”

He huffed a laugh. “God, no. Still—took me a long time to learn she didn’t need perfect. She needed honest.”

He stopped then, turning toward me.

“And I see you,” he said quietly. “More than you think.”

His gaze flicked toward my pocket—the one with the phone shoved so deep it might as well have been buried.

“You’re just like me at your age. Trying to hold the world together with your own hands. Trying not to let anyone see the cracks.”

My throat felt tight, so I bent down, grabbed a fallen branch, snapped the ends off. Tossed it onto the small pile we’d started.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then the words climbed out of me before I could stop them—soft, almost ashamed of themselves. I felt like the small boy who would run to his dad when anything went wrong.

“But what if it all goes terribly wrong?”

Dad straightened slowly. He didn’t look surprised—just… attentive.

I swallowed, eyes on the snow. “It could fuck everything up, Dad. I mean everything.”

There it was. The thing I’d been swallowing since last night. Heavy. Metallic.

He breathed out, calm and steady.

“Yeah,” he said. “It could.”

I looked up sharply. I’d expected a lie, or some neat little reassurance. Not that.

“But doing nothing,” he added, “can fuck things up just as much.”

He nudged his shoulder against mine. “You think I wasn’t terrified when I fell in love with your mum? When I told her things about myself I’d never said out loud before? I thought it would ruin everything. Thought she’d look at me different.”

I didn’t say anything. Just stood there, letting the cold sting at my ears.

“But she didn’t run,” he said. “She stayed. Because the right people lean in when things get hard.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“And the wrong people?” His voice dropped. “They fall away no matter how careful you are. Which means you have to be brave enough to find out who you’re dealing with.”

I let out a shaky breath, one I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding.

Dad stepped closer and rested a hand on the back of my neck—warm, grounding, familiar.

“You’re scared because it matters,” he said softly. “And that’s alright. Just don’t let fear be the one making your choices.”

I nodded. Not fully convinced, but something inside me loosened anyway. Just a fraction.

Dad squeezed my neck once more before letting go.

“Come on,” he said. “Before your friends burn the cabin down.”

And for the first time all day, it felt like the weight in my chest wasn’t only mine to carry.

By the time Dad and I got back to the cabin, the sun was already gone and the cold had settled like a weight on everything. Inside, the place smelled like roasted meat, wood smoke, and too much alcohol — exactly what you’d expect when you pack a bunch of Russian men into a wooden box in the middle of nowhere.

Dinner was loud, messy, and vaguely dangerous.
Niko nearly burned his eyebrows off lighting the grill.
Killian overdosed the stew with pepper “for warmth.”
Gaz made some toast about “brotherhood” that none of us understood because he was already too drunk.

Normal.

Afterward, we migrated outside to the fire pit. A circle of men, cigars in hand, whiskey going around, marshmallows skewered over the flames like we weren’t the same people who’d been skinning a boar a few hours ago.

I should’ve been relaxed. I tried to be.

But that conversation with Dad stayed lodged behind my ribs. Not painful — just present.
Like something shifted and hadn’t settled yet.

Killian elbowed me from my left. “Yo. Take a picture of this bitch—”
He lifted his s’more proudly. “—so everyone knows I’m a culinary genius.”

“You just put chocolate on a marshmallow,” I muttered.

“Art,” he corrected.

Still, I took my phone out. And open up my camera app
“Hold it up again,” I said.
“No — higher. No — stop making that face. Why do you look like that?”

Killian shoved me.

Niko craned over my shoulder. “Show me. No wait—send it. No wait—post it on mine—”

“Back off,” I muttered, elbowing him.

But he must’ve gotten inspired, because a moment later he’d posted his own picture—the three of us around the boar earlier, rifles slung over our shoulders. Tags all around. His caption:

“Jeremy actually put the shot down. Kid’s got aim 🔥🦌 #HuntingGod #BoarSlayer #NotJustALooker”

I only realised because my phone buzzed with notifications.

The comments started rolling in.

@masonholt: “HOLY SHIT. Jeremy. You’re actually terrifying. Respect. 😳”
@liamnguyen: “That boar didn’t stand a chance. Also, Jeremy you clean up well for a killer.”
@campoutqueen: “I’d let you shoot me any day 😏”
@theforestlife: “Y’all are insane. Boar or no boar, this is the most chaotic hunting party ever.”
@blondestofblonds: “Jeremy’s arms = my new obsession 💪🔥”

I scrolled faster, half-amused, half-wanting to throw my phone into the fire.

Then I saw it.

@L.King:
“Wow. Something you didn’t run from for once.”

Touché.

What was that?
Why did he say that?
Was it a dig at me for… running away?
Because I did. I kind of did.

God.

Why did it feel like he did that on purpose? Well, of course it did. He always did things like this. Calculated, sharp, leaving just enough space for you to question everything.

Why did it feel like he was… reaching out without reaching out?

I shoved the thought down, tried to focus on the fire, the snow settling over the cabin, the normal noise around me. The marshmallows, the fire. Everything was normal.

But inside me, nothing was normal.

I leaned back, letting the cold bite at my face, grounding me. I told myself it was nothing—just a comment. Just Landon.

But my chest wouldn’t stop tightening. My hands itched to grab the phone, to type something, anything, and then stop myself at the last second.

I closed my eyes. Let the crackle of the fire and the scent of burning wood fill the space. That one comment blinked at me again and again in my mind.

And maybe that was enough for now.

For now, I could sit there, distracted, aching, and still not do anything.

Because some things weren’t meant to be fixed tonight.

Chapter Text

Landon

The amusing thing — the part that genuinely entertained me — was the idea that Jeremy probably believed he’d delivered some kind of fatal blow.
As if a few heated sentences and one dramatic exit could fracture me in any meaningful way.

Jeremy never did understand the difference between speaking with conviction and speaking with impact.

I stretched out against my pillows, one hand tucked lazily behind my head as I scrolled through the flood of notifications under Nikolai’s ridiculous hunting photo.
Mud. Guns. Forced grins.
The kind of hypermasculine ensemble people posted when they wanted the world to know they’d done something “manly.”

Honestly? It would’ve been pathetic if it wasn’t so unintentionally funny.

My own comment sat near the top, buoyed by likes and reposts, as though I’d crafted some clever public punchline instead of a precisely measured strike.

“Wow. Something you didn’t run from for once.”

Clean. Sharp.
A blade disguised as banter.

The best part?
It was effortlessly honest.
I hadn’t even needed to exaggerate.

And if Jeremy found it uncomfortable — well, that wasn’t my problem to fix.

I dropped my phone beside me, my expression smooth, my body loose.
There was no sting. No sadness. No humiliation simmering under the surface.
Nothing clawing at my throat.

I wasn’t angry.
I wasn’t heartbroken.
I wasn’t even disappointed.

I simply disliked being misread.

Because Jeremy — sweet, conflicted, painfully earnest Jeremy — genuinely believed he could walk away as if he held the reins. As though he dictated beginnings and endings. As though he had the power to close the door.

Honestly, it would’ve been laughable if I weren’t so fascinated by the audacity.

I’ve never been dropped before.
Never rejected.
Never dismissed — not once in my entire life.

People clung.
People begged.
People desperately tried to be the exception.

And Jeremy — for the briefest moment — convinced himself he was strong enough to be the first to walk.

Almost admirable, really.

But I wasn’t finished with him.

Not even remotely.

Whatever he spat at me that night — all those trembling, righteous little truths he threw like stones — I felt the crack threaded through every word.
The desire pulled tight beneath the anger.
The unfinished tether he wanted so badly to pretend wasn’t there.

I felt it then.
I feel it now.

So no, I wasn’t going to “leave him alone.”
Why would I?
Nothing was finished. Nothing resolved.
And I certainly hadn’t taken back anything he thought he’d stolen:
not the control,
not the momentum,
not the last word.

Jeremy could run around in the woods pretending a boar and a campfire gave him clarity. Pretending he wasn’t checking his phone at every buzz. Pretending he wasn’t waiting.

But I knew better.

I always do.

So I’d give him space — not out of mercy, not out of anything so tedious as maturity —
but because distance makes pressure sharper.

And sharper pressure always makes people come back
in pieces.

My phone buzzed with an email.

I flicked my thumb across the screen, expecting spam, or some gallery assistant begging for corrections, or my mother asking if I still remembered what she looked like.

Instead, the header glowed:

MAISON DES FORMES — PARIS: CONFIRMATION

Ah.

Them.

I opened it.

The message was long, dramatic — the French couldn’t help themselves — paragraphs overflowing with gratitude, urgency, excitement. They had finalised everything for the shoot. The team was “thrilled” and “honoured” to have me. The creative director insisted I stay in a particular hotel. Flights were booked, car arranged, studio schedule enclosed, contracts attached.

My lips twitched.

All this for something I hadn’t planned to do.

I sank back into the sofa, letting the phone rest against my thigh as I remembered how this all started — three weeks ago, when the Maison team had visited a fellow sculptor’s studio uptown. I’d only gone because Remi wanted me to come “be a personality” since the French liked “brooding artists.”

I’d walked in with no intention of being helpful.

But apparently existing was enough.

One of their photographers — dark curls, heavy accent, too many rings — had stared at me like he’d found religion.
He’d whispered something to the creative director.
Then they’d approached me together, all smiles and reverence, speaking about angles and bone structure and “presence.”

I’d laughed. Literally laughed in their faces.

They asked for a photo, “just for reference.”

I let them. Why not? Vanity was a privilege one should use.

An hour later, before I even left the building, they were practically begging me to model for them.
I ignored them out of principle. I smiled politely when I declined though. Then, I let them pretend they might be able convince me.

Until last night.

Until Jeremy.

Until the moment he looked at me like I wasn’t worth staying for.

Now the idea felt… useful.

Paris was distance.
Paris was a string pulled tight across the Atlantic, waiting for Jeremy to realise he was the one on the other end.

I scrolled through the rest of the email, noting the studio location — Montreuil — the set concepts — abstract, raw, “carnal minimalism,” whatever that meant — and the shooting dates.

Eight days.

Eight days in another country
Eight days out of reach.

Perfect.

Let him stew.
Let him imagine me busy, unbothered, thriving.
Let him think I’d moved on.

Nothing made men more desperate than the illusion that they were the ones left behind.

I tapped the itinerary open: early morning flight, black car at Charles de Gaulle, suite overlooking the Seine. They’d even arranged my preferred wine.

Of course they had.

I closed the email and set the phone on the table, watching the screen darken.

They wanted me on a flight tonight.

Of course they did.

When the universe handed me opportunities, it never whispered. It screamed. Paris, a week-long shoot, their creative director calling me “a singular face.” Whatever the hell that meant.

I sat back on the studio couch, drumming my fingers against the email like it was a harmless invitation and not an international getaway.

Tonight.

A slow, sharp smile curled at my mouth.

“Well,” I murmured to no one, “may as well cause a little trouble before I go.”

If Jeremy wanted to pretend he’d walked away unscathed, if he wanted to act like he’d cut the cord and floated off into some morally superior sunset—fine. Let him enjoy the illusion for now. Because once I was no longer in the same city… once I was an ocean away… the distance would do delicious things to his mind.

And to mine.

I rose, stretching, letting my joints crack as if I hadn’t spent the morning scrolling through comments like a man not checking for a reaction. As if I hadn’t read his silence three times over. As if I hadn’t wondered, just briefly, whether he’d seen my name and felt anything.

He had. He always did.

I crossed the studio, messy, sunlit, the faint smell of turpentine clinging to the air, and stopped in front of my work desk. Not the sculptures. Not the sketches. The drawer.

That drawer.

I opened it slowly.

My camera lay inside, heavier than it looked, a quiet little vault of sins and memories I pretended meant nothing.

I unlocked it.

Scrolled.

Past landscapes.
Past studies of marble and skin.
Past half a dozen men whose names I’d forgotten.

And then—

There.

The image tightened my throat for half a beat, but I ignored it. Or pretended to.

Jeremy, pinned Just his hands — wrists pinned loosely above his head in the white sheets of my bed. Nothing else in the frame. No face, no tattoos, nothing identifying.
Just the soft curve of skin and the tension in his fingers, like he’d been mid-movement.

But Jeremy would recognise himself in under a second.
He’d feel his stomach drop. He’d know exactly what night it was, He’d been far too wrapped up in whatever I was doing to notice I slipped my phone up for half a second. Just his arms — nothing scandalous. He wouldn’t have cared anyway. I only took it because the veins in his forearms looked insane, all tense and lit up under the bedside lamp. Pure art inspiration. So I took the shot and got right back to… well. Everything else.

Anyone else scrolling past would think it was an art reference. A model. A stranger.

He’d know it was him.

And he’d lose his mind quietly, privately, beautifully.

I tapped the screen lightly, not opening the photo yet. Just letting the anticipation stretch.

“Perfect,” I whispered.

I could already imagine the storms this would pull out of him. The jealousy. The fury. The disbelief that I’d kept it. The disbelief that I’d dare use it.

He’d come crawling back.

And when he did, thinking he had the upper hand—

I’d close the door on him myself.

At least, that was the plan.
For the caption, I kept it light, airy.
The kind of thing that would make him go absolutely feral.

“Inspiration for my next sculpture. Found this in my drafts.”
✨

Post.

I didn’t sit around refreshing it. I didn’t need to.
I tossed my phone on the bed, zipped my suitcase, and headed out with that kind of calm a person only gets after lighting a fuse and walking away.

By the time I stepped onto the jet — creamy leather, dim lights, champagne already sweating in a crystal flute — the post had over ten thousand likes.

Of course it did.

I stretched out across the plush seat as the engines hummed awake, buckling in lazily.
Before takeoff I switched my phone to Do Not Disturb — not because I had to.

Because I wanted him to scream into the void for hours before I even saw it.

The jet lifted smoothly, New York shrinking beneath me. I closed my eyes, imagining the exact moment Jeremy found the photo.
The jolt in his chest.
The disbelief.
The fury.
The recognition.

God, he’d break something.

Perfect.

I drifted into sleep with a smile.

—

We landed in Paris under a grey-pink morning sky.
The wheels touched down, soft as a sigh.
My phone reconnected to service, screen lighting up instantly.

A beat of silence.

Then—

ping ping ping ping ping ping ping ping

Eight messages.
All from him.

And that was how I knew the bait worked.

Chapter Text

Landon

JEREMY — 6:14 PM

When the fuck did you take that??

Sneaky little shit.

Take it down.

Now.

Or so help me God

Need I remind you I know where you live?

Don’t make me come Landon.

I’m gonna break your fucking door down.

I’m still smiling when I finally start typing.
The car pulls away from the airport, Paris glowing soft and gold outside the window.

You’re very cute when you’re angry.

I barely have a second to enjoy it before his reply detonates on my screen:

Fuck you. Where are you.

I laugh under my breath. Predictable. So beautifully, foolishly predictable.

I tap out the next message slowly, almost lazily:

Paris.

A beat.
Then, before he can respond—

Fuck me yourself, you coward.

I lock my phone.
Drop it face-down on the seat beside me.
Settle back into the leather as if I haven’t just lit him on fire from an ocean away.

The car drops me at a narrow street in the 7th, the kind with limestone façades so pale they almost glow. Paris has that irritating habit of looking romantic even when it’s trying not to. I step out into cool morning air, the kind that tastes faintly of stone and river, and someone from the team is already waving me inside.

The atelier is… breathtaking.

High ceilings, glass panes fogged by the cold. Dust catching in beams of light like suspended glitter. Sculptures everywhere — torsos, half-formed limbs, faces carved in marble but left eerily unfinished. The place smells of plaster, mineral, old tools. The kind of creative chaos that makes my pulse settle rather than rise.

This is my world.

Not the runway. Not flashing lights.
This. The blend of beauty and ruin. The art of something being almost finished, but never quite.

The moment I step inside the studio — the one they’re actually shooting the cover in — someone claps twice and the whole room shifts around me like a hive responding to its queen.

“Landon’s here — chair, now!”

I’m guided to a tall leather chair surrounded by mirrors and the kind of lighting that makes even pores feel self-conscious. Not that mine have anything to fear.

The hairstylist, a woman with sharp red bangs and ten silver rings, spins me around and tilts my chin up.

“No makeup,” she declares before anyone can suggest otherwise.
“His face is already sculpted. Adding product is a crime.”

I smirk.
I like her already.

She runs her fingers through my hair, styling it into something that looks artfully dishevelled — like I rolled out of bed after doing something sinful and walked straight onto set. Which, honestly, is not inaccurate most days.

“Any allergies?” she asks.

“Yes. People.”

She snorts loud enough that someone across the room looks over.

“Good. Same. Also dairy, but that’s personal.”

Someone approaches with the jar of shimmering chest cream, and she rips it out of their hands like she’s protecting me from a mugger.

“I’m doing this. If any of you idiots make him patchy, I’ll reassign you to cable-wrangling. Forever.”

She dips her fingers into the cream, glances up at me.

“Deep breath. This is going to be cold.”

It is. Cool fingers glide over my chest, spreading the pearlescent cream across my collarbones, shoulders, the line down my sternum. It catches the light like a sheen of sweat — intentional, controlled, intoxicating.

I hiss through my teeth.
She grins like she’s won something.

“Oh relax. I’m not drawing a pentagram on you. Yet.”

When she steps back, she points at me like I’m a finished product.

“Look at you,” she announces.
“A disrespectful piece of art.”

“I try,” I say.

“No, sweetie. You succeed, and that’s the problem. Here—pants.”

Another assistant holds up the trousers they’ve chosen — ripped blue jeans, casual and worn, exactly the kind of thing I’d throw on when working in my own studio.

“Authenticity,” Etienne says, sweeping by. “We want people to feel like they’ve walked into your world.”

I nod. “Then you better dim the lights and add dust.”

He cackles like I’ve told the funniest joke in Paris.

The jeans are snug where they need to be, loose where they should be, hanging just low enough on my hips that one of the assistants blushes and pretends not to look. I notice.
I always notice.

Someone sets a fresh juice in my hand — vibrant orange, cold, probably imported or hand-squeezed or whatever makes it Parisian enough to justify the price.

The room swirls around me — stylists arguing over gels, assistants dodging cords, Etienne screaming in French at a light stand, someone tripping over a marble block they definitely put there themselves.

And through all that chaos, the stylist leans against my shoulder, whispering:

“Break a few hearts today, Landon.”

I tilt my head just slightly toward her.
“Only if you’re one of them.”

She laughs — a sharp, delighted sound — and taps my cheek.

“You wish.”

Etienne claps again. “Positions!”

The room falls into an anticipatory hush.

I step into the centre of the set — a makeshift version of a personal studio: scattered marble chips, slabs of white stone, a pedestal table smeared with clay, fabric draped like someone stopped mid-creation.

The lights hit the cream on my chest and my skin glows like it’s lit from within.

“Perfect,” Etienne whispers. “Don’t move.”

The first flash pops.

I fall into the rhythm instantly — the one my body knows without being told. I arch my spine slightly, shoulders relaxed, fingers curling against the edge of the marble block. My expression softens into something distant, thoughtful, a little dangerous.

Click.
Click.
Click.

Etienne mutters praises under his breath like I’m some deity he’s trying to capture before I vanish.

“Now turn your head just— yes, yes. Look as if you’re thinking about someone you shouldn’t.”

I almost laugh.
If only he knew.

I shift my weight, letting the jeans hang a little lower, the muscles along my abdomen tightening as I lean forward. They love that.
The camera shutters like an excited pulse.

Assistants scurry in to adjust the placement of a broken sculptor’s tool near my hand. Someone spritzes my hair. Someone else straightens a rip in the denim so it looks “accidentally perfect.”

Then comes the second setup — the one meant to look messier.

They place me on the floor, on a drop cloth smeared with white dust, as though I’ve spent hours carving. My bare torso glows under the lights, faint glitter trailing across my collarbones.

“More vulnerability,” Etienne commands softly.
“Less god, more man.”

I lower my gaze.
Let the noise fade.
Slow my breathing.

The result is electric — the kind of image that looks like a confession captured on film.

Next, they bring in the sculpture.
The one I’m meant to look at like it holds every answer I never got.

Etienne grins. “This is the moment, mon ange. Give me longing.”

Longing?
Easy.

I step closer to the statue, fingertips grazing cracked stone. The camera goes wild as I tilt my head just enough that my breath fogs against the marble. My lips part — a fraction, innocent to anyone who doesn’t know better.

But everyone on set knows better.
You could hear the silence tighten.

And I kiss the statue — slow, reverent, tragic.

Flash.
Flash.
Flash.

Etienne whispers, “Magnifique. You are a natural.” French accent strong.

Paris hums outside.
Stone cools beneath my hands.
The shoot becomes its own universe.

By the time the final flash went off, the studio exhaled as one organism — lights lowering, assistants unclipping cables, the creative director mumbling something satisfied into a headset.

I rolled my shoulders once, feeling the tension ease. Hours of posing, adjusting, holding impossible angles, letting the sculptor in my head drown out the rest of the world — it caught up with me all at once.

Everybody claps.
Someone says, “Parfait.”
And the lead photographer broke into a rare, genuine smile.

“That’s it,” He announced. “We’ve got everything. Beautiful work today.”

A coordinator rushed over immediately, tablet in hand. “Landon, they’re reviewing selects now — it’s nearly eight. We’re all heading to dinner at Le Cygne Blanc, very nice, very exclusive. The team would love for you to join.”

Normally, I would have said yes without thinking. Parisian restaurants weren’t invitations so much as indulgences — and I excelled at indulgence.

But my body felt like concrete.
The flight.
The shoot.
The silent, sharp electricity of the day.

I wasn’t tired so much as drained — the kind of fatigue that settled behind the ribs.

I gave a small shake of my head. “Another time. I need sleep more than steak.”

The coordinator didn’t argue; just nodded with understanding reserved for people who had been awake for too many hours.

“Of course. Car’s already waiting downstairs.”

I changed back into my clothes, ran a hand through my hair, and slipped out into the cooling Paris evening. The studio lights dimmed behind me, their glow replaced by the pulsing hush of the city — traffic humming, pavement damp, the sky bruised with early night.

The driver opened the car door with a quiet, “Bonsoir.”

I sank into the back seat, letting the leather cradle my exhaustion.

The city streamed by in soft blurs — warm windows, golden cafés, the shimmer of the Seine occasionally catching the car lights. Paris looked like a painting from this height, like something curated solely for the sake of being looked at.

Usually, that thrilled me.

Tonight, all I felt was the weight of the day pressing heavier, sleep threading itself through my veins.

I checked the time once.
8:07 p.m.

Perfect. I had just enough energy left to collapse in a hotel bed and not wake up for a century.

I finally got the door unlocked after what felt like a century of fumbling. My hands were shaking with exhaustion — or maybe hunger — or maybe the kind of emptiness that comes after standing under lights all day pretending I wasn’t waiting for something that was never going to happen.

I stepped into my hotel room and exhaled, letting the weight of the day slide off my shoulders. The door started to swing shut behind me.

And then a hand slid into the gap.

Big. Warm. Certain.

The door jerked back. My entire body went still.

He stepped inside before I could even process it — Jeremy — filling the doorway, filling the room, filling every part of me I had been trying to empty out.

The hallway light haloed behind him, catching on the edges of his coat, the tension in his jaw, the faint mess in his hair like he’d dragged his fingers through it ten times on the way up. He looked furious. Or tired. Or undone. Maybe all three.

I didn’t breathe.

“Jer—”

He shut the door behind him with the same hand that had stopped it, the latch clicking into place like a lock sliding into my ribcage.

He stared at me. Not moving. Not blinking. Just… staring. Like I’d committed a crime by existing on another continent.

His voice, when it came, was low and terrifyingly steady.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, every word burning through the space between us, “how long I’ve been looking for you?”

I huffed a laugh — sharp, cold, brittle.
“Must’ve been a nightmare for you,” I said, turning away as I tossed my bag onto the bed. “Next time, try losing my number. Saves you the trouble.”

There. A clean dismissal.
I wanted it to sting.

Jeremy didn’t move. I could feel his stare on the back of my neck — heavy, deliberate, unsettlingly calm.

“Landon.”
Just my name. Quiet. No anger. No bark.
That alone annoyed me.

I unbuttoned my cuffs, pretending my hands weren’t the slightest bit unsteady. “If you came here to lecture me again,” I said, “save it. I’m tired. I don’t care. And I’m not doing… whatever this is.”

Silence.

Then — soft, low, unbearably gentle —
“I didn’t come to fight.”

My jaw clenched.
That was not what I expected him to say.

I turned just enough to glare at him, ready to spit something sharp—
but he was already crossing the room.

Slow.
Measured.
Like approaching a skittish animal.

I hated how he reacted to me.

“Stop.” I turned my back. “I’m not doing this. I don’t need your—”

He wrapped his arms around me from behind before I even registered the movement.

His chest pressed to my back.
His chin settled on my shoulder.
His hold locked in like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And I—
I froze.

Not dramatically.
Not visibly.
Just… internally.
Like everything inside me flickered, caught, misfired.

“Let go,” I said.
It came out quieter than I meant.

He didn’t.
His arms only tightened, deliberate and warm and steady.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he murmured.
Not defensive. Not proud.
Just honest.
Fatal.

My breath stuttered.

“And I shouldn’t have left like that.”
His nose brushed the side of my neck.
Barely a touch.
Barely anything.

“But I’m here now.”

Jeremy’s chest pressed to my back; his voice was low, rough against my ear.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he said, breath uneven. “I’m still mad at you.”

Good.
He should be.

But then his grip tightened, fingers digging into my waist like he needed the anchor more than I did. His forehead dropped against the side of my neck, an involuntary, exhausted touch.

“I’m more pissed at myself,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

I didn’t say anything. I don’t have anything to say. I just stood there. Listening.

He didn’t let go. Just stayed there, quiet, letting the moment stretch out.

“I… I haven’t been able to sleep properly since that night,” he said finally, voice low, almost raw. “Or think properly. I don’t even know why. All I know is… nothing’s been the same since one headache in my life left. And now… now I can’t seem to get it back.”

I stayed still, letting him talk, letting him spill. Because that’s the thing—he needed to, not me.

“Why did you come to Paris?”

I scoffed, turning my head just slightly, just enough to let the edge of my expression show. “Not because of you. Pack it up, Romeo. I was scouted by a photographer. That’s it.”

He didn’t push. Not at first.

“That’s all?”

No.

I shrugged, casual, careful.

But I didn’t say that. Just because he’s being honest doesn’t mean I have to be.

He hesitated, then—finally—dropped it.

And that was enough for me.

“You’re… so annoying,” he muttered, voice low but tight. “I hate you.”

I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? After all this? You think that’ll scare me?”

“I do,” he said, sounding serious for a second before it cracked. “I hate you. God, I hate you. You drive me insane. And I—ugh, I don’t even know why I… why I like you so much.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head, keeping my expression neutral, letting the corner of my mouth twitch. “You like me? That’s cute.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, though the edge of his words betrayed him. “I mean it. I hate you. And I—” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair, voice tightening. “I don’t want to like you. I shouldn’t like you.”

I leaned back slightly, pretending to be bored. “Ah. So, you’re admitting defeat. Finally.”

“I’m not admitting defeat,” he said, exasperated, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “I’m just… stuck. And it’s all your fault. You’re impossible. Every… single… thing about you is impossible.”

I noticed he was still holding me. Just like that, arm draped over my shoulder, chin resting lightly. I didn’t let myself think about what it meant. Didn’t let my mind wander to the fact that Jeremy Volkov—the infuriating, stubborn, painfully earnest Jeremy—had just admitted he liked me.

Hah. What a loser.

I was high on it. Pure, ridiculous happiness. The kind you get from a win so sweet, so absolutely undeniable, that you can’t stop smirking even if you try.

I felt him shift closer, his warmth pressing against me, arm still draped over my shoulder. I turned my head slowly, just enough to look at him, and he was already looking back. Watching me. Heart hammering through his chest, visible even in the faint hotel light.

My throat was dry, my mind buzzing, and yet… there was this patience in him, a restraint that made my chest tighten. His eyes dipped to mine again, then to my lips, and finally—he leaned in. Soft. Gentle. My lips met his in the faintest brush, almost hesitant, testing.

Then he looked up at me, eyes unreadable, and kissed me again. Still soft, lingering, but enough to make me shiver.

I didn’t pull away. I let it happen. Let him lean against me, let the world shrink down to this tiny space of warmth, soft breaths, and quiet acknowledgment.

Finally, I turned fully into him, pressing closer, and he kissed me properly. Not rough, not urgent. Just… steady. Familiar.

Exhaustion clung to both of us like a second skin. The jet lag, the flights, the chaos—it all pressed into our bones. Jeremy wanted me, I could feel it, but he wasn’t reckless. Not tonight. Not when he knew how much I needed it.

He rested his forehead against my shoulder, a long, slow exhale, and I felt my own pulse ease. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city below and our shared breaths.

“I’m so dead in the morning,” he murmured, voice low, tired, teasing with that half-smile I knew too well. “Left everyone. Hopped a flight. My dad’s definitely going to kill me.”

I let out a soft chuckle, leaning into him. “Mm, good luck with that.”

He sighed again, settling against me. “Worth it,” he murmured.

Jeremy lifted his head from my shoulder, eyes dark and half-lidded. “As much as I want to fuck you into this mattress,” he muttered, low and strained, “I also want to sink into the mattress myself.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow. So I have the same sex appeal as a mattress now. Good to know.”

He laughed, a short, rough sound. “Don’t take it personal, baby.”

Baby. That’s the second time he’s called me that. Not that I’m counting.

He drew a deep breath, eyes never leaving mine. “The things I want to do to you… tonight is not enough. Plus you’ve got a shoot tomorrow, so, y’know, I’m being considerate. Wouldn’t want anyone seeing all the marks on you.”

I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. “Considerate, huh? Well, I’m fucking exhausted tonight too. Being wanted everywhere I go isn’t for the weak.”

“Careful there,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous. “Don’t make me show you just how much I want you.”

I didn’t answer. I was already walking toward the bathroom, stealing a quick glance at him before shutting the door. Clothes off, coat folded neatly on the dresser—ugh, such a neat freak.

The shower took longer than it should have. That glittery cream? What the fuck was in that thing? My skin still tingled from it when I finally stepped out, hair damp, body warm and tingling.

I opened the bedroom door and found him lying on the bed, fully clothed, shoes off, sprawled like he’d just given up waiting.

Sliding under the covers, I barely had time to adjust before he was behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath warm against my back.

I didn’t think. About anything.

Not about what it meant that he was here. Not about why I hadn’t kicked him out yet, as per my perfectly executed plan. Not about why I wanted it—him—so badly.

Chapter Text

Landon

I wake up pinned.

That’s dramatic, obviously. But waking up beneath the full, inescapable weight of Jeremy Volkov was… concerning - like I’d tried to flee in my sleep and he’d deployed a human paperweight in response.

Arm locked around my waist. Leg slung over mine. Chest solid against my back.

I stare at the ceiling, deeply offended.

Of course he’s the kind of man who sleeps like he’s guarding state secrets.

I shift, carefully. Barely an inch.

His arm tightens immediately.

“Wow,” I mutter. “You do that to everyone or am I special?”

A low sound leaves him — somewhere between a groan and a laugh — breath warm against my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

I try again, sliding my shoulder forward, testing my chances.

His grip tightens properly this time.

I freeze.

“Jeremy,” I say flatly, “if you’re trying to imprison me, at least buy me breakfast first.”

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice wrecked with sleep. “If I wanted to keep you hostage, you’d know.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He shifts behind me, forehead brushing my shoulder as awareness kicks in. I feel it — the second he realises where he is. Who he’s holding.

Instead of letting go, he exhales and settles back in.”You didn’t disappear.”

I scoff. “Disappointed?”

“Mildly relieved,” he corrects. “Deeply annoyed.”

“Likewise.”

He hums, amused, and I hate that my body responds like it’s pleased to hear it. His chin rests on my shoulder, casual as hell.

“You always try to flee before sunrise?” he asks.

“Only when I wake up next to bad decisions.”

“Funny,” he says. “You don’t look like you regret it.”

I tilt my head just enough to glance back at him. He’s barely awake — eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, mouth relaxed in that way that should be illegal before coffee.

He catches me looking.

“What?” he murmurs.

“Just confirming you’re real,” I say. “You look less irritating unconscious.”

“Give me a minute.”

I try to move again. His arm tightens.

“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do you have abandonment issues or just poor manners?”

“Neither,” he says easily. “I just know you. You’d bolt.”

“And you’d chase.”

A pause.

“Obviously.”

“You planning on staying glued to me all morning?” I ask.

“You’ve got a shoot,” he says. “I’m being considerate.”

I snort. “That’s a first.”

“Enjoy it,” he mutters. “I don’t do it often.”

Silence settles again — not awkward, not loud. Just… there. Too comfortable.

I should pull away.

Instead, I lean back into him the smallest amount — barely enough to register — like my body has decided to act without consulting my pride.

His arm tightens. Satisfied.

My autonomy has been temporarily suspended.

“Don’t read into this,” I say.

“I wasn’t,” he replies.

“Good.”

“Because if you are,” he adds, “you’re doing it wrong.”

I close my eyes.

Still pinned. Still warm.

Still very much not leaving.

And that, somehow, feels like the most dangerous joke of all.

When I wake up an hour later, Jeremy’s gone.

Which shouldn’t mean anything.
Doesn’t mean anything.
Has never meant anything.

And yet.

The space behind me is cold.

Not just empty — abandoned. The sheets are still rumpled, evidence that someone had been there and made the very rude decision not to stay. My body reacts before my brain does, a subtle tightening in my chest, a frown pulling at my mouth as I stare at the ceiling and try to remember when I started caring about this kind of thing.

I shift, rolling onto my side.

Nothing.

No arm thrown lazily over my waist. No warmth pressed against my back. Just empty white sheets and the faint, irritatingly familiar scent of him clinging to the pillow like a ghost.

I sit up.

The room is quiet in that expensive-hotel way — muffled, insulated, too pristine. The curtains glow softly with morning light, Paris pretending to be gentle. I let my eyes sweep the room, slow and deliberate.

My jacket’s still draped over the chair. My phone’s charging where I left it. The bathroom door is ajar, dark and empty.

I swing my legs off the bed.

That’s when I notice it.

His shoes are gone.

And something unpleasant curls low in my stomach.

Disappointment.

It’s brief, sharp, and deeply embarrassing.

Of course he left, I tell myself. You didn’t exactly invite him to stay. This isn’t a rom-com. This is… whatever the hell this is.

Still.

I stand there longer than necessary, jaw tight, absolutely refusing to unpack why the idea of him walking out without a word feels like a small, stupid betrayal.

Then—

The door chimes.

I turn just as it opens.

Jeremy steps inside like he never left.

Like this is normal. Like he belongs here.

His hair’s still a mess, coat thrown on like an afterthought, cheeks pink from the cold. He’s holding two cups of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other, and the smell hits me instantly — warm butter, sugar, fresh espresso. Something rich and indulgent and entirely unfair.

French patisserie.

He looks up and freezes when he sees me standing there.

“Oh,” he says. “Good. You’re awake.”

As if he hasn’t just emotionally destabilised me for the past thirty seconds.

“You left,” I say.

Flat. Accusatory.

He blinks, then lifts a brow. “I went downstairs.”

“Without saying anything.”

“You were asleep,” he replies calmly. “And if I woke you, you’d have accused me of something dramatic. Kidnapping. Assault. Crimes against your schedule.”

I scoff. “You took your shoes.”

“Yes,” he says patiently. “I don’t generally steal hotel slippers.”

He holds up the bag slightly, like a peace offering. “I brought bribes.”

I eye it. Then the coffee. Then him.

God.

I could kiss him.

I don’t. Obviously.

“You disappeared,” I say instead.

“And returned,” he counters, stepping closer. He sets the coffees down on the table, then the bag. “With pastries. Which I carried up six flights of Parisian stairs because the lift is apparently decorative.”

I stare at him. “…You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

“What’s in the bag?” I ask, crossing my arms to look less like someone who nearly spiralled over a missing pair of shoes.

“Croissants. Pain au chocolat. Something I couldn’t pronounce but the woman behind the counter looked like she’d disown me if I didn’t buy it.”

I snort despite myself. “You got bullied by a French grandmother.”

“I respected her authority.”

He hands me a coffee. Our fingers brush, and it sends an entirely unwanted spark up my arm.

Electric. Irritating. Persistent.

“For the record,” he adds casually, “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

I take the cup, eyes flicking to his face before I can stop myself.

“Good,” I say coolly. “Because that would’ve been rude.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Is that what you were thinking?”

“Obviously.”

“Nothing else?”

I take a sip.

Perfect. Of course it is.

“Don’t ruin this,” I warn.

He grins, utterly unapologetic. “You were worried.”

“I was not.”

“You checked the room.”

“Anyone would.”

“You noticed my shoes were missing.”

“I have eyes.”

He steps closer, invading my space in that way he does — not aggressive, just inevitable. “You looked disappointed.”

I glare at him over my coffee. “Keep pushing and I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

He chuckles and the sound bounces around in my rib cage. “Worth it,” he says lightly.

And for one treacherous moment — just one — I let myself enjoy it. The warmth of the cup in my hands. The smell of sugar and coffee. The fact that he came back.

Then I swallow it all down.

The morning light cuts across the hotel room in harsh, pale strips. Paris outside the window hums faintly, muffled by glass, traffic, and distance. The bed behind us is a tangle of sheets, pillows shoved aside. I don’t look at it for long.

Jeremy sets the coffees on the small table by the window, paper bag crumpling slightly in his hand. Croissants. Pain au chocolat. Something sticky and golden that looks like it might collapse if you breathe wrong.

“You went overboard,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor.

He shrugs, setting everything neatly. “You would have complained if I didn’t.”

I break a croissant apart and a flake lands in my hair. Instinctively, I reach to brush it off.

“Hold still,” Jeremy says.

His fingers skim my temple, quick, practiced, nothing casual about it. I don’t move away, but I don’t lean in either. He plucks the flake free like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I catch a faint scent of him — coffee, cologne, something sharp and familiar — and my chest tightens.

“There,” he says.

I nod, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Thanks.” Though it comes off as more of a murmur.

He sits back, tilts his head slightly, watching. Not staring, not impatient, just… absorbing me. I notice the way his eyes linger on my hands as they cradle the pastry, how his jaw tenses just enough when I exhale a little too loudly, like he knows I’m aware of him noticing. I can feel it too — the weight of his attention pressing without saying a word.

I chew slowly, pretending not to notice.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, voice casual, though my eyes flick to him.

“Oh. I am,” he says, “starving.” And yet he doesn’t look at the food. Not really. His gaze stays fixed on me, tracing some invisible line across my face, my shoulders, the way I sit.

I break the croissant in half, smirking despite myself. “You know,” I say, “most people usually start with the food when they’re starving.”

He lifts an eyebrow, faint smirk tugging at his lips. “And most people aren’t sitting across from you.”
My phone buzzes.

I glance down—briefly, only enough to see the notification without breaking the tension in the room. A message from the team: “Car’s outside in ten. Prep soon.”

I sigh, sliding the phone back into my pocket. Not that I want to move just yet. The weight of the morning, the quiet energy between us, keeps me rooted to the chair a fraction longer than I should.

Jeremy notices anyway. “They’re waiting,” he says softly, voice low, not needing to ask what I’m thinking.

I smirk, finally pushing my chair back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go entertain the stylists in five minutes,” I mutter, standing and brushing crumbs from my lap.

He doesn’t move, just watches me, the corners of his mouth twitching. I catch the way he studies me—the curve of my shoulder, the set of my jaw—and I have to remind myself to breathe.

I drop the phone onto the table, letting the sound of it hitting the wood punctuate the moment. “Guess the world doesn’t care about our little morning reprieve,” I mutter.

Jeremy just smiles faintly, and somehow that’s enough to make me want to linger just a second longer.

Jeremy stands, smooth and deliberate, closing the small distance between us until he’s just an arm’s length away. He tilts his head slightly, eyes catching mine. “You always leave things messy,” he murmurs, fingers reaching to adjust the collar of my shirt. His hands linger, thumbs brushing my jaw, tracing the line of my neck longer than necessary.

I don’t step back. I don’t think. I just lean in—don’t ask why, he’s just there, close enough to kiss. Soft. Brief. My lips meet his for a second, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and warm, right against me.

I pull back just enough to speak. “When I get back,” I murmur, voice low, “I’ll show you around the city.”

He chuckles, eyes flicking to mine. “You’ve only been here a couple hours more than I have.”

I shrug, playing casual. “That makes me the expert between the two of us.”

He lets out a soft laugh, amused, but there’s something dangerous under it. “Dangerous logic.”

“I live by it,” I reply, and finally, I pull away fully, letting the air reset between us. I step to the door and walk out without looking back.

The shoot goes fine.

That’s the problem.

Everything is fine when it shouldn’t be. My body moves like it always does — instinctive, trained, obedient. Chin angled just so. Eyes unfocused in the way photographers love. Stillness where they want it. Presence where they demand it. I give them everything they ask for without thinking.

Because all my thinking is elsewhere.

I keep checking the time between takes, pretending I’m just bored, pretending I’m not counting minutes like they’re oxygen. Someone asks me if I’m tired. Someone else asks if I need water. I nod. I smile. I let them rub more of that ridiculous glittered oil into my chest because apparently I’m supposed to glow tonight.

Where is he right now?

The thought keeps looping, annoying and intrusive and relentless. Is he sitting on the bed? Standing by the window? Did he leave? Did he convince himself this was a mistake after all? He’s good at that — walking away when things get complicated. When I get complicated.

Does he need to go back?

The idea tightens something sharp under my ribs. I don’t examine it. I refuse to.

By the time they finally release me — six on the dot, like a mercy — I’m vibrating with restlessness. The compliments wash over me without landing. Someone tells me it’s one of the best shoots they’ve done in years. I tell them they’re welcome.

The car ride back is quiet. Paris slides past the window, dark and elegant and indifferent. Winter has settled into the city properly — the kind of cold that isn’t aggressive, just constant. The streetlights smear gold across wet pavement. The wind sneaks through a crack in the window and lifts my hair into my eyes.

I don’t fix it.

When the car stops in front of the hotel, I step out and the cold hits clean and sharp, snapping me awake. The building looms above me — stone and restraint and money — and for a second I just stand there, breathing it in.

“You took your time.”

I don’t flinch.

I turn slowly, already smirking, because I’d know that voice anywhere. Half-asleep. Half-drunk. Buried under a thousand others. It’s muscle memory at this point.

Jeremy stands a few feet away like he’s been there all along.

Black quarter zip. Black trousers that fit him infuriatingly well. Hands in his pockets like he belongs everywhere he stands. Dark hair falling onto his forehead despite clearly being pushed back on purpose. He looks… settled. Like Paris didn’t unsettle him at all.

Why is he so hot when he’s doing absolutely nothing?

“What can I say,” I reply lightly. “They didn’t want to let me leave.”

I don’t step closer.

Neither does he.

“Well,” he says, casual, “I had a call from my father. He needs me for work.”

Oh.

That’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s waiting outside instead of upstairs. My chest tightens before I can stop it.

I nod once, already turning away. “So you’re going back.”

I don’t look at him when I say it.

“No,” he says immediately.

I stop.

“I didn’t say that.” He steps closer now, close enough that I can feel his heat through my coat. “I told him I had plans.”

I glance at him despite myself.

“With a very temperamental tour guide,” he adds, amusement threading into his voice, “and that something unfortunate might happen to me if I missed it.”

A pause.

“He offered to send a guard.”

I snort before I can help it.

Silence settles between us — not awkward, just… charged. The kind that hums under your skin. I hate it. I hate how aware I am of him standing there.

“I haven’t planned anything,” I say eventually.

“That’s fine.”

The way he says it — soft, certain — makes my stomach twist in a way I refuse to name. He looks at me like he’s searching for something, like he expects to find answers written across my face if he just looks long enough.

I clear my throat and look away. Definitely the smoothie. French dairy is a menace. Nothing else could explain the way my chest feels tight and hollow at the same time.

I start walking.

A few steps in, I glance back. He’s still standing there, watching me like I didn’t just walk off.

“Well?” I call. “Do you need an invitation?”

He’s moving before I finish the sentence.

Paris at night feels like it’s trying to seduce me. Everything’s closer. Softer. The air is cold enough to make my cheeks sting. Jeremy keeps pace beside me, matching my stride like he’s been doing it for years.

I talk. Of course I do. About nothing. About how cold it is. About how I hate winter coats. About how Paris is overrated.

He listens.

That’s also new.

“You’re in a mood,” he says eventually.

“I’m always in a mood.”

“This one’s louder.”

I glance at him. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It’s cute,” he replies.

I nearly trip over my own feet.

I recover with dignity, obviously. “Don’t call me cute.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m deeply intimidating.”

He hums, amused. “Right.”

“You hungry?” he asks eventually.

“I could eat.”

We stop at an Italian restaurant—because Italian food is what you go to France for, obviously. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall place, easy to miss, with a faded sign and a window fogged from years of steam and simmering. There’s barely anyone around, just a couple of tables taken, the kind of quiet that feels intentional rather than empty.

Inside, it’s warm and dim, the air thick with garlic and tomatoes and something slow-cooked. The walls are cluttered with mismatched frames and yellowing photographs—smiling families, old kitchens, hands dusted in flour. You get the sense that nothing here is rushed, that the recipes come from a notebook kept somewhere in the back, pages soft from use, sauce perfected by a grandmother who never wrote measurements down.

It’s quiet enough that I become suddenly aware of him—of the way he takes up space without effort, how he moves like time bends a little around him, unhurried, certain. As if he knows I’ll fill the silence, and lets me do it.

He orders for us. Gets it right. I try not to feel weird about that.

When we sit, our knees touch. I tell myself it’s the table. It’s not the table.

I wrap my hands around my cup, mostly so I don’t do something stupid like reach for him.

“You’re staring,” I say.

He shrugs. “You’re expressive.”

“I am not.”

“You are. You look like you’re thinking very hard about not thinking.”

I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it working?”

“No,” I admit, then immediately regret it.

He smiles — not smug, not teasing. Fond. Which is frankly worse.

This is the part where I should flirt. Say something sharp. Touch him just to see him react.

“You were supposed to leave,” I say, gesturing vaguely with my fork. “For work.”

Jeremy looks up. “I know.”

“And work,” I continue, watching him closely, “is allegedly the most important thing in your life.”

“It is,” he says easily.

I tilt my head. “Then why are you still here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Takes another bite, chews, swallows. Like he’s not in a hurry to defend himself.

“It’s important,” he says finally, “because it allows me to live outside of it.”

I blink.

Once.

Then again.

My face does something I don’t approve of.

He notices.

His mouth curves, faint and amused, and before I can react he reaches across the table and taps my nose lightly with his finger.

“Never mind,” he says with a sigh.

I freeze.

Did he just—

I lean back slowly, affronted on a cellular level. “Did you just… boop my nose.”

“You looked confused.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were buffering.”

I glare at him. “I do not buffer. I am not a child.”

He studies me for a moment, entirely too calm. “No,” he agrees. “You’re just unused to answers that don’t revolve around you.”

I scoff. “Everything revolves around me.”

“Exactly.”

I open my mouth to argue and then stop, because I don’t actually know how to refute that without sounding insane.

We go back to eating like nothing happened.

Which is rude, frankly.

I make a point of focusing on my food, on the texture, the heat, the very real and tangible things that are not the lingering sensation of being patronised via nose tap. Jeremy says nothing. Doesn’t look smug. Doesn’t apologise. Just eats.

It’s infuriating.

At some point, the conversation resumes — smaller this time. Paris at night. My photoshoot. The absurdity of tourists in winter. A sculptor I pretend not to care about. He hums or responds when necessary.

Normal.

When the bill comes, I reach for it automatically.

Jeremy is faster.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

He looks at me. Calm. Unmoved. “I invited you.”

“You followed me.”

“Still counts.”

I glare. “I have more money than you.”

“Debatable.”

He pays anyway.

I stew quietly as we stand, coat on, chairs scraping back. Outside, the cold bites sharper after the warmth inside. My breath fogs instantly.

We start walking without deciding where to go.

The street is narrower now, older. Stone buildings leaning inward like they’re conspiring. Jeremy walks just close enough that our arms brush when we move. I don’t correct it.
We walk for a while before it comes up.

It’s my fault, technically. I’m the one who breaks the quiet.

“So,” I say, casual, “you ever been in a relationship?”

Jeremy doesn’t look surprised by the question. Just considers it.

“Yes.”

“Long?”

“A few years.”

I blink. I hadn’t expected that.

“Did it end badly?” I ask, because that’s the obvious follow-up.

“No,” he says. “It ended because it had to.”

I frown. “That’s vague.”

“It’s accurate.”

We pass under a streetlight. His face flickers gold, then disappears back into shadow.

“And you?” he asks.

I laugh. “Obviously not.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ve never dated anyone,” I add. “Not properly.”

He glances at me. “Why?”

I shrug. “I’ve never really wanted to be someone’s.”

That again. Familiar ground. But the way it comes out now is quieter.

“I like people,” I continue. “I enjoy them. I enjoy what they offer. But relationships come with expectations I have no interest in meeting.”

“Such as?”

“Consistency. Emotional accountability. Limiting yourself for the comfort of another person.” I scoff lightly. “I don’t see the appeal.”

Jeremy nods slowly, like he’s actually weighing it.

“So you don’t want to belong to anyone,” he says.

“No.”

“And you don’t want anyone belonging to you either.”

I tilt my head. “I didn’t say that.”

He looks at me, mild. “You like being chosen.”

I bristle. “Everyone does.”

“True,” he agrees. “But you don’t want to choose back.”

I open my mouth to deny it — then stop.

“I want choice,” I say instead. “Always.”

“So do I.”

I glance at him. “Then why commit?”

He exhales, breath fogging in the cold. “Because at some point, constantly choosing becomes exhausting.”

“That sounds like a personal failing,” I say lightly.

He smiles, faint. “Maybe.”

We walk a few more steps.

“And because,” he adds, not looking at me, “some things don’t diminish when you limit them. They sharpen.”

I frown. “You make it sound like discipline.”

“It is.”

I scoff. “That’s bleak.”

“I find it grounding.”

We stop at a corner. Red light. Empty street.

“Do you ever get jealous?” he asks.

“No,” I say instantly. “Never.”

“Why not?”

“Because jealousy implies fear of loss,” I reply. “And I don’t lose things that are mine.”

He watches me carefully. Not challenging. Just… noting.

“And if something leaves anyway?” he asks.

“Then it was never mine,” I say simply.

He nods, accepting that answer even if he doesn’t believe it.

The light changes. We cross.

“I don’t think you’re incapable of relationships,” he says after a moment.

I laugh. “That’s generous.”

“I think you’ve just decided they’re inefficient.”

I consider that.

“I don’t like systems that require vulnerability as currency,” I say. “It’s a bad investment.”

Jeremy hums. “Only if you’re expecting returns.”

I stop walking.

He stops too.

I look at him. “Then why do people do it?”

He meets my gaze, steady. “Because not everything worth having is useful.”

Something tightens, unpleasant and sharp.

I scoff, turning away. “You’re romanticising it.”

“Maybe,” he says calmly. “Or maybe you’re underestimating it.”

We start walking again.

Neither of us says anything for a while.

But my chest feels strange now. Crowded. Like there’s a thought pressing at the back of my skull, waiting for permission.

I don’t give it any.

We pass a club without meaning to.

Blue light spills out onto the pavement, liquid and electric, pulsing in time with the music. Every time the door opens, it fractures—bleeding into purple, into red—painting the street in brief, artificial colour. The bass reaches us in slow, heavy waves, a low thud you feel in your ribs before you hear it, like a second heartbeat.

I slow.

Jeremy notices immediately.

“You want to go in,” he says.

“Obviously.”

He looks past me, eyes flicking over the entrance, the line, the flicker of bodies inside. Not impressed. Not tempted. Then he looks back at me.

“All right.”

That surprises me enough that I grin. “That was easy.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to,” he replies evenly. “I said we could.”

Inside, the air is warm and hazy, thick with perfume, sweat, and citrus cleaner barely masking spilled alcohol. Purple and blue lights wash over the room in slow sweeps, breaking across moving bodies and catching in the glossy floor so it looks like the ground itself is glowing. The music is loud enough to blur the edges of thought, slow and indulgent, bass-heavy, the kind that settles into your body and stays there.

It isn’t packed. Just full enough. Enough space to move. Enough noise to disappear into.

Jeremy heads straight for the bar. Of course he does.

I don’t wait.

The music finds me instantly, wraps around my spine and pulls. I let my body follow without thinking—loose hips, lazy shoulders, movements that feel natural and unguarded. Not performative. Just… honest. The kind of rhythm that invites attention without chasing it.

I feel eyes on me. More than one.

I don’t care.

Still, I glance over.

Jeremy is exactly where I left him—elbow resting against the bar, drink in hand. The lights skim over his face in alternating shades of blue and violet, sharp and soft in turns. He isn’t scanning the room. He isn’t distracted.

He’s watching me.

That alone is enough to dry my mouth.

Someone drifts closer. Then closer still. A man—confident, smiling, leaning in so his mouth can find the space near my ear the music demands. I don’t pull away. I don’t encourage him either.

My eyes stay on Jeremy.

He finishes his drink, sets the glass down with deliberate calm, and reaches for another.

Mine.

A moment later he’s beside me.

“Here you are, baby,” he says loudly, directly into the man’s space, pressing the cold glass into my hand.

The word lands like a struck match—sharp, sudden, burning.

The man freezes, looks Jeremy up and down—tall, broad, unreadable—and decides very quickly that this is not a situation worth misjudging.

“Sorry,” he mutters, already backing away.

Jeremy watches him retreat, then turns to me, brow knitting faintly.

“What?” he asks. “Was that not yours?”

I laugh, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I didn’t need saving,” I add, leaning closer so only he can hear.

“I know,” he says calmly.

I slide my arms up and around his shoulders anyway. The music is still moving through me, vibrating under my skin, and he’s right here. His hands settle on my waist without hesitation—firm, grounding, possessive without being claimed.

We sway together, slow and close. The lights roll over us again and again—blue, purple, red—colour soaking into skin and shadow. The bass hums through my chest. Through his.

I slide closer, letting my hip graze his deliberately, just enough to make him notice. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—but I feel the subtle shift of his body, the muscles in his arms tightening ever so slightly as he holds me close.

I press a little more, rocking slowly against him in time with the bass, testing the line between restraint and indulgence. Then, slowly, deliberately, I grind my hips against him again, pressing just enough to make him feel it without stopping the sway. His hands tighten around my waist instantly, firm, grounding me, and we move together with the rhythm, bodies close but teasing, dangerous.

I lean in, lips brushing his ear. Breath warm and slow.

“You planning on fucking me tonight,” I whisper lazily, fingers dragging over his shoulders, hips still pressing, “or should I let someone else do it while you watch?”

He cuts in, voice low, flat, lethal.

“Only if they’re willing to die after fucking you.”

I laugh, breathless, obscene, grinding my hips once more just to prove I can.

“They’ll die a happy man.”
His grip snaps. He pulls me closer, chest to chest, the music vibrating between us, his mouth right by my ear now.
“Shut up,” he mutters. Then, quieter, sharper—like he hates that he’s saying it at all—
“I’m not picturing someone else fucking you.”

The words hit harder than they should.

For a split second, I forget how to breathe.

I smirk, lazy and unapologetic, sliding my arms higher around his shoulders.

“Then do it yourself ,” I whisper.
Suddenly, his hand clamps around my wrist. Sharp. Firm. Unyielding. He tugs me back — fast, decisive. My ass bumps against him. My pulse spikes.

The music thuds in my chest, lights flashing over us, and he doesn’t hesitate. He just yanks me through the crowd. No words. Not a single syllable. Just the grip on my wrist and the unmistakable statement: we’re leaving.

I laugh — half shocked, half exhilarated. Finally. This is exactly what I wanted, all along. The chaos I’ve been stirring, every tease, every brush against him, every whispered dare — it’s met with action.

The door slams behind us, cold air cutting through the heat of the club, waking me fully. My heart hammers. My hips ache. And somewhere between frustration and excitement, I realise: I haven’t been in charge for one second tonight.

I glance at him. Calm. Controlled. Lethal. And still, my pulse spikes, because I know exactly what he’s planning.

We step onto the dark street. The city hums around us, indifferent, unaware. And I know — whatever happens next… it won’t be me deciding.

I grin anyway.

Because I’m not going to let him forget it.

And just like that, the night is ours.

Chapter Text

Jeremy
Landon doesn’t fight me.

That’s the first thing that throws me off. I half expect resistance — a laugh, a shrug, some careless spin to make it all a joke. That’s how we usually do this. Pretend it doesn’t matter until it matters too much.

But when I take his hand, he just… follows.

No comment. No show.

The club door slams shut behind us and Paris hits me all at once — cold, sharp, real. The night air sobers me a fraction, enough to realise my heart is hammering like I’ve just done something reckless. Which I have. I keep his hand tucked close to my side, knuckles pressing into my coat, like if I let go I’ll lose him back to the noise.

He’s quiet.

That should scare me more than it does.

Normally he’d be teasing by now. Smug. Riding the high of having me wound tight. Instead, he walks beside me, eyes forward, mouth soft like he’s still somewhere else. Like he’s letting me lead for once.

I’m so fucking turned on it’s ridiculous.

Not just by what he did in there — the way he moved, the way he knew exactly what he was doing — but by this. Him coming with me. Him not asking where we’re going. Him trusting that I’ll take care of it.

I could have him against a wall right now if I wanted. No one would recognise either of us. No headlines. No consequences.

I don’t.

Not because he wouldn’t let me — he would, God help me — but because this feels like a line we don’t cross without meaning it. He’s never really let himself be seen like that before. Not by me. Not sober. Not without armour.

I flag down a cab before my resolve cracks.

Somewhere between the pavement and the back seat, my hand finds his back. Just pressure. Just guidance. He goes easily, like he belongs there. I give the driver the address, sink back into the seat, and finally exhale.

That’s when I feel it.

Warm fingers. Light. Deliberate.

I look down. His hand is on my thigh, drawing slow, lazy circles like we’re not racing through Paris in the middle of the night, like I’m not one bad decision away from losing my mind. I clench my jaw and turn my head toward the window, pretending it doesn’t affect me.

The hand moves higher.

I turn sharply — straight into his mouth at my neck.

It’s soft at first. Almost curious. Like he’s asking.

I grab his wrist, firm but not rough.
“Sit still,” I murmur.

I finally look at him.

His eyes are usually blue. Clear. Bright.

Not now.

Now they’re dark, blown wide with adrenaline and mischief and something dangerously close to affection. He looks unreal like this. Untouchable and right there.

“Landon.”

He smiles like that name is an invitation.

If anything, he presses closer, leg sliding over mine, hands suddenly everywhere — my chest, my shoulder, my collar like he needs the contact to stay upright. His mouth returns to my neck, open now, insistent. I swear under my breath, fingers tightening around his wrists.

I hate how good it feels.

I hate that he knows.

This is his favourite game — pushing until I snap, until I lose control, until I’m the one begging him to stop.

I glance up. The driver catches my eyes in the mirror, registers the situation, and immediately looks away.

Fuck.

“Landon,” I say again, sharper this time. I pull him back just enough to look at him. “Stop it. You’re going to regret this.”

He studies my face like he’s memorising it. Then he pulls back slowly, lips still curved with amusement.

“Why?” he asks lightly. “It’s fun. Seeing you like this for once.”

“Save it,” I say, voice low. “Later. You can have all of that then. I won’t stop you.”

Something shifts.

Not a lot. Just enough.

He settles back into his seat, smug and satisfied, like he’s already won something that hasn’t even happened yet. Like he knows I mean it.

The rest of the drive is torture and mercy all at once.

The hotel doors blur past us. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off — if anything it’s worse now, buzzing under my skin, making everything feel unreal. We head straight for the lifts and—

“Fuck.”

I slam my palm against the elevator doors. Same sign as this morning. Same dead lift.

“Six flights,” Landon says cheerfully, like this is a gift.

We barely make it into the stairwell before I snap.

I shove him back against the wall and kiss him.

Hard. No warning. No restraint.

He makes a sound — surprised, pleased — and melts immediately, hands sliding up my shoulders, gripping my coat like he’s been waiting for permission. His mouth opens under mine, eager and warm and dizzying. The world narrows down to breath and heat and the fact that I can do this here. With him. Without looking over my shoulder.

He laughs into my mouth, breathless, delighted.

Then he spins us, presses me back instead, fingers lacing with mine.

“Come on,” he says, eyes bright. “Race you.”

We take the stairs two at a time, laughing like we’ve lost our minds. Stopping halfway up just to crash into each other again. To kiss. To gasp. To feel hands sliding under fabric, knuckles brushing skin, promises made with nothing but proximity.

I haven’t laughed like this in years.

By the sixth floor we’re wrecked — chests heaving, fingers still tangled together, trying and failing to act normal as we walk down the corridor. Like we’re not seconds away from crossing something we’ve been circling for months.

At his door, he fumbles with the key.

Then he looks back at me.

That smile — wicked, soft, unguarded.

Game on.

Landon practically drags me into the room.

The door barely shuts before he shoves me back, hard enough that my shoulders hit the wall with a dull thud. The sound echoes. My breath punches out of me, more surprise than pain.

He’s on me immediately.

His body cages mine in, close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him, the press of muscle, the unmistakable confidence in the way he claims the space. His breath ghosts my throat — warm, intentional — like he knows exactly how sensitive I am there.

When our eyes meet, something in the room shifts.

The air thickens. Heavy. Charged. Like we’ve stepped into a different version of reality.

Landon’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the blue reduced to a sharp, electric ring around something reckless and hungry. I’ve seen him flirt. I’ve seen him tease. I’ve never seen him like this — focused, unguarded, serious in a way that makes my pulse spike.

Then he drops to his knees.

The movement is sudden enough that I suck in a sharp breath, my hand flying out to brace myself against the wall. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands go straight for my belt, fingers quick, sure, practiced. He undoes it in seconds like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t look away.

Not once.

His eyes stay locked on mine as he frees me, watching every flicker of reaction like it matters. Like I matter. It does something dangerous to my chest.

“Let’s have a competition,” he says, mouth curving into that familiar, knowing smirk.

Of course.

“What kind?” I ask, dry, even though my heart is already sprinting ahead of him.

“First to come loses.”

I huff out a short laugh. “And you going down on me is fair?” I ask, pointed. “Seems like the odds are stacked in your favour.”

His smile shifts. Sharpens.

“Then let’s make it fair.”

He rises, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the bed without waiting for permission.

The duvet is still twisted from this morning, sheets kicked half off like we never meant to leave it that way. The room feels intimate in that effortless Parisian way — indulgent without trying. Silver cutlery sits abandoned on the small table, catching the low lamplight. Two red chairs face the bed by the window. Everything feels warm. Plush. Inviting.

Unreal.

I sit.

Landon strips his shirt off without ceremony — no performance, no drag-it-out tease. Just confidence. Like he doesn’t need to sell this to me.

My hands find his chest automatically.

Warm skin. Lean muscle. Hard lines under my palms. I don’t even pretend not to stare.

It’s absurd how attractive he is. Almost offensive. No one else has ever done this to me — not really. I’ve been around men my entire life — bodies everywhere, unashamed and careless. Locker rooms. Training facilities. Shared showers where steam clung to skin and no one bothered to look away. Niko used to treat the Heathens’ place like a revolving door in uni — half-dressed men draped over furniture, sprawled across beds, laughing, touching, alive in that loud, reckless way.

It never did anything to me.

Not even close.

I lean forward, kissing down his stomach, my fingers working open his belt. I shove his trousers and underwear down together, impatient now. He lets me — for all of two seconds — before pushing me back onto the bed, firm enough that my palm slaps the mattress to steady myself.

Then he climbs over me.

And flips around.

He settles himself over my hips, facing away from me, deliberately placing himself right in my line of sight.

A quiet, startled sound leaves my throat before I can stop it.

His mouth is warm as he takes me in.

Both his hands slide up my thighs, gripping, steadying me like he knows I’ll lose control if he doesn’t. One hand slips lower, fingers joining the slow, controlled movement of his mouth. He’s good — devastatingly so — measured and confident like he knows exactly how far to push without breaking the rules of his own game.

I bite back a groan, my hips twitching despite myself.

Fuck.

He’s right there. Beautiful. Open. Distracting in a way that borders on cruel.

At this point, nothing short of divine intervention could pull me away.

He moans softly around me.

The sound vibrates straight through my spine. My hips jerk forward instinctively, but he presses me back down, holding me in place like a warning.

I lean forward, curiosity taking over, letting my tongue trace along him — slow, exploratory, reverent in a way that surprises even me.

When I spit, he shudders.

It’s full-body. Sharp. Honest.

He doesn’t pull away.

I rub my finger against him, spread him open gently, pressing a kiss to the side. My chest tightens at the way he reacts — open, responsive, unashamed.

I work my tongue with practiced ease — I’ve been told I’m good at this — and the way Landon goes taut above me tells me everything I need to know.

“You’re so pretty, Lan,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I don’t know if pretty is the word to describe him but it’s the only thing that came to mind.

I don’t stop.

He squirms in my lap, restless, desperate, trying to keep up with his hands now. His head rests against my thigh as he looks back at me over his shoulder, eyes glassy, unfocused. He doesn’t hold back — not the sounds, not the way his body moves.

Every breath. Every broken little moan.

It brands itself into me.

“Jeremy,” he breathes.

I replace my tongue with a finger, slow and deliberate, going in and out, my other hand wrapping around him and stroking steadily. His breathing fractures, rhythm collapsing.

Trying to find it..”-Jeremy… wait. I’m—”

He’s close.

I feel it in the way his body locks up, the way his nails dig into my shins like he needs the anchor. Pride curls low in my chest — dark, possessive, satisfied in a way that scares me a little.

Landon King.

Undone.

In my hands.

“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let go.”

I don’t slow down.

He grabs my wrist — sharp, frantic — but it’s already too late.

He comes with a broken sound, body collapsing boneless against me, trust given without reservation.

I don’t let him pull away.

I catch him by the waist and twist us so he’s facing me, his back pressed to my chest. My arms wrap around him easily, locking him there. He goes still — not resisting, not yielding either. Just listening.

I lean in, mouth close to his ear.

“That was it?” I murmur, faintly amused. “I thought you’d be more of a challenge.”

He recovers fast. Of course he does.

“I was distracted,” Landon says coolly, lifting his chin just enough to look back at me. “Hard to perform under such… hostile conditions.”

I snort. “Hostile?”

“You’re intimidating,” he says flatly. Then, a beat later: “And unfairly smug for someone who thinks this counts as a victory.”

I tighten my arms around his waist, deliberately unbothered. “You proposed the rules.”

“Yes, well.” He shifts slightly, testing my hold like he’s checking the bars of a cage. “I underestimated your enthusiasm.”

“That’s one word for it.”

He clicks his tongue. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Beginners’ luck.”

I lean in again, voice low, amused. “Funny. You didn’t sound like it was luck.”

He scoffs, but there’s colour in his cheeks now — pride bruised, ego recalibrating. “Don’t get cocky,” he warns. “I’m excellent at learning curves.”

I smile into his hair. “I’m counting on it.”

“Enough chitchat,” I say. “Time for my prize.”

I sit up and push him back onto the bed.

Landon catches himself with his palms, breath hitching. I crawl over him, slow and deliberate, peppering kisses across his chest and down his stomach. He lowers himself fully this time, giving in, and I follow the line of his throat up to his neck.

His hand slides into my hair, fingers tightening as he tilts his head back, offering himself up without hesitation.

Fuck. I could get used to this.

I leave marks along his neck and collarbone, lingering just long enough to make him squirm. Then I move down, take one of his nipples into my mouth. He groans — sharp, helpless — and the sound goes straight through me. I toy with the other, watching his body react, catalogue every tell.

“Jeremy.”

He tugs my hair, forcing my head up. I look at him.

“Hurry up.”

I smile.

“Get on your stomach.”

Landon gulps. I can feel how hard he is beneath me, how tightly wound. And because he’s a certified freak, he obeys without argument.

“Ass up,” I add. “Face down.”

His breathing turns heavy as he grips the duvet, knuckles whitening. His face is turned toward the window, hair a mess across his forehead and cheek. He looks undone already.

I settle behind him and slap him.

He gasps — then laughs, breathless.
“Fuck. Didn’t know you had it in you, Jer.”

I slap him again.

“Let’s see if you can hold out longer this time, Lan.”

Red blooms across his skin, handprints stark against flushed flesh.

“Do you have lube?” I ask, because I’m not a psycho.

He reaches for the bedside table, pulls out a bottle, and hands it to me without a word.

I coat my fingers and ease two of them in, slow and careful.

“How does it feel?” I ask.

“Good.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Want me to go faster?”

He nods.

I pick up the pace, curling my fingers, searching for that—

“Ah—” He jerks forward, and my fingers slip out. “Fuck!”

“Who said you could—” I wrap an arm around his waist and yank him back hard. “—move?”

I go back in, focused now, hitting that spot more often than not. His back arches, head dropping fully into the duvet to muffle his sounds.

I add a third finger. “Let’s stretch you out properly, huh?”

His fists twist in the sheets. One hand snakes beneath him and I catch it before it gets where it wants to go.

“I want you to come untouched,” I say quietly. “Think you can do that for me, baby?”

He turns his face just enough for me to see him — flushed, red from position and sensation, back marked, lips parted.

He nods again.

I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but he’s being fucking adorable. It makes something feral curl in my chest — the urge to ruin him, to drive him into the mattress until the headboard rattles.

But I don’t.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s control.

Even if I seem to lose it every time I’m around him.

I pull my fingers out and replace them with my tongue.

He lets out a choked moan.

“Please, Jer.”

“Hm?” I murmur against him, the sound sending a shiver through his body. He’s going to come again — I can feel it.

“I want to come,” he says, voice wrecked. “Please let me come.”

I keep my pace steady, relentless, hands pulling him open.

“No.”

I pull away just as he tips over the edge.

“Not yet.”

I flip him onto his back and kiss him — slow, then fast, then slow again. I trail my mouth along his jaw, his ear.

He wraps his legs around my hips, pulling me in.

“What do you want me to do now, baby?” I whisper.

For a second, he doesn’t answer.

Then — quiet, honest:

“Fuck me.”

Something tightens in my chest.

“Landon,” I murmur, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

I lift his legs, hold them beneath his knees, position myself. I kiss him once more before pressing in fully.

He sucks in a breath and arches, head falling back. I stay close, kissing him through it as I pull out slowly, setting a measured rhythm.

Fuck.

I’m not going to last long.

His eyes are shut, hands gripping the mattress, completely open.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hold on to me.”

His hands slide up, gripping my arms.

“More,” he says. “Please. Go faster.”

His eyes are wet at the lashes, cheeks flushed. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say please this many times in his life.

I speed up, pulling him closer. His sounds get louder, more broken.

“Jer—Jeremy. I’m so close.”

I pull out.

“Fuck you— why?” he snaps, the frustration sharp and real enough that it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

“Make me come, Landon,” I say. “Ride me.”

He looks like he might actually punch me.

Instead, I lean back against the pillows and pull him with me. He’s annoyed, clearly — but determined enough to finish that he doesn’t argue.

He sinks down.

“Jeremy.”

“Hm?” My hands settle on his hips.

“You feel— fuck. You feel so good.”

“Show me,” I murmur. “Show me how good.”

His hips roll, then rock, then find a rhythm. He grips my shoulders for balance, thighs starting to shake.

His moans climb higher.

“Come on,” I breathe. “Fuck yourself, Landon.”

I’m right there — barely holding on — but he folds against me first, coming undone. I hold him tight as my own release follows, wrecking me from the inside out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but breath.

Warm. Heavy. Falling against my neck.

I breathe him in without thinking — shampoo, sweat, something distinctly Landon — his hair brushing my jaw as his weight settles fully into me. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just stays there long enough for it to feel earned.

“Edging is not a kink of mine,” Landon says flatly.

I huff a quiet laugh. “Are you sure? Because I beg to differ.”

He shifts, sitting up while he’s still straddling me, and runs a hand through his hair like he’s resetting himself. “Fuck you,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “That was… really hot.”

I grin. “If you’re looking for a repeat performance, you know where to find me.”

“Mm.”

He rolls off me and heads for the shower. The water starts a minute later.

I think about asking if he’s okay.

I almost do.

But sleep pulls me under faster than expected — heavy, sudden.

And I don’t realise until later that I never heard him come back to bed.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

I wake up cold.

It’s almost dawn. The sky beyond the curtains has lightened just enough to register, a washed-out grey pressing against the windows. I reach out without thinking, palm sliding across the mattress.

Nothing.

No warmth. No indentation. Just cold sheets.

I sit up immediately.

Clothes are everywhere. A jacket slung over the chair. Shoes by the door. The bathroom light is off, door ajar. I swing my legs out of bed and pull my boxers on, moving fast now, alert in the way I only ever am when something feels wrong.

He should be here.

I cross the room, already reaching for my phone, when the curtain snaps inward — a sudden rush of movement, fabric lifting and billowing like it’s trying to escape. Cold air follows, sharp and uninvited.

The balcony door is open.

Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell with it before I even step outside — sharp, herbal, unmistakable.

I cross the room and push the door wider.

Paris at this hour feels stripped bare. The city hasn’t woken yet, but it hasn’t fully gone to sleep either. Pale streetlights still glow below, reflecting off damp stone and empty pavements. The air is cold enough to bite, the kind that sinks into bone rather than skin.

Landon is sitting on the balcony floor.

One knee is drawn up, the other stretched out, his back resting against the railing. He’s only wearing boxers and hotel slippers, bare skin exposed to the night like he doesn’t care what it does to him. A joint rests loosely between his fingers, smoke curling upward, disappearing into the early morning.

He’s staring out at the city. Quiet. Still.

“You trying to freeze to death?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.

He looks up slowly, like it takes him a moment to register me. His eyes are lidded, unfocused — not drunk, not gone. Just… eased.

“You’re up,” he says, almost to himself.

I step outside, the cold immediately seeping into my skin. The stone beneath my feet is brutal, unforgiving. I sit beside him anyway, leaning back against the glass.

“How long have you been out here?”

He shrugs, rolling one shoulder. “A while.”

That could mean anything with him.

He lifts the joint, inhales, then tilts it toward me, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

I hesitate for half a second — not because of the drug, but because of the intimacy of the offer. Then I take it from him.

The smoke burns on the way in. Harsh, hot, unexpected. I cough, sharp and undignified, turning my head away.

Landon lets out a low laugh. “Don’t tell me that was your first hit.”

“It was.”

He looks at me properly now, disbelief flickering across his face. “No way.”

“Yes.”

“How?” He gestures vaguely. “All those parties. Uni. Your place was basically a free-for-all.”

“I never did it,” I say, handing the joint back. “Niko and Killian did sometimes. I just… never felt inclined.”

He squints at me. “Tragic. Shit friends.”

I take another drag, smaller this time. The smoke moves slower now, warmer, settling into my chest instead of attacking it. It tastes faintly sweet, faintly bitter. It lingers.

“You’re going to feel it in a minute,” he says casually. “It sneaks up on you. Especially if you’re all…” He gestures vaguely at my chest. “Tightly wound.”

“I am not tightly wound.”

He hums. “Sure.”

I lean back against the railing beside him, crossing my arms to keep the cold out. The night air smells like smoke and rain and something metallic — old stone, maybe.

The weed doesn’t hit all at once.

It comes in layers.

My shoulders loosen first. Not dramatically — just enough that I notice the absence of tension instead of its presence. My thoughts slow, not dulling, just spacing themselves out. Like someone’s turned the volume down between them.

My body feels heavier, anchored. Present.

I glance at Landon.

His breathing has deepened, his head tipped back slightly against the railing. His eyes are half-closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks… peaceful. Or at least unbothered.

I stand and go back inside, grabbing the throw from the bed. When I return, I drape it over both of us and sit back down.

He doesn’t protest when I nudge his head toward my shoulder. He just lets it happen, weight settling against me, warm despite the cold.

Within minutes, his breathing evens out.

He’s asleep.

I look down at him, his head just below my chin, hair soft beneath my fingers. I breathe him in — soap, smoke, something unmistakably his — and rest my head lightly against his.

One moment his weight is deliberate against my side, joint burning low between his fingers; the next, his breathing changes — deeper, uneven, the kind that tells me he’s gone somewhere I can’t follow. His head tips fully onto my shoulder. Ash slips onto the tiles. I carefully pinch the joint from his fingers and stub it out with my foot.

He doesn’t stir.

Landon shifts faintly, his shoulder pressing more firmly into my chest, like my stillness registered somewhere even in sleep. I don’t move him. I don’t adjust myself either, even as the cold seeps deeper and my muscles protest.

Tomorrow will come whether I want it to or not.

But for now, with Landon asleep against me, I let the world wait.

The city keeps going. Somewhere below us a car alarm chirps and dies. My toes are numb. My body aches in that quiet, cumulative way — too many nights awake, too many flights, too much everything.

I stay there longer than is sensible. The cold crawls into my bones. Training in Russia should have prepared me for this, but this is different — because I could move, and I’m choosing not to.

Eventually, it’s too much.

I shift carefully, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, another under his knees. He stirs but doesn’t wake, mumbling something incoherent. He’s lighter than he should be.

I carry him back inside.

The bed is still rumpled from earlier. I lay him down gently, pulling the covers up around him, tucking the blanket higher around his shoulders. He curls instinctively into the warmth, face relaxed, vulnerable in a way he never allows himself to be awake.

Vulnerable isn’t the right word. He’d hate it. But there’s something unguarded about him like this, something that exists only when he’s unconscious or bored enough not to perform.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Nikolai:
Heard you’re in Paris. Why the fuck are you in Paris?

Another message follows almost immediately.

Gareth:
If you’re done playing, come back. You’re needed.

Needed.

The word lands heavier than it should. Like it always does.

I look at the screen for a long moment.

Then I switch the phone off.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching Landon sleep. I write the note quickly — no flourish, no explanation.

Had to leave.
Text me when you’re awake.

I leave it on the bedside table.

I don’t look back when I walk out.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

New York greets me the way it always does — with rain sharp enough to sting and a cold that gets into the bones rather than the skin.

Paris had been softer. Even in winter, it had held warmth in its stone, in its lights, in the way the streets breathed at night. I hadn’t realised how much I’d let myself lean into that until I stepped out of the airport and felt the damp press against my throat like a hand.

I pull my coat tighter, though it does nothing.

For a brief, treacherous second, I almost expect to feel weight against me — warmth at my back, an arm draped carelessly over my waist, breath slow and steady against my shoulder. My body remembers before my mind has the chance to interfere. It remembers the heat of him, the solid, grounding presence of Landon King sprawled without apology, as if space had always belonged to him and me by extension.

I shut the thought down ruthlessly.

Paris was a deviation. Necessary, perhaps, but finished. I stayed one night longer than I was meant to — long enough for absence to be noticed. Long enough for the world I belong to to begin adjusting without me.

A black car waits at the curb, sleek and anonymous, its windows tinted dark enough to erase the driver entirely. The door opens before I reach for it. No greeting. No wasted motion.

Inside, the leather smells faintly of polish and something metallic beneath it — old habit, old money. The city blurs past as we pull into traffic, rain streaking the glass into fractured lines of light.

New York looks harsher through tinted windows. Less forgiving.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

By the time the car slows, I see V Corp long before we reach it.

It rises from the street like a monolith — all sharp lines and reflective glass, its upper floors disappearing into cloud and mist. From the outside, it looks like power made respectable. Finance. Technology. Trade. Progress.

What most people don’t see is what lies beneath.

The car slips into the underground entrance without stopping, swallowed by concrete and shadow. The air down here is cooler, cleaner, stripped of the city’s rot. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, illuminating polished floors and numbered bays.

I step out and straighten my coat, already settling into the posture expected of me.

A private lift waits at the far end of the garage. There are no buttons. Only a panel of scanners — retinal, biometric, coded clearance layered over one another until access becomes a kind of quiet interrogation.

I stand still as it reads me.

Blood opens doors faster than merit ever will.

The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, and the lift begins its ascent — then descent — moving in a way that deliberately disorients. Above ground. Below. Somewhere in between. The building is designed so that you are never quite sure where you are, only that you are allowed to be there.

When the doors open again, I step into my office.

Or rather — our office, though no one ever says it that way.

The lights are low. The long table dominates the centre of the room, dark wood polished to a mirror sheen. One wall is glass, looking out not onto the city but into the building itself — layers of corridors and controlled access, people moving like parts of a machine.

Someone is already here.

Gareth sits at the table, a book in his hands. He snaps it shut the moment he sees me, resting it flat as if it had never been open at all.

“Well,” he says mildly, lifting his gaze to mine. “Nice of you to join us.”

I stop just inside the doorway, scanning the room.

“Us?” I ask.

The answer arrives in the form of a familiar, friendly blow between my shoulder blades.

Nikolai.

“Miss us, Jer?” he says easily as he moves past me, already grinning. Killian follows close behind him, hands in his coat pockets, expression far too observant for someone pretending to be casual.

“Paris soften you up,” Nikolai continues, dropping into a chair. “Or were you just homesick for decent bread?”

Killian tilts his head, studying me. “You do look well-rested. Annoyingly so.”

“He’s glowing,” he adds. “It’s unsettling.”

I feel like livestock. Appraised. Measured. Found wanting or impressive — the distinction hasn’t been made yet.

I wave them off and move to the head of the table, my chair waiting exactly where it always is. This room isn’t officially a meeting space. We have entire floors dedicated to that. But somehow, inevitably, we end up here.

Secrecy has gravity.

“I had matters to attend to,” I say as I sit, folding my hands neatly atop the table. “I’m here now.”

“Mm.” Nikolai leans back. “Business or pleasure?”

That’s the question, isn’t it.

I don’t look at him when I answer. “Private.”

They let it drop — which tells me they’ve already decided to circle back later.

Gareth watches me for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze analytical, unflinching. Then he speaks, tone shifting from familiar to precise.

“The reason we called you in,” he says, “is because there are rumours.”

“Rumours,” Killian repeats with exaggerated distaste. “Honestly. Don’t people know gossiping is a sin? It’s deeply unholy.”

Nikolai snorts.

Gareth ignores them. “Whispers, more accurately. About nepotism.”

I lean back in my chair, unbothered. “Ah.”

“There’s a narrative forming,” Gareth continues. “That your position wasn’t earned. That you were placed rather than elevated. Some are even speculating eventual failure.”

Nikolai’s smile sharpens. “Say the word and I’ll cut out their tongues. Very educational.”

“Helpful,” Gareth deadpans.

I shrug, resting my weight into the chair, crossing one ankle over the other. “People talk. They enjoy it.”

“Yes,” Gareth says calmly. “And today it’s harmless. Tomorrow it becomes consensus. Especially if the majority begins to agree.”

Killian frowns. “They wouldn’t.”

Gareth’s gaze flicks to him. “They don’t need to be right. They just need to be loud.”

Silence settles — the thoughtful kind.

I drum my fingers once against the table, then still them. “So what’s the recommendation, counsellor?”

Gareth doesn’t hesitate. “Visibility.”

Nikolai groans. “He hates that.”

“I know,” Gareth says. “Which is why it will work.”

I meet his eyes. He’s calm. Confident. He understands the machinery — perhaps better than I do, because he’s never been crushed beneath it.

“Your absence,” Gareth continues, “created a vacuum. Vacuums invite speculation. You need to be seen. Decisive. Present. Untouchable.”

Killian glances between us. “You mean… perform.”

I smile thinly. “I don’t perform.”

Gareth raises an eyebrow. “You do. You just call it something else.”

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll handle it.”

Gareth inclines his head. Killian exhales slowly. Nikolai’s smile is sharp and satisfied.

Good, I think distantly.
They’re starting to believe me.

The meeting doesn’t last much longer. There’s nothing else to say that hasn’t already been understood.

When they leave, one by one, the office feels too large. Too quiet.

I sit alone for a moment, staring at the table, at my reflection warped slightly in the polished surface. My father’s face used to occupy this space. His authority had been unquestioned. Feared. Respected.

Mine is still being measured.

I stand and move to the glass wall, watching the building breathe.

Paris feels impossibly far away now.

I think of Landon’s hands — careless, sure. The way he’d looked at me in the low light, as if I were something he hadn’t meant to want but couldn’t stop claiming. I think of the way he’d gone out onto the balcony afterward, bare to the cold, smoke curling from his mouth as if he needed to erase the moment even as it settled into his bones.

I hadn’t stopped him.

Duty has a way of teaching you which instincts to ignore.

My phone vibrates again.

This time, I look.

Nikolai: Meet me at the gym tonight. 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.

I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket.

Evening rolls out faster than I expected.

The gym is already warm when I step inside.

Too warm.

Nikolai has taken his shirt off — of course he has — skin slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he works a bag like it personally offended him. He catches sight of me in the mirror and grins, wide and shameless.

“There he is. My second favourite person!”

He steps toward me and claps a hand on my shoulder, solid and affectionate enough to jostle me forward.

We glove up without ceremony. No instructions, no theatrics. We’ve been doing this together since we were teenagers, back when bruises felt like trophies instead of accounting errors.

The first few rounds are easy. Muscle memory. Familiar rhythms. Niko moves like he always does — all confidence and momentum, loud even when he’s silent. He fights like he lives: forward, unapologetic, assuming the world will adjust around him.

I let myself settle into it. The burn in my arms, the grounding thud of contact. It helps. It always does.

“You been busy recently? Feels like I can never find you.” he says casually, ducking a jab.

“I’ve been working.”

I block, counter, feel the impact reverberate up my forearm. He’s testing, not accusing. There’s a difference.

“You disappear,” he continues, circling. “No warning. No commentary. Gareth noticed. Killian noticed. I noticed.”

“That so?”

“Mhm. And when three people who mind their own business suddenly don’t, it usually means something’s wrong.”

I feint, force him back a step. “Or it means I’m finally doing my job.”

He laughs, sharp and delighted. “Oh, fuck off. You’ve always done your job. This is different.”

We move in silence for a while after that. Not tense — just observant. Niko’s eyes track me more closely than my footwork requires. He lands a hit against my ribs that I should have seen coming.

I exhale sharply.

“There it is,” he says. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s never been a convincing argument.”

Another exchange. Faster this time. Sweat beads along my spine, trickles down my temples. My thoughts slip, briefly, treacherously — to Landon’s hands, chalk-dust and stone, the way he looks at his work like it might betray him.

I take a hit I deserve.

Niko pulls back immediately and squints. “Are you… seeing someone?”

“…No.”
Fuck. That was too long of a pause before I denied it.

“Keep going.” I say, desperate to change the subject.

He watches me for a second longer, then nods. Accepts it, at least for now. That’s the thing about him — he pushes, but he doesn’t pry unless invited.

We stop after a few rounds. Lean back against the ropes.

“So,” Niko says, reaching for his water bottle. “The wedding’s coming up fast.”

I already know this. The date lives in my head like a fixed point. A deadline.

“Brandon’s losing his mind,” he continues cheerfully. “Which is impressive, because he claims he doesn’t care about any of it. Lies. He absolutely does.”

“Hm.”

“He wants everything perfect,” Niko adds, softer now. “Not flashy. Just… right.”

Niko glances at me sideways. “Which brings me to something.”

I turn to face him properly.

“I want you to be my best man.”

The words land wrong — not unwelcome, just unexpected enough that my body reacts before my mind does. I stop moving entirely.

Niko throws his hands up. “Don’t look so shocked. You knew this was coming.”

“I didn’t,” I say honestly.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Who else would it be?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. Something tightens behind my ribs — guilt, sharp and undeserved and still impossible to ignore. For the things I haven’t said. For the way I’ve been holding myself at a distance lately, even from him.

“Really?” I manage.

He snorts. “Yes, really. You think I’m trusting anyone else with the bachelor party? Absolutely not. Brandon and I are combining ours, by the way. Efficiency. Unity. Chaos.”

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“It’s going to be incredible.”

He grins, then adds, offhandedly, “You’ll have to coordinate with Brandon’s best man too, obviously.”

My chest tightens.

“Who’s that?” I ask, too carefully.

Niko shrugs. “Probably Landon.”

The world tilts — not violently, not visibly, but enough that I feel it. Enough that my breath stutters before I can stop it.

“Come on,” he says. “Hit me. You’re thinking too much again.”

I do. Harder than necessary.

As we spar, my mind keeps circling the same thought — Landon, in New York. Landon, in this city. The inevitability of crossing paths, of shared rooms and shared glances and things that will not stay contained forever.

I want to tell Niko. I almost do.

But wanting isn’t the same as knowing it’s time.

And right now, I’m still not sure whether what I’m holding is something that will strengthen me — or split me open.

So I keep my guard up.

And I fight.

Chapter Text

Landon

My days in Paris pass as any other.

I sleep until noon, drink until midnight, invite beautiful strangers into my bed and send them away before morning has the chance to complicate things. It is a rhythm I know well. One I have perfected. There has never been anything remarkable about excess when it is properly managed.

And yet — something feels off.

There has not been a single night that has passed without my thoughts circling back to that one. Not a pair of lips I have kissed that did not remind me, unfavourably, of his. Not a body I have touched that has not felt faintly incorrect, as though I were attempting to recreate a sensation with the wrong materials.

It is highly problematic. I had not planned for him to linger. I had not planned for anything at all, really — which is usually when things work out best. A night, a city, a bed that was not mine.

Except my body seems to have missed the memo.

It reacts now with a disobedience I am unaccustomed to. With memory. With insistence. With a stubborn, unflattering loyalty to a set of hands that knew exactly where to settle, exactly how much pressure to apply. I dislike this very much. Bodies are meant to be tools. Responsive, yes — but forgetful. Mine appears to have developed opinions.

I do what I always do when something begins to feel intrusive.

I drown it.

The parties blur together after the first few nights. Different apartments. Different terraces. Music loud enough to rattle the bones. Substances offered without questions, taken without ceremony. I am charming. I am generous. I am untouchable in the way people mistake for intimacy. They laugh easily. They want me easily. I let them, because it costs nothing.

Sex remains efficient. Frequent. Varied. Entirely unremarkable.

That, too, is the problem.

There is pleasure, certainly. Release. The familiar emptying-out that usually follows excess when it has been correctly applied. But it does not linger. It does not settle. It does not leave me pleasantly hollow and ready to move on.

Instead, there is a faint, irritating echo. I think — stupidly — that none of them know how to handle me. Not correctly. Not like—

I terminate the thought before it can embarrass me further.

The thought annoys me enough that I take something stronger the following night.

By the fourth day, I stop pretending this is accidental.

By the fifth, I stop pretending I am finished.

This is not attachment. I am not sentimental, nor that foolish. This is dissatisfaction. A lack of completion. An experience interrupted before it reached its natural conclusion.

I have always disliked unfinished things.

The solution, therefore, is obvious.

I do not need distance. Distance has never cured anything worth indulging. I need proximity. Repetition. Control. I need to take the thing that refuses to leave my system and exhaust it properly.

Which, stripped of pretence, means I intend to fuck him out of my system or die trying.

I pick up my phone, which lies next to the note Jeremy left me when he flew out.

I hadn’t been surprised when he wasn’t there when I woke the next morning. But I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.

I type a message.

“Busy tomorrow, Volkov?”

I send it before I can reconsider.

The reply comes faster than I expected.

“Why?”

I smile.

There you are.

“I’m flying back early.”

A beat.

“When?”

This time, I don’t delay.

“Tonight.”

I lock the phone and toss it onto the bed, next to the note.

There were plenty of reasons for the two of us to meet naturally.

Most importantly, there was a bachelor party to plan
.
I had visited Brandon and Nikolai’s apartment before I flew to Paris.

It had been an unremarkable evening, by all outward measures. Wine on the counter, coats abandoned over the backs of chairs, Nikolai pacing between rooms with the restless energy of someone who had too many thoughts and no system to hold them in place. Sweet, earnest, well-intentioned — and completely unsuited to the kind of coordination a wedding required.

I had understood immediately how exhausting it must all be for him.

Brandon, at least, had noticed it too. He always did. He listened while Nikolai spoke, nodded in the right places, reached out when the energy tipped too far into chaos. But listening was not the same as organising, and love did not magically produce structure.

I asked the appropriate questions first. Guest numbers. Venues. Dates. The sort of things people expect you to ask when you are being polite.

Only later — almost as an afterthought — I mentioned the bachelor party.

Nikolai had lit up at once, enthusiasm blooming without direction. Ideas piled on top of one another, none fully formed, each contradicting the last. I let him speak. I let him tire himself out.

Then I offered a solution. Kindness.

It would be simpler, I said, if the parties were combined. Less pressure. Fewer moving parts. Easier to manage, especially with everything else going on. One event instead of two. One set of logistics. One thing less to worry about.

I made it sound like relief.

I didn’t mention Jeremy — not directly. I didn’t need to. Nikolai would, inevitably. He always deferred to familiarity, to comfort. To the people he trusted most.

Best men, after all, were chosen for a reason.

I had watched the idea take root without ever appearing to plant it. By the time Brandon agreed, it already felt inevitable. Sensible.

I left shortly after, satisfied.

At the time, I hadn’t expected Jeremy to complicate matters by flying across an ocean.

That had not been part of the plan.

If I had known he would appear in Paris — unannounced, uninvited, earnest enough to be almost irritating — I wouldn’t have bothered laying this groundwork at all. People, unfortunately, have a habit of surprising you when you least account for sentiment.

Jeremy, it seemed, was incapable of staying away on his own.

An oversight I was more than willing to exploit. I would indulge him until I was finished.

The timing was convenient—this arrangement only sped things along.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

It’s late enough that V CORP has gone quiet.
Most of the lights on this floor are dimmed. Beyond the windows, rain turns the city into blurred bands of gold and white, unreal from this far above the streets. I’m sitting in my office—the public-facing one, built for meetings and conversations, not the kind of privacy that keeps people out..

I’m halfway through signing off on a set of transfers when the temperature in the room changes — not physically, but perceptibly, like pressure before a storm. I don’t look up straight away. I already know who it is.

Landon King does not wait to be invited.

I finish the line I’m writing, cap the pen, and only then lift my eyes.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like it belongs to him. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Hair slightly disordered in that deliberate way people mistake for carelessness. He looks rested.

“Jeremy,” he says, voice smooth, amused. “You really should tell your security to stop pretending they don’t recognise me. It’s embarrassing for everyone.”

“They’re doing exactly what they’re paid to do,” I reply. “You’re not on today’s schedule.”

His mouth curves. Not a smile — more like an acknowledgement.

“I never am.”

I gesture to the chair opposite my desk.

He watches me do it.
He comes in, slow, unhurried, eyes flicking around the office with idle curiosity — the kind that catalogues everything while pretending not to care.

He doesn’t sit. Instead he drifts to the window, peers out at the city as if he owns it.

Silence stretches.

I let it.

Eventually, he breaks first.

“Paris was entertaining,” he says lightly. “Good food, good nights, plenty of ways to pass the time.”

I watch him from where I sit.

“And exhausting,” he adds, glancing back at me. “In its own way.”

“Yet you stayed,” I point out.

His shrug is elegant.

“I rarely leave before I’ve had my fill.”

There it is.

He turns away from the window and leans back against it, rain-muted city lights framing him. He looks at ease. Rested. As if the world has been generous to him lately.

“You should have seen the clubs,” he continues, conversational now. “Everyone trying very hard to be interesting. No one quite managing it.”

I wait.

“They were fine,” he says after a beat. “Pleasant enough. Nothing that followed me home.”

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“But?” I ask.

He smiles, slow and indulgent.

“But it wasn’t the same.”

The words are meant to flatter. I recognise that immediately. He’s offering them like a gift, carelessly wrapped.

It doesn’t land the way he expects.

I stand, push back my chair, move to the sideboard where I keep a decanter. I pour myself a drink. I don’t offer him one.

He watches me over the rim of the glass as I take a measured sip.

“And yet,” I say calmly, “you seem to have enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, I did,” he replies easily. “I always do.”

I turn back to him then, studying him openly.

“I’m not interested in comparisons.” I say, glass hanging to my side.

Something shifts in his expression — a flicker of surprise, quickly masked.

“I wasn’t comparing,” he says. “I was being honest.”

“About your boredom,” I reply. “Or your appetite?”

His eyes sharpen.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

I step closer.

“It does,” I say. “Because one of those is predictable. The other is not.”

He straightens slightly, as if recalibrating. He hadn’t expected resistance there. Or perhaps he had, and he’s enjoying it.

“You’re very serious tonight,” he murmurs.

“I’m always serious.”

“That’s not true.” His gaze flicks over my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You weren’t, last time. You laughed. A lot.”

The air tightens between us.

I don’t rise to it.

“Last time,” I say evenly, “you were paying attention.”

He laughs softly, but there’s an edge to it now.

“And now?”

“Now,” I reply, “you’re telling me about other people.”

A beat.

He tilts his head, studying me as if I’ve just said something unexpectedly interesting.

“Does that bother you?”

I meet his gaze without hesitation.

“No,” I say. “It clarifies things for me.”

That lands harder than irritation would have. He blinks once, slowly. A flash of surprise passes across his face. Then, the smirk returns, sharper this time.

“So,” he says, low and teasing, “you’re…jealous?

“No,” I say evenly, keeping my gaze fixed. “Why would I be jealous of someone who doesn’t belong to me?”

His lips curve into that infuriating, knowing smirk. “Can jealousy only exist with possession?”

I shrug, unbothered. “Of course. Otherwise it’s just delusion.”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Well… that does seem to be a common trait of those around me.”

I watch him at the window. Then, he slowly makes his way to me. Stopping right in front of me. He leans forward slightly, closing the gap between us just enough that the warmth from him brushes against me. His gaze flicks between my eyes and lips, light and deliberate. “Is that all you want, then?” he asks softly, a hint of amusement undercutting the question. “Exclusivity?”

I take a slow sip, deliberately calm. “I don’t like to share,” I reply, voice steady.

He laughs low, the sound echoing against the floorboards, and takes a step closer, narrowing the distance without quite closing it.
“Very well,” he says. “Then we’ll be exclusive.
Other people have become… uninteresting lately,” he adds, voice dropping just slightly. “You’ve ruined the market for me.”

I don’t say anything at first, but inside, a small, controlled part of me flares — satisfaction I won’t outwardly admit.

“Just like that?” I ask, mildly. “You’re willing to give up the full range of… experience? I thought that might take more convincing.”

Landon’s expression doesn’t change. That small, permanent curve of his mouth stays in place, eyes bright with something amused, entertained.

“I do enjoy proving people wrong,” he says.

I watch him carefully. There’s no hesitation there. No calculation I can see. Only interest.

“So this is about that?” I continue. “Proving me wrong. You think you can let go of the rest that easily?”

He hums, noncommittal, and then nods once.

“As long as you keep me satisfied.”

He says it quietly, almost lazily — and then his hand lifts, fingers brushing the fabric of my shirt, tracing upward with deliberate slowness, as though he’s reminding me exactly where his attention is focused now.

My skin reacts before I allow myself to. A sharp awareness, heat skittering up my spine.

He leans back on the table, until the edge of my desk presses against his thighs. He settles there easily, one hand braced behind him, posture loose, inviting, entirely aware of what he’s doing.

I watch him for a moment longer than necessary. The way he waits. The way his eyes never leave mine, pupils dark, expression infuriatingly pleased — as though he’s already decided how this ends.

I exhale, slow and measured.

Then I pull my phone from my pocket.

His brow lifts slightly — curiosity flickering — but he doesn’t interrupt.

I dial without looking down.

The line connects immediately.

«Очистите здание. Немедленно.»
(Clear the building. Immediately.)

A pause.

«Камеры отключить.»
(Turn off the cameras.)

«Понял.»
(Understood.)

The call ends.

Landon’s eyes are dark now.
The smirk is gone—replaced by something sharper. Hunger.

He slept with other people.
The thought alone makes my jaw tighten.

They didn’t mean anything. I know that. And still, the anger doesn’t settle. It simmers, restless, looking for somewhere to go.

I close the distance and kiss him hard enough to steal the sound from his throat. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t asking. He makes a startled noise, but his hands are on my arms instantly, fingers biting in as if to anchor himself.

I push him back until the edge of the desk catches behind his knees. Until he’s sitting, and I’m standing between him and the rest of the room.

“I’ll keep you more than satisfied,” I murmur against his mouth. “You’ll forget what wanting anything else feels like.”

Landon lets out a quiet laugh, breathless but amused.
Before he can reply, the lights cut out.

The sudden darkness makes us both still. A beat—then the office fills with colour instead. Orange and gold bleeding up from the streets below, neon blues and fractured whites from the city that never quite sleeps. New York glowing through floor-to-ceiling glass like it’s alive.

We both turn toward the windows without thinking.

I straighten, press my palms to the desk, then hold a hand out to him.

He hesitates—only for a second—before taking it.

We cross the room together, toward the glass-lined walls, the city unfolding around us on all sides. There’s no edge to hide behind. Just sky, light, and height.

Landon steps forward, exhaling softly.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

“Yes.” I say, no longer interested in the beauty outside. I press a kiss against his neck from behind him. He practically melts into it, baring his throat to me, whether he realises it or not.
My hands wrap around his waist, undoing his belt buckle from behind.

My hands slide around his waist, fingers working the buckle of his belt from behind.

He freezes.

Then he turns in my hold, eyes sharp now. “Here?” he asks. “In front of the windows?

I smirk.

“Don’t pretend you’re not into it,” I murmur, spinning him back around before he can overthink it.

I can practically hear his heartbeat, fast and loud. He’s excited.

“You want all these people to watch me fuck you,” I whisper, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t you? Admit it.”

He gasps softly. Involuntarily. Yet he doesn’t deny it.

Landon is a voyeur through and through. And while it isn’t my preference—someone would be buried before they ever got the chance to see him like this—I know the truth.

No one can see us from up here.

“They can’t see us,” he says quietly. Clever boy.

“Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t want them to.”

My hands return to his belt, unfastening it properly this time, easing his trousers down just enough to make him shift his weight. His hands wander back, bold now, finding me through my clothes.

I catch his wrists and push them away.

“Not yet,” I say.

I turn him around — wait a beat, just long enough for him to feel it — and then sink to my knees.

His breathing changes instantly—heavy, unguarded. He watches me like he doesn’t trust himself to blink. I tug his boxers down and take him in my hands first, slow, deliberate.

I watch his face as my tongue drags along him.

His brows knit. “Don’t be a cocktease.”

He suddenly sounds very British.

His hand finds my hair, fingers fisting hard. I don’t stop him.

I take him into my mouth, deep, until he hits the back of my throat. He groans and throws his head back against the glass.

“Fuck.”

I move, steady and confident, doing exactly what feels right. He responds immediately. I lift his right leg, set it on my shoulder to take him better, and he nearly folds—bending over me, hand yanking my head back by my hair.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

I pull back, breath damp on my lips. “What?” I ask, wiping saliva from my chin.

“You look too perfect like this,” he says, breathless. “While I’m getting absolutely destroyed.”

I chuckle, low and pleased.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, letting him watch, then shrug it off and toss it aside.

“Happy?”

He grins, wide and wicked. “Do you have a tie in here, by any chance?”

“In the drawer,” I say. “Why?”

“Go get it. Actually—” he pauses. “Get two.”

I retrieve them and return. He takes one immediately, looping it loosely around my neck, adjusting it with a satisfied hum.

“There,” he says. “Now you look like Magic Mike.”

My displeasure is immediate. “Who is Mike?”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God. You’re such a caveman. How do you not know Magic Mike?”

I frown at him.

“He’s a performer,” he explains. “Of sorts. Like a stripper.”

“Why the fuck would I know about a male stripper?”

“Because he’s iconic,” he says, rolling his eyes like it should be obvious. “Ugh. Whatever.

“And the second tie?” I ask, glancing at the one abandoned on the floor.

He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Oh. You know,” he says lightly — too lightly. “If you want to use it for something else.”

I study him. “Like what?”

He shrugs, suddenly less composed. “Like anything you want. God. I don’t know.”

“You want me to tie you up?”

He hesitates. For a second.

“Anything,” he says quietly. “You. Want.”

I exhale through my nose, amused despite myself. “You slut. Fine,” I add. “I’ll tie you up.”

His smile is immediate.

Chapter Text

Landon.

Jeremy ties my wrists with more seriousness than necessary. I watch him through the reflection in the glass as the silk slides tight, then tighter, his fingers tugging the knot twice as if to test it. When he’s finished, I test it myself, rolling my shoulders slightly.

Not bad.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

I hum in response, and that seems to satisfy him. His hands wander—my hips, my waist, my stomach—as he kisses slowly up my neck and spine. I lean back into him, then twist just enough that his mouth hovers near mine without touching. When our gazes meet, his eyes are narrowed, intent, as if he’s deciding something.

If he’s waiting for permission, he won’t get it. I can’t grab him, so instead I lean into him deliberately, stumbling just enough to force the issue. He catches me, mouth closing over mine. The kiss is measured and controlled, soft and hard at once, and my legs go weak. I blame the standing.

“Jeremy,” I murmur against his mouth.

“Yes?” His breathing has gone heavier now, and so have his hands.

“I want to—”
The sentence dies, but my body finishes it. I slide down him, twisting, pressing my face against his clothed erection and looking up through my lashes. For a second, his composure slips.

“Unzip me,” he says, gripping my chin and forcing my gaze up.
“With your teeth.”

My stomach drops. I don’t get to complain—I was the one who suggested the restraints. So I do it, pulling the zipper down with my teeth while he watches, unmoving, not touching me at all.

That’s the worst part.

He undoes the button himself and frees himself slowly, deliberately.

“I missed you,” I say, the words aimed somewhere below his waist.

Jeremy snorts. “Slut.”

I take him in fully. His eyes shut immediately. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t guide me—just breathes through it as curses slip out, some of them not in English. I swallow around him, watching the tension pull tight across his jaw. After a moment, I pull back.

“I want you to fuck my mouth.”

“Landon,” he exhales. “For fuck’s sake—”

But his body gives him away: a sharp twitch, then his hand fisting in my hair as he guides me back down. This time he moves—slow, controlled thrusts at first, in and out, testing. Then harder. I gag when he drives in deeper, and he groans.

“You’re so good,” he mutters. “So fucking good.”

He uses me. I let him. My jaw burns, my eyes sting, and I don’t stop. When he stills abruptly and pulls out, breathing rough, he swears under his breath.

“Fuck. I almost came.”

He hauls me up and kisses me—messy, possessive—and then says, simply, “I need to fuck you.”

“Okay,” I manage. Not my most charming moment.

Jeremy smirks and clears his desk with one sweep of his arm, papers scattering. My wrists ache behind me.

“Change my ties.”

“You want them off?”

“…No. Adjust them.”

He does, briefly rubbing my wrists before guiding me onto the desk.
“Lie down. Hands up.”

I obey, lifting my arms as he reties them above my head. His fingers press in slowly, patient and deliberate. The preparation is excruciating—not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because it’s controlled. He insists on doing it properly while my body begs him not to.

My patience dwindles fast.

“Jeremy—fuck. Just do it.”

“Do what?”

I roll my eyes, breathless. “You know exactly what.”

He hits it again—precise—and I swear. “I need you,” I say through clenched teeth. “Inside me. Fucking me.”

“You just had to ask, baby.”

I groan. Infuriating man.

When he finally enters, my breath punches out of me. He kisses up the inside of my arms, holding my wrists above my head.

“So fucking tight,” he murmurs.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My body tightens around him, every nerve lighting up as he continues, thrusting shallowly.

“What would people say,” he asks quietly, “if they saw you like this?”

My hips lift without permission.

“Would they be shocked?”
Another thrust.
“Turned on?”
Another thrust.

I’m shaking now, drawn tight like a wire.

“Do you think they know Landon King likes getting fucked in dark offices?”

He pulls out. I make a sound I do not approve of.
Then he slams back in, hard enough to shove me up the desk. Something crashes to the floor, but I barely hear it over my own pulse. His words sent a fresh wave of heat crashing down my veins.

“Jeremy—” My voice breaks despite myself.

“What.”

“I need more.”

He clicks his tongue. “So needy.”

He fucks me slowly, cruelly, stopping every time I get close.

My body trembles, dizzy and overloaded. I dig my nails into my palms.
“Please,” I say finally. Pride be damned.

“Please, what?”

Just as I teeter closer to the edge, he stops.

I let out a pained moan, hands thrashing in his hold. “No-“

“Not yet.” Jeremy only smirks.

My body wracks with frustration, hands twitching in the restraints. Every muscle in me is drawn tight, my legs tremble around Jeremy’s waist.

Fuck. This isn’t me.

Jeremy exhales slowly. Then, he speeds up. Fast. Deep. Relentless. Every movement grinding up against my nerves. My words fractured into moans, pained and pleading. “Jeremy- I’m going to- I’m coming.”

The words spilled out broken as my body betrayed me, shuddering under the forced wave. Pleasure slammed into me- brutal, unyielding- tearing a cry from my chest as I come too hard, my vision sparking white.

He doesn’t let up. He continues, thrusting through it, his presence looming as his voice cuts in. “Coming already? You’re such a greedy little slut.”

The words hit like a slap—praise twisted with venom—and my breath hitched, a shiver racing down my spine. I’d never been treated like this,
forced to feel everything—and fuck, I didn’t hate it. I didn’t even want to.

His pace slowed, teasing now, dragging along every oversensitive inch until I whimpered, hips twitching up despite myself.

“You like this,” he said—not a question—as his hand slid up my chest, his thumb brushing hard enough to make me flinch. “Begging me for more like you were made for it.”

He thrust again—sharp, deep—and my moan broke into a choked groan. I was overstimulated, dragged back to life, drowning in it. His fingers dug into my thigh. “Look at you,” he continued, “wrecked and still wanting more.”

His hand tightened around my throat—not choking, just steady—anchoring me as my pulse thundered beneath his fingers. My body was a live wire, frayed and oversensitive, but his grip didn’t waver.

“Already a mess,” he growled, “and I’ve barely started.”

He pulled out slowly—agonisingly slow—the drag lighting every raw nerve on fire until my breath hitched and a choked whine slipped free.

Then suddenly he grabbed my hips and flipped me over, slamming me face-down onto the table. My oversensitive erection hit the glass, slick and throbbing, and I yelped—sharp, desperate—the friction burning straight through me.

“Jeremy—wait—” I rasped, clawing at the table, hips jerking to escape, but his weight crashed down, pinning me flat. and his bare face pressed close, dark hair brushing my neck. His teeth bit into my earlobe, hard, then his tongue soothed the sting, wet and hot, making me writhe beneath him. He inhaled deeply, taking in my scent—salt, heat, surrender—and groaned low. “You smell like mine,” he muttered, raw and possessive.

I squirmed, overstimulated. “Too much—” I gasped, my breath fogging up the glass.

His hands slid under me, yanking my hips up just enough to thrust back in—deep, brutal—splitting me open again.

“Too much?” he mocked, breath hot at my ear. “But you’re still leaking for me.”

My body arched with a broken moan—“Ahh—Jeremy—”as the sensation tore me apart. Every thrust driving me deeper into the table, building that unbearable coil again.
“I can’t—stop—” I pleaded, but his teeth grazed my ear again, biting harder, and his tongue followed, slow and deliberate, savoring every shudder that tore through me.

“You can,” Jeremy said, his voice a velvet blade, “and you will.”

His pace shifted—slow, then fast—edging me, deep thrusts stalling just shy of release, keeping me trembling on the brink. One hand slid beneath me, fingers wrapping around my length, stroking rough and fast against the friction of the sheets. A sob tore out of me, high and frantic. “Jeremy—I’m coming again—” My hips bucked helplessly, chasing it despite the agony, the need overwhelming every shred of pride I had left.

“Beg for it,” he purred, biting my earlobe again, sucking the tender skin as his thrusts deepened. “Filthy little thing.”

He slowed, teasing now—his fingers pumping hard, then stopping—and I thrashed beneath him, body hot against cool glass. “No—I need—fuck—let me—” The words came apart as his hand slid up to my neck, tilting my head back. He bit the curve where my neck met my shoulder, holding the thrust deep and unmoving.

“Crying for it like a slut,” he said, his voice thick with heat, fingers stroking again, “taking it like a King.”

My mind splintered —and I broke.

“Come for me, King” he commanded, slamming in hard, his hand pumping fast, and I shattered—screaming his name as another wave tore through me, relentless and blinding, drowning me completely.

At the same time, his rhythm faltered—a crack in that iron control—as my scream echoed. The way my body clenched around him—tight, then loose, then tight again—dragged a low, guttural groan from his chest, layering over my broken moans. His thrusts deepened, chasing the edge, and he came hard, hips stuttering, a rough “Fuck—” tearing from him as he spilled into me, hot and relentless.

He milked me through it, his hand still stroking—slower now, deliberate—drawing out every shudder, until my oversensitive body couldn’t take any more.

Jeremy pulls away slowly, and unties my wrists.

The silk slides free, leaving behind a dull ache and a faint burn where it had held me. My hands feel strange—too light, a little useless—as blood rushes back in. I flex my fingers once, then again.

Jeremy doesn’t rush.

He reaches for a cloth from the sideboard, wets it without looking at me, then comes back. His movements are efficient, deliberate. Like this is a task he intends to do properly. He kneels down—kneels, and starts cleaning me up with an infuriating amount of care.

I tense. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

And he keeps going. And I don’t stop him—not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t quite find where my body ends and the effort to move begins. I feel boneless, heavy in that strange way that isn’t exhaustion so much as aftermath. Like everything important has already been spent.

The room feels too quiet. Too exposed. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, so I let them fall uselessly at my sides. “Hey,” he says quietly. Not sharp. Not teasing. “Look at me.”

I don’t want to. I do anyway.

“You okay?”

I exhale, half a laugh. “Physically? Fine.”
I glance at him, then away. “Ego’s taken a hit though.”

Jeremy doesn’t smile.

That throws me.

He watches me instead, eyes searching—not for weakness, not for reassurance. Just checking. Like the answer actually matters.

“Tell me if I crossed a line.” he says, calm but unmistakably serious.

My instinct is to deflect. To say something clever. Something that puts me back on top of the moment.
Instead, nothing comes out.

Because the truth is—I don’t know.

Not in the way he means.

I roll my shoulder, stretch my neck, buying time. “You’re very… thorough,” I say finally. Dry. Almost amused.

Still, he doesn’t bite.

“I’m asking,” Jeremy says again. “Are you okay?”

I swallow. My throat feels tight, which is deeply inconvenient.
I look away, staring at the edge of the desk, the scattered papers, the faint smudge on the glass where my breath had fogged it earlier.

No one’s ever asked me that and meant it. Not like this.

“I’m fine,” I say eventually.

Jeremy studies me for a long second, then nods once. Accepts it—not because it’s complete, but because it’s what I can give him.

He finishes cleaning me up, hands lingering just long enough to register.

I sit up slowly, grounding myself, reaching for my clothes. My body still hums, oversensitive, but it’s the other thing—the weight in my chest—that I don’t know what to do with.

Jeremy watches me, not touching now.

And for the first time, I don’t know which of us has more control.

I reach for my shirt. Button it up. One by one.

Jeremy moves away from the desk and comes back with a drink—whiskey, if I had to guess—in one of those ridiculous crystal glasses he keeps around for intimidation purposes. He holds it out without comment.

I take it, inspecting the colour. “Do I deserve one of these now?”

Jeremy’s mouth lifts by exactly an inch.
“Well,” he says mildly, “you were very well-behaved.”.

“Thank you. I was waiting for that,” I say, buttoning my trousers and threading my belt through with more focus than necessary.

He hands me the glass. Our fingers brush.

I drain the whiskey in one go. Jeremy leans back against the desk, still in his boxers, entirely unbothered by the fact that I’m reassembling myself like a flat-pack version of a person.

“Well,” I say, grabbing my coat, “this has been deeply inconvenient for my sense of emotional detachment.”

“Tragic,” Jeremy replies. “We’ll put it in the minutes.”

I pause at the door. Just for a second.

“Goodnight, Jeremy.”

He inclines his head.
“Night, Landon.”

I leave before either of us can say anything else.

Chapter Text

Landon

Night, Landon.

That’s what he said.

Which is funny, because I didn’t sleep.

Not even a little.

This is unprecedented. Borderline offensive. I am a man who passes out after orgasms like it’s a biological inevitability. It’s practically muscle memory. Yesterday alone should’ve put me into a medically induced coma. I was exhausted when I got home — wrung out, limbs heavy, aching in all the right places.

And yet.

I lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Counting sheep. Recounting conversations. Hyper-aware of my own body in a way I deeply resented.

There was this feeling low in my stomach — tight, unsettled. And, yes, fine, something in my arse too, but not like that. Not the obvious way. Not a soreness-you-can-blame-on-another-man-and-move-on-from.

This was different.

This was wrong.

This was my body acting like it knew something my brain was actively refusing to acknowledge.

I rolled onto my side. Then my other side. Kicked the duvet off. Dragged it back on. Checked the time. Three hours had passed. Then four. Then five. Each minute louder than the last.

Blasphemous. That’s the only word for it.

I don’t not sleep.

Sleep is where I go to shut things down. Where sensations flatten. Where thoughts lose their teeth.

I closed my eyes.

Immediately saw him kneeling.

Opened them again. Sat up. Ran a hand down my face.

Absolutely not.

By morning, I felt feral. Wired. Like I’d been vibrating just under the skin all night and no one had thought to switch me off. My phone lay face-down on the bedside table, which was deliberate.

I didn’t want to look at it.

I wanted to look at it so badly it made my jaw ache.

Because if there was a message — casual, dry, nothing-at-all — I’d read into it. And if there wasn’t, I’d read into that too. Either way, I’d lose.

This is new, I thought distantly.

Not the wanting. Wanting is manageable. Wanting is familiar.

This was… anticipatory. Completely directionless. Like my attention had slipped its leash and chosen a target without consulting me.

I got dressed mechanically. Showered too long. Drank coffee that tasted like nothing. Somewhere in the middle of all that, it occurred to me that I was meant to see Dr Gabriel today.

The thought hit like ice water.

Normally, I enjoy it. The sparring. The way he tries to peel me open and I let him, selectively. I like being analysed — on my terms. I like being clever enough to stay one step ahead.

Today?

Today I didn’t want to go anywhere near him.

Because he’d notice.

He’d notice the lack of sleep. The agitation. The way my humour felt… delayed. He’d ask the wrong question in the right tone and something would slip.

And I could not afford that.

Not when I didn’t even know what this was yet.

Should I just cancel? I picked up my phone.

Didn’t unlock it.

Put it back down.

Something tight curled in my chest — sharp, unpleasant, insistent. I breathed through it, annoyed at myself for needing to.

This was ridiculous. I hadn’t lost anything. Nothing had changed. I’d had sex. Excellent sex. Complicated sex, maybe — but manageable.

So why did it feel like I’d crossed some invisible threshold and forgotten to look back?

Why did the idea of being alone today feel… wrong?

I laughed under my breath. Short. Humourless.

Get a grip, Landon.

Which would’ve landed better if my hands weren’t shaking — just slightly — as I reached for my keys.

-

The room looks exactly the same.

Same chair. Same crooked stack of files on the corner of his desk. Same window that never opens more than an inch, no matter how hard you try.

That’s comforting. Predictable things don’t ask for anything.

“Morning,” Dr Gabriel says, glancing up. “Traffic kind to you?”

“Miraculously,” I reply, dropping into the chair like I’ve done this a hundred times. Which I have.

He nods, makes a note I know means nothing, and settles back.

“So,” he says, neutral. “How are we doing?”

“We’re doing,” I say. Easy. Smooth. My best work. “Busy week.”

“Mm. Same as usual then.”

“More or less.”

We do the usual dance. Work, irritations, other people’s incompetence. I perform well. He lets me. He always lets me get a few steps ahead before he changes direction.

I’m halfway through a sentence when he interrupts —

“Are you still seeing the man who left the bruise on your neck?”

Ah.

I don’t pause. That would give him something.

“Yes,” I say easily. “Occupational hazard.”

He nods, as if that answers something.
“I’m sorry,” he adds. “I don’t know his name.”

“You don’t need to.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you do.”

I smile. “Barely.”

Gabriel leans back in his chair.
“Friends?” he asks.

“No.”

“Colleagues?”

I scoff. “God, no.”

“Then what?”

I shrug. “Sex.”

“Only?”

“Yes.”

He watches me for a moment too long.

“He’s interesting,” Gabriel says finally.

That lands wrong.

“Is he,” I reply. “Or is this where you tell me I’ve developed a pathological attachment?”

“I didn’t say pathological.”

“You were about to.”

“No,” he says calmly. “I was about to say he’s the only person you’ve spoken about —besides family, in ten years.”

I laugh. It sounds sharp even to me.
“That can’t be true.”

“It is.”

“So what,” I snap. “That means I’m in love now? Is that the diagnosis? Congratulations, Doctor, you’ve cracked me.”

Gabriel doesn’t rise to it.

“I never mentioned love, Landon.”

“Then what are you mentioning?”

“That you care.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Care is a stretch.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never denied caring before,” he says. “You’ve avoided it. You’ve reframed it. But you’ve never outright denied it.”

I feel something hot and ugly crawl up my chest.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That’s when Gabriel’s tone changes.

Sharper.

“I know that you care, Landon,” he says. “You can pretend all you want that you don’t, but I know you. I’ve known you ten years.”

I straighten, pulse ticking in my throat.

“I know you care about Brandon,” he continues. “I know you tried to fix things with him long after you said you were done. I know you went after people who hurt him — not because it helped you, but because that’s how you show up.”

“That’s not—”

“I know you care about me too,” Gabriel says, cutting in. “Even if you won’t admit it.”

I stand abruptly. “This is inappropriate.”

“You showed up today,” he says. “Even though you didn’t want to.”

I grab my coat. My hands are steady. I hate that.

“You read the book I gave you,” his voice gets quieter. “Even though you pretended you didn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s habit,” he replies. “You care. Don’t fucking act like you don’t.”

The word fuck hangs between us. Heavy. Intentional.

My jaw tightens. I don’t trust my voice.

Gabriel doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t soften it.

He just looks at me — not like a therapist, not like a judge.

Like someone who knows exactly where it hurts.

I turn and walk out.

I knew I shouldn’t have come.

I step out into the corridor and the door clicks shut behind me. I don’t slow down. Elevators take too long. I take the stairs two at a time, jaw locked, fingers twitching like they’re looking for something to grab onto. By the time I hit the street my chest feels tight, not panic exactly—pressure. Compression. Like someone’s wrapped tape around my ribs and keeps pulling.

I tell myself I’m fine.

I tell myself this is nothing.

I don’t go home. That would be a mistake. Home is quiet, and quiet is where thoughts get ambitious. Instead I walk three blocks, cut down an alley that smells like piss and fried oil, and knock once on a door that isn’t marked. He opens it without looking surprised.

He hands me a packet of white powder. I take it, exchanging cash in the same handshake.

I duck into a bathroom I know. Second door on the left. Flickering strip light. The lock sticks unless you lift the handle as you turn it. I do. It clicks into place.

I set the packet on the sink, flatten it with two fingers. White. Clean. No clumping. Good cut. I tap some out, smaller than usual.

I roll a note from my wallet. Old habit. I don’t look at my reflection yet. There’s a sequence to these things.

I lean in.

The burn hits immediately — sharp, familiar, almost reassuring. A clean line of sensation up through my sinuses, behind the eyes. My eyes water. I welcome it. Pain is efficient. Pain announces itself and then gets out of the way.

I wait.

There’s usually a lag — thirty seconds, maybe a minute — where the world tilts just enough to make decisions feel optional. I count it out without thinking. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.

Nothing.

No drop in my shoulders. No softening behind the eyes. No narrowing of focus.

I frown slightly.

Bad absorption, maybe. Dry membranes. I tilt my head back, sniff again — sharp, corrective — and breathe slowly through my nose like you’re supposed to.

Still nothing.

My heart rate hasn’t changed. No pleasant hollowing in the chest. No sense of distance. The room remains irritatingly present — the hum of the light, the faint bass from somewhere downstairs, the smell of disinfectant barely masking stale piss.

This should have kicked in by now.

I press my tongue to the back of my teeth, waiting for the chemical bitterness that usually follows. It never comes.

Instead, unhelpfully, my mind supplies something else.

Gabriel’s voice.

You care.

I snort, sharp and humourless. “Fuck off,” I mutter to no one.

Gabriel is wrong. Spectacularly so. And the fact that he said it with that calm certainty—like it was an observation rather than an accusation—makes it worse. Makes it feel invasive. Like he reached into something that wasn’t his and decided to rearrange it.

I should fire him.

The thought brings a flash of satisfaction. Clean. Simple. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe anyone access to me, least of all someone who thinks ten years gives him the right to psychoanalyse my silences.

I don’t know why my parents still insist I see him.

No—actually, I do.

They’ve always wanted me to confide in someone. As if outsourcing the problem makes it easier to live with. As if knowing I sit in a room once a week and talk to a man with a degree absolves them of whatever it is they feel they failed at.

They didn’t know what to do with me.

I was too much. Too sharp. Too cold. Too unmoved by the things that were supposed to move me. They tried—God, they really did—but every attempt felt like speaking a language I never learned. They loved Brandon and Glyndon effortlessly. It showed in the small things. The patience. The pride. The way concern came naturally with them, unforced.

I couldn’t make them love me like that.

Which is fine.

They’re normal. They fit. I didn’t ask to be like this, but I am. And I learned early that resenting it was useless. You adapt. You optimise. You become something functional instead.

I rub at my eye, dry and irritated, and laugh under my breath at nothing.

Then I do another line. Slightly larger this time.

The burn is stronger. Satisfying, even. My eyes sting. I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening, and wait for the drop.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, my body feels… held. Taut. Like everything is braced for impact that never arrives.

My thoughts stay sharp. Worse — they stay organised.

That’s new.

I laugh quietly, once, more in disbelief than humour. “You’re kidding me.”

This isn’t tolerance. I know tolerance. Tolerance dulls the edges, stretches the time. This is different. This is like throwing a switch and nothing happening — no flicker, no resistance, just dead air.

I rub at my face, drag a hand through my hair. My jaw aches. I hadn’t noticed how tightly I’d been clenching it.

Okay. Fine. Variables.

Lack of sleep, maybe. Adrenaline. Cortisol. Therapy sessions can spike that — there’s literature on it. I’ve skimmed enough abstracts to know the buzzwords. Heightened arousal can interfere with depressants. Simple.

I wait another minute. Then another.

Nothing changes.

What does change — irritatingly — is my awareness of my own body. The ache low in my back. The lingering pressure between my thighs. The memory of being bent over that desk — not the image, just the sensation, muscle-deep and persistent.

This is physiological. That’s all. Muscle memory. Endorphins. Residual sensation. Anyone with a basic understanding of biology could explain this. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it doesn’t fade.

The drugs don’t blur it. They don’t smear the edges or dull the centre. Everything stays sharp—my thoughts, my body, the ache low and insistent that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with aftermath.

I press my knuckles into my eye until I see sparks.

Why isn’t this working?

I straighten, wipe my nose, look at my reflection. I look fine. Irritatingly so. No cracks. No visible damage. Just me, perfectly assembled, like always.

And yet—
I didn’t sleep.
I didn’t forget.
And I don’t feel numb.

The thought lands heavy and wrong.

For the first time, the drugs feel useless in my hands. Like a language I suddenly can’t speak fluently anymore. I pocket what’s left, breath shallow, and push out into the air, hoping movement will shake this loose.

It doesn’t.

Everything comes with me.
Gabriel’s certainty.
Jeremy’s hands.
The ache that refuses to be reduced to biology.

And underneath it all, a quiet, vicious fear I don’t have a name for yet—but I know better than to ignore.

Because whatever this is, it didn’t work its way in by accident.

And I have no idea how to make it leave.

Chapter Text

Hi all 🤍

Thank you so much for reading Marble Veins up until now. I genuinely appreciate the love, patience, and support more than I know how to put into words.

Up until this point, I’ve been writing the story very much in-the-moment—posting as I go, deciding what happens next chapter by chapter. What started as a casual hobby has slowly become something I care about a lot more than I expected, and I’m really excited about where the story is heading.

Because of that, I’ve decided to take a short hiatus from posting. I want to step back, properly plan the rest of the story, and finish writing it before continuing to publish. This will let me tighten the plot, catch details I might’ve missed, and fix the many (many) editing errors along the way.

Don’t worry — I will be back.
With more drama, more angst, and significantly more emotional damage.

So I’ll be taking a few weeks off while I go back to the drawing board. I really hope you’ll be patient with me—and that you’ll enjoy the story even more when it returns.

Thank you again for sticking with me.
Lots of love,
x

Chapter Text

Landon

Waking up at four a.m. every day has to be a cry for help.

There’s no other explanation for it. No rational, well-adjusted person with a functioning brain looks at the middle of the night and thinks, yes, this is when I should begin my day.

That’s not discipline. That’s pathology.

Unfortunately for me, that pathology belongs to the man I’ve been sleeping with.

The first few times it happened, I ignored it. As one does. He got up, did whatever deeply concerning rituals he needed to do, and I stayed exactly where I was—warm, comfortable, and unconscious. As God intended.

That would still be the plan, in theory.
In practice, it’s a bit more complicated.

Jeremy sleeps like he does everything else—deliberately. Which means when he’s there, he’s there. Arms wrapped around me, face buried into my neck like he’s decided that’s where he belongs for the next six hours. It’s… excessive.

Convenient, but excessive.

And more importantly, noticeable when it’s gone.

So when he gets up—when that weight disappears, when the warmth pulls back and leaves me to deal with the very real betrayal of cold air at an ungodly hour—my body clocks it immediately. Like something important has been removed from the equation.

Annoying.

Deeply, deeply annoying.

I keep my eyes closed anyway, out of principle. If I don’t acknowledge it, there’s still a chance I can salvage the situation and go back to sleep.

There’s movement behind me. Quiet. Controlled. Of course it is. Jeremy doesn’t stumble through mornings like a normal person. He doesn’t knock into furniture or hesitate or reconsider his life choices the way he should. He just… gets up. Like this is reasonable behaviour.

I last approximately thirty seconds before giving up.

“Tell me you’re joking,” I mutter, not opening my eyes yet.

There’s a pause. Not surprised—just brief.

“I’m not,” he says.

I crack one eye open.

He’s already halfway dressed.

Of course he is.

I push myself up slightly, squinting at him through the dim light. “What time is it?”

“Just after four.”

I stare at him properly now.

“Right,” I say slowly. “So we’ve collectively decided sleep is no longer necessary.”

“You can go back to sleep.”

“That’s not the point,” I tell him, dragging a hand over my face. “The point is that I’ve been woken up against my will. Repeatedly. Over the past few weeks.”

He runs a hand through his hair like this is a normal conversation to be having.

“You wake up easily.”

“I wake up because you leave,” I correct.

“There’s a difference.”

That earns me a glance. Brief, but considering.
“I don’t wake you,” he says.

“Difficult to sleep without my pillow.” I state, simply.

I get up, blanket pooling around my waist as I crawl to the edge of the bed where Jeremy’s standing.

“Your pillow?” he repeats.

I don’t answer. Just lift his hand and drop my head straight into it.

I mumble, eyes closing again. “My pillow.”

Jeremy goes still for a second.
I can feel his gaze now—slow, deliberate, dragging over me in a way that makes it very clear he’s reconsidering his entire morning routine.

Good.

As he should.

There’s a pause. A real one this time. Not rushed, not awkward—just… him deciding something.

Then his hand shifts, fingers sliding up to my jaw, tilting my face up just enough.

“If that’s your pillow,” he says quietly, “you’ve been very underutilising it.”

I crack one eye open.

“Oh?”

His thumb brushes once, slow, across my cheek like he’s testing something. “Mm.” A beat. “I’ll make up for it later.”

Oh.

Oh, he thinks he’s funny.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Promises, promises.”

He almost smiles at that—properly, this time—but instead he leans in just enough that I think he might actually kiss me—
—and then doesn’t.

Instead, he taps my cheek lightly, like I’m being dismissed.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, far too composed for someone who just started something he didn’t finish.

And then he walks away.

I drop back onto the bed for exactly two seconds before sitting up again, glaring at absolutely nothing.

Why is he like that.

Worse—why does it work?

Don’t answer that, brain.
—
Today, unfortunately, curiosity wins.

Which is new. I don’t usually care what people do when they’re not directly involving me. It’s one of my better qualities.

But this—this feels like a situation where I’ve been excluded from something purely out of poor timing, and I don’t like that.

Also, there’s no way he’s doing all this for nothing. There has to be a reason.
And if there’s a reason, I should know it.

For… research purposes.

I get dressed properly this time, drag myself to the sink, splash cold water on my face—immediately regret it—and then head downstairs, following the faint sounds of movement.

He has a gym in his house.

Of course he does.

I push the glass door open quietly, leaning against the frame.

And there he is.

Controlled. Steady. Focused. Like the rest of the world hasn't started yet and he's using the time to get ahead of it.

Annoyingly attractive.

I fold my arms. "You know," I say, voice still rough with sleep, "most people at this hour are either unconscious or making regrettable life choices."

He doesn't stop. Finishes the set, then glances over.

"And you're here doing both," he replies.

"I'm observing."

"Staring."

"Appreciating," I correct. "There's a register difference."

That gets a look. Slow. Considering. Just long enough to make a point.

Then he reaches for his towel and the conversation moves on without ceremony, which is somehow worse than if he'd pushed back.

I step further inside, mostly out of spite, and lean against the equipment beside him. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.

"You do this every morning?" I ask. Quieter now. Less performative.

"Yes."

"No days off?"

"Sometimes."

"Liar."

He almost smiles. "You asked."

"And you answered incorrectly."

We go quiet after that. Not because there's nothing to say. Just because there doesn't need to be. He goes back to what he's doing, and I stay — leaning, watching, occasionally moving out of his way when he shifts.

It's easy.
Unreasonably easy.

At some point I stop thinking about going back to bed. At some point I stop manufacturing reasons to leave.

I push off the bench when he's done, stepping slightly into his path. Not blocking it. Just — present.

"For the record," I say, "this doesn't mean anything."

He looks at me.

"Being here," I clarify. "It's a one-time evaluation."

Jeremy picks up his water bottle. Takes a sip. Then holds it out to me without really looking.
I take it.

He says, "It's a start."

Just that. Easy. Like it doesn't imply a single thing.

I hand the bottle back and don't answer.
Because the problem with Jeremy is that he says things like that and then just — continues existing. No follow-up. No pressure. He doesn't wait to see if it lands.

It lands.

I just don't tell him that.

"Now what?" I ask, trailing after him like I haven't just been standing in his gym at four in the morning entirely of my own volition.

"Shower," Jeremy says. Like it's obvious.

I open my mouth to say something clever —
He looks at me over his shoulder.

I close it again.

Follow him anyway.

The shower is already running when I get in, which I take as an invitation because I have no interest in standing on ceremony at four in the morning.

Jeremy doesn't comment on this.

I take that as a second invitation.

"So," I say, leaning against the wall while he stands under the water like a person who has never once been inconvenienced by anything, "is this standard post-gym protocol, or am I getting special treatment?"

"You're here, aren't you."

"I'm everywhere," I reply. "That's not an answer."

He reaches past me for the shampoo. I don't move. He works around me without comment, which is its own kind of answer.

"You know," I continue, because silence has never once stopped me, "most men would consider this a significant upgrade to their morning routine. You could at least look pleased about it."

"I look exactly how I feel," Jeremy says.

"That's what concerns me."

He rinses his hands. Looks at me properly for the first time since we got in here. Water running down his jaw, expression doing its usual nothing, eyes doing something else entirely.

"You talk a lot," he says.

"I've been told."

"In the morning specifically."

"I'm a gifted conversationalist," I say. "It's a curse."

He steps closer. Not rushed. Just — closes the distance, the way he does everything, like he decided three moves ago and is only now arriving at it.

"Jeremy," I start —
He kisses me.

Not gentle. Not particularly long. Just thorough enough to make the point.

When he pulls back I've forgotten what I was saying.

He looks at me.

"Better," he says simply.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

"That was —" I start.

He drops to his knees.

I stop talking entirely.
—

Afterwards, I'm breathing in a way that requires more concentration than it should, staring at the ceiling with a level of sincerity I find embarrassing in retrospect.

"I want it on the record," I say, "that I came down here to observe."

Jeremy says nothing.

"Purely academic interest."

Still nothing.

"This —" I gesture vaguely at the general situation, "— was entirely unprovoked."

He reaches past me for the tap. Turns the temperature down without warning.

I inhale sharply through my teeth.

"That," I say, with great dignity, "was unnecessary."

"You were getting comfortable," he says.

"I was perfectly comfortable."

"Exactly."

I stare at him.

He looks back at me, expression doing nothing in particular, which is its own kind of provocation.

Then he flicks my forehead.

"Get out."

I stay for another thirty seconds purely on principle, then get out.

—
Breakfast is not something I planned on staying for.

I should clarify that. I had every intention of leaving after the shower — clean exit, no extended residency, perfectly controlled. I was going to say something dry and self-contained and disappear back into my own life before anything could become a thing.

Instead I'm sitting at his kitchen island watching him move around the kitchen like he owns it, which he does, which is beside the point.

He sets a mug in front of me without a word.

Tea.

Right temperature. Right colour. No sugar, which is correct, and also mildly alarming because I don't remember telling him that.
I look at it for a second.

Then at him.

He's already moved back to his own coffee, phone in hand. "Just catching up on emails," he says, without looking up. Easy.
Unprompted. Like he could feel the question forming.

I wrap both hands around the mug and say nothing.

The thing is, he looks exactly the same.

That's what gets me.

I'm sitting here — slightly wrung out, running on approximately no sleep, having followed a man to his gym at four in the morning and then stayed, which is not something I do, which is not something I have ever done — and Jeremy looks exactly the same as he did yesterday. Last week. The first time I walked into a room and decided he was going to be a problem.

Composed. Unhurried. Himself.

Like last night was just — last night. Like this morning is just this morning. Like I am not a variable that requires any particular adjustment.

I watch him over the rim of my mug.

He's reading something on his phone. Not ignoring me — just not performing awareness of me, which is somehow more irritating. His coffee is half finished. The kitchen hums quietly around him and he fits inside it perfectly, the way people only fit into spaces they've never had to think about.

I have thought about every room I've ever been in.

I am thinking about this one right now.

There's a specific kind of person that people become around me. I've catalogued it without meaning to, over the years — the way conversations sharpen when I enter them, the way people laugh a little too readily or go very carefully neutral, the way philosophy gets revised on the spot when someone realises I disagree with theirs. I don't ask for it. I've never asked for it. But it happens, reliably, like weather.

Jeremy does not do any of that.

He didn't rearrange himself when I walked into his gym. Didn't sharpen or soften or recalibrate. He handed me a water bottle and said it's a start and went back to what he was doing. He made me tea without asking. He explained himself without being prompted. And now he's reading his emails like I am simply — here. Like that's allowed. Like it doesn't require a single thing from either of us.

I don't know what to do with that.

I don't know what to do with any of this — the tea that's exactly right, the silence that costs nothing, the fact that I am sitting here at five in the morning because leaving felt like more effort than staying, which has never once been true before in my life.

He's not even looking at me.

I am, apparently, just — here. Present.

Ordinary.

I have never been anyone's ordinary.

The thought arrives without warning and sits there, unhelpfully, taking up more space than it should. I turn it over once. Put it down. Pick it back up.

I don't get anywhere with it.

My phone is face-up on the counter where I left it last night. I reach for it without thinking — habit, mostly — and the screen comes alive in my hand.

Thirteen missed calls.

Three from Brandon. Two from my assistant. Four from a number I don't recognise and won't be investigating. And then, sitting quietly at the top of the list like it's been waiting —
Dr Gabriel. Four times.

I look at it for a second.

Then I set the phone face-down on the counter.

The kitchen is still quiet. The tea is almost gone. Outside, the day has started without me — fully, and apparently with some urgency.
Not yet.
Just — not yet.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36

Having control has never been harder than now. The power this man has over me is… dangerous.

And he’s oblivious to it.

He’s currently sitting opposite me, drinking fucking tea. Made exactly to his taste, by the way, and I don’t think he even realised it.

It took everything from me to peel myself away from him this morning. When I woke up at four, his scent made me dizzy. My arms were already wrapped around him, our legs tangled together the way they always end up — every night, without discussion, without decision. Just inevitably his.

I can’t control myself in my sleep. If I could, I would. He can’t know that.

He can’t know how I feel for him. How much. He’d run — I know he would. Pull away, put that careful distance back between us that he maintains like it’s keeping him alive. So instead I watched him sleep. Ten minutes, maybe more. The way his hair fell across his forehead, his straight nose, those cheekbones — precise and clean, like something deliberate. Like something carved.

Which reminded me about the sculpture in Landon’s studio.

I only saw it once. Wasn’t supposed to. I’d walked too far into his studio and there it was — him, but not him. His features exactly, but gutted. A hole torn through the chest, jagged and deliberate, black ink running down the face in lines too careful to be anything but intentional. His expression completely neutral. Almost cold.

It was a horrifying thing to look at.

Landon was furious. He put himself between me and it almost immediately and the look on his face was the closest I’ve ever seen him come to something raw. Something unguarded.

He practically shoved me out.

I’ve thought about it since. More than I’ve let on. I want to ask him what happened to it — whether he destroyed it or just moved it somewhere I can’t reach. I want to ask him why he carved a hole in his own chest and gave it his own face.

I won’t. Not yet.

I squeezed him a little tighter before I let go and got up. Just once. He was still asleep.

—

He did wake up soon after. Scowling at me with those eyes — arctic, pale, the kind of blue that has no warmth in it and somehow still pulls you under — and I didn’t expect him to follow me around all morning.

It was fucking adorable.

He was exhausted, obviously. We hadn’t slept until late, and yes, fine, four in the morning is early by any reasonable metric. My body and brain are just conditioned to it at this point. His aren’t. I could tell by the way he was yawning through the gym, too tired to actually join in but too stubborn to leave despite my suggesting it more than once.

He didn’t leave.

I didn’t push it.

The shower was a different kind of discipline entirely. He was there, warm, and extremely willing, and what I wanted and what I knew I should do were not the same thing. But I know how his head gets after — the way the silence turns on him if you let it sit too long. So I didn’t let it. Kept him talking, kept him irritated, turned the water cold before he could disappear into himself.

Gave him something else to think about instead.

He called me rude.

Stayed another thirty seconds out of pure principle.

I know him.

That’s the thing I keep running into, from different angles, at different hours. I know him. Not completely — I don’t think anyone gets that, possibly including Landon himself — but enough. Enough to make the tea right. Enough to know when to give him space and when to close it. Enough to have noticed, some weeks ago, that he stopped seeing Dr Gabriel.

Psychiatrist. I looked him up the morning I saw the name on his phone — four missed calls, sitting there unanswered while Landon stared at the screen and put it face-down like that was a solution.

Landon King. Who laughs when people try to read him. Who makes an art form of being ungraspable. Who is paying — was paying — someone to sit across from him once a week and try anyway.

He hasn’t been in weeks.

I didn’t say anything. I won’t. Not yet. But I noted it, the way I note everything about him that he doesn’t know I note.

I still have the listening device in his house. Planted months ago, before any of this — when he was a variable, a liability, a man whose movements needed monitoring. Standard precaution. My father has one rule he’s never had to repeat: trust is a luxury, caution is survival. People least of all.

I haven’t listened to it in weeks.

I also haven’t removed it.

Some habits are harder to dismantle than others. And some people make you want to try.

—

He looks up occasionally. Checking, probably, whether I’m watching him. I look away just in time, every time. Let him think I’m preoccupied with something else.

When did I become so attuned to him?

I swallow that thought when he speaks.

“This has been nice, Jeremy.” He sets his mug down. “I do suggest tweaking your morning routine — waking up at a more civilised hour, for instance. But I know you won’t.”

“It’s almost seven,” I say. “Perfect time to start the day.”

He looks at me like I’m something he can’t quite classify. He’d look at me differently if he could read my mind right now.

Don’t go.

Stay.

He can’t, obviously. I’ve got work. So does he. But this morning makes me want every morning like it. Waking up with him. Breakfast. The particular quiet of him sitting across from me like it’s somewhere he chose to be.

Would he want that?

He’s agreed to exclusivity, so it’s not like he’s waking up anywhere else. But we’re not — I don’t know what we are, exactly. Not friends. Not just this either. Something without a clean name that I’ve stopped trying to give one.

“I’m afraid I have to go, darling.”

Jesus. The way that word sits in his mouth like it belongs there.

He probably means it sarcastically. Probably.

I barely lift my eyes from my screen. “See you tonight?”

“Can’t stay over for the fourth time this week.” He’s already moving toward the door. “People will talk.”

“What people?”

“You know. Everyone I’ve told about us.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Joking.” He grins — that specific grin, the one that means he’s already three steps ahead of the room. “I don’t have a death wish. Far too much chaos left to cause.”

He winks. Walks out.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I look at the space where he was. Then back at my screen.

Stay would have been so easy to say.

I didn’t.

And try not to think about how the apartment still smells of him.

—

V CORP

The numbers are clean.

That’s the first thing I check — always — before anything else. Every transaction recorded, every transfer documented, every figure sitting exactly where it should be. On paper, the art channel looks exactly like what it’s supposed to be: a legitimate, moderately profitable cultural investment arm of V Corp, generating returns through gallery commissions, private sales, and acquisition consultancy.

In practice, it’s moving more money than most small banks.

Landon’s doing. Entirely. The architecture of it — the way he’s structured the sales, the private collectors, the international transfers — is genuinely elegant. I’ve reviewed it four times now and each time I find something new to appreciate.

I close the laptop when Nikolai walks in without knocking.

He drops himself into the chair across from me like it was built for the purpose, long legs stretched out, taking up space the way he always does — like the room adjusted to him rather than the other way around.

“Haven’t seen you in four days,” he says.

“We had a meeting yesterday.”

“At home, Jer.” He gives me a look. “You know. The place with your bedroom in it.”

Right.

I’ve been at my apartment. With Landon. Three nights this week alone, and every weekend for the past month, and some nights in between that I’ve stopped keeping track of because keeping track was starting to feel like it meant something.

The house has noticed. Of course it has. Nothing gets past Niko.

“I’ve been spending time at my apartment,” I say.

It’s not a lie. It’s also not the truth, and Niko has known me long enough to hear the difference. He watches me for a second — that particular look he gets when he’s decided to let something sit rather than push it — and then leans forward.

“Jer.” He says it with the gravity of a man who has already decided where this conversation is going. “You’re my best friend. I tell you everything. You tell me everything. That’s always been the deal.”

“Yes.”

“So.” He spreads his hands. “Who is she.”

Not a question. A conclusion he’s already reached and is waiting for me to confirm.

“It’s nothing serious,” I say.

He frowns. “You don’t do casual.”

“I’m doing it now.”

“Jer.” He stares at me. “You used to wake me up specifically to complain when I brought people home. Specifically. You’d stand in the kitchen doorway in your robe looking like someone’s disappointed father—”

“That’s because I kept finding strangers in the kitchen at six in the morning—”

“—pointing at them like they were a problem to be solved—”

“They were in my kitchen, Niko—”

“One time you made a man leave because he used your mug—”

“It was my mug—”

“Jeremy.” He stops. Looks at me. “You do not do casual. So what is it actually.”

I look at him.

“More than casual,” I say. “For me.” The addition is unnecessary. I make it anyway. “And we’re exclusive.”

Something shifts in his face. The joke leaves it entirely.

“For you,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“Meaning they don’t—”

“Meaning it’s complicated. And it’s early. And I’m not discussing the details.”

“Okay.” He nods slowly, filing that away. “Okay. Does she know you’re into her?”

“We’re exclusive.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I answered.”

Niko opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at me with the expression of a man who has questions he’s not sure how to rank. Then — “What does she do?”

“Not telling you.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Not telling you.”

“Is she—”

“Niko.”

“—hot?”

“Absolutely not telling you that.”

He slumps back in the chair. “You’re the worst. You know that? Brandon tells me everything. Everything. I know things about his childhood I didn’t need to know. And you’re sitting here like a—” he waves a hand, “—like a vault.”

“I’m a private person.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“Both can be true.”

He glares at me. I look back at him, unbothered, which makes it worse.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I’ll find out eventually anyway. I always do.”

He moves to stand. Done, apparently, willing to leave it there.

“One more thing,” I say.

He stops.

I look at him.

And here’s the thing about Niko — Nikolai Sokolov, who has been loudly, unapologetically bisexual since he was a teenager. Who spent three years of university trying to convince me there was something I was missing. Who talked about men the way he talked about everything — openly, constantly, without a single filter — while I sat across from him and felt genuinely, completely nothing.

I thought that meant something.

It did. Just not what I assumed.

Because I have spent the last several months with Landon King — waking up with him, learning the exact temperature he takes his tea, memorising the sound of him in a room — and I have felt things I don’t have adequate language for, and none of them have felt like nothing.

“It’s not a she,” I say.

Niko goes completely still.

“Sorry,” he says. Very carefully. “Come again.”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you say—” he stops. “What do you mean it’s not a she.”

“Niko.”

“WHAT. THE. FUCK. DO YOU MEAN, IT’S NOT A SHE.”

“You’re being dramatic—”

“A MAN?” He’s out of the chair. “WITH A—” he makes a gesture that requires no elaboration, “—A DICK, JER, YOU’RE TELLING ME—”

“Niko, the walls are not—”

“WHAT.” He’s pacing now, both hands in his hair. “WHAT. No. No no no. You — Jeremy — you are the straightest man I have ever met in my life. The STRAIGHTEST. I tried, Jer, I tried so many times in Uni, I said to you, I said Jer just try it once, just—”

“I remember—”

“AND YOU LOOKED AT ME. You looked at me like I’d suggested something genuinely offensive. Like I’d lost my mind. You said—” he stops, points at me, doing an apparently very convincing impression of me, “‘Niko I have no interest in men, please stop bringing this up.’”

“That’s accurate.”

“SO WHAT HAPPENED.” He throws his hands up. “WHAT CHANGED. WHERE DID THIS COME FROM. My gaydar — Jer, my gaydar has NEVER been wrong. Never. I knew about Alexei before he did. I knew about Petrov’s son at that dinner, everyone thought I was insane—”

“I remember the dinner—”

“And not ONCE—” he gestures at me, pained, “—not ONCE did I look at you and think. Hm. Maybe. Not even a flicker, Jer. This is a personal failure. This is genuinely the worst day of my life—”

“That’s an overstatement—”

“I need a minute.”

“Take your time.”

He takes approximately three seconds.

“OKAY BUT WHO,” he says, snapping back to life with terrifying speed. “Who on this EARTH — what man — I’m sorry but what man managed to—” he waves both hands at me, the gesture covering apparently everything I am, “—THIS. You. Jeremy. You who told me repeatedly you didn’t understand the appeal. You who looked at me like I was speaking another language every single time. What man—”

“I’m not discussing that.”

“I’m not asking for his name I’m talking about the CONCEPT, Jer, I’m asking how this is physically POSSIBLE—”

“Niko.”

“Are you—” he stops. Tilts his head. “Are you gay? Since when? How long have you—”

“I’m not,” I say. Then pause. “I don’t think. I still like women.”

Niko stares at me.

“So you just—”

“Him specifically,” I say. “That’s all I know.”

The office goes quiet for a moment.

Niko looks at me with an expression I haven’t seen on him before — something between awe and complete bewilderment, like I’ve said something that has genuinely recalibrated his understanding of the world.

“Him specifically,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“Just — one man. Out of all men. Just this one.”

“Apparently.”

He sits back. Exhales. Looks at me for a long moment.

“Jer,” he says finally. “That man must be something else entirely.”

I don’t answer that.

Which is, of course, an answer.

Niko opens his mouth — and I can see it coming, the question, the inevitable push for a name, a detail, anything—

“Don’t,” I say.

He closes it.

Looks at me.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I won’t push.” A beat. “But Jer — when you decide to tell someone. Anyone. I’m first. You owe me that after I missed this.”

“You’ll be first.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He goes quiet. Studies me for a long moment in the way that means he’s actually listening now, underneath all the noise.

Then — “Can I tell Brandon?”

“No.”

“Jer—”

“No one, Niko. I mean it. Not yet.”

“But Brandon won’t—”

“No.”

He looks at me for one more moment. Then he crosses the office and pulls me into a hug — sudden, forceful enough that I have to take a step back to keep us both upright.

“I’m so happy for you,” he says, very seriously, into my shoulder. “Genuinely. This is the best news I’ve had since Brandon said yes.”

“Now, THAT is an overstatement.”

“It’s not.” He pulls back, grips my shoulders, looks at me with the intensity of a man delivering a verdict. “Drinks tonight. Just us. Seven o’clock.”

“We’re not celebrating—”

“We absolutely are.” He points at me on his way to the door. “And Jer?” He pauses, and for a second the mania settles and it’s just Niko — twenty years of him, all of it. “If he hurts you, I’ll cut his dick off. You know that right.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” He grins. “Don’t be late.”

The door closes behind him.

I sit back down. Open the laptop. Look at the screen.

Landon’s name at the top of the document. The numbers, clean and elegant, exactly where they should be.

Niko is somewhere in this building right now, vibrating with a secret he doesn’t know is only half the story. He doesn’t know the name. Doesn’t know that his best friend has been waking up next to the man who burned their mansion down, who has been sitting across from him at every meeting for months, who Brandon would recognise in an instant.

I’ve told my best friend I’m seeing a man.

I didn’t say which one.

I wonder, not for the first time, how long that holds.

Chapter Text

I shouldn't like this place as much as I do.

I step inside and drop my bag by the door, already rolling my sleeves up out of habit more than thought.

The air is the same as always — clay, turpentine, something faintly ashy that never quite leaves no matter how much the place is aired out. I've spent days in here. I could probably live here if I wanted to. I wouldn't mind, honestly. Although I usually dislike being alone — I love being around people just to watch how they all live with themselves, my preferred form of entertainment — I could give all of that up if I could just stay in this room.

I don't know if a studio this size could technically be called a room.

But it feels more like home than home does.

They say sociopaths can't love.

I feel more for sculpting than I have ever felt for most people. Make of that what you will.

It's just past eight in the morning when I arrive. I know this because I checked my phone in the car and then switched it face-down the moment I got through the door. Time works differently in here. It always has. I'll look up and four hours will have passed and I won't have noticed and I won't be sorry about it either.

Tall sculptures line the walls as I move through the space — most of them propped on stands, a ladder connected to a ceiling beam allowing movement across the full height of the room. Human-sized figures and some considerably larger, all arranged along the walls. They're for the charity auction V Corp are sponsoring in a few days. The past few weeks have been nothing but this — most of my days spent here, evenings with Jeremy, sometimes back here late at night before passing out at my apartment in the early hours.

I finally reach the large wooden table at the far end. A dozen half-finished sculptures sit across it in various states of becoming. I've got spare clothes here, a mini fridge, a water dispenser.

The whole living-here thing is looking increasingly viable.

I drop into the chair, reach for my apron, and get to work.

My phone goes face-down the moment I sit.

Everyone knows not to expect me when I'm in here.

I only stop when my body forces me to.

Hunger, mostly.

It's darker when I look up, though I couldn't tell you when that happened. There's a stiffness in my shoulders, clay dried along my hands, a dull ache behind my eyes that suggests I've been staring too long without blinking enough.

I sit back, exhale slowly, and reach for my phone.

Brandon. Four missed calls. I refuse to save Nikolai's number, which explains the unknown ones.

I call Brandon first. Though I'm not particularly eager to hear whatever groomzilla emergency has materialised since yesterday.

He answers on the first ring.

"Landon."

"Yes?"

"Why don't you answer your phone. Both Nikolai and I have been trying to reach you all day."

"Let me guess," I say. "The florist cancelled."

"What? No. Why would — no. We called because we need to know the date for the bachelor parties. Niko and I have appointments to book and we need to know what days we have left. We fly in two weeks, Lan."

Right.

The bachelor parties.

The ones Jeremy and I are supposed to have planned.

"We're just finalising the details," I say smoothly. "I'll confirm by tomorrow."

"Please. We've still got the final suit fittings to sort before we fly." A pause. "Have you spoken to Jeremy at all? Niko was meant to talk to him today — they've gone out for drinks. You're liaising with him aren't you? I know you two don't exactly get along but please, for our sakes—"

I scoff.

"Don't worry, dear brother," I say. "I'll try my very hardest. Speak soon."

I end the call.

They've gone out for drinks.

Jeremy and Nikolai.

I look at my phone for a moment. Then I open Jeremy's contact.

There's a message I missed while my phone was on silent — sent sometime this afternoon, timestamped while I was elbow-deep in clay and entirely unavailable to the world.

As sexy as you look when you sculpt, please take a break and eat something.

I stare at it for a moment.

Is this Jeremy Volkov concerning himself with my nutritional intake. Is that what's happening right now. A compliment and a welfare check delivered in the same sentence like it's nothing — like he does this, like I'm supposed to just take it and carry on with my day.

I scoff at my phone. Alone. In my kitchen. Like a person with no dignity.

Fine. More pressing matters.

Where are you?

I send it and put the phone down, finishing dinner like a functioning adult who is completely unbothered.

Jeremy is not the type to leave messages sitting there. He replies — not instantly, not like he's waiting, but consistently. It's one of those quiet habits that gets under your skin without asking permission. You start to expect it. And then, without realising it, you start to notice when it's missing.

By the time I've eaten and washed up, there's nothing.

I dry my dishes slowly, one by one, checking my phone between each one like that's normal.

Are you still with the brute?

I put the last glass away. Stand there for a second longer than necessary. Then I give up and drop onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

He's the one who told me to come over tonight. His idea. His timing. And now he's — what, exactly? Out somewhere, phone ignored, doing God knows what, while I'm here lying on my sofa having a completely normal evening.

I'm not finishing that thought.

I pick up my phone. Put it back down. Pick it up again.

Still nothing.

I could text Brandon. Something casual. Is Niko home yet? Just sorting dates for the bachelor party. Completely normal. Completely unrelated to the fact that his fiancé is currently out with the man who told me to come over tonight and is now nowhere to be found.

I don't text Brandon.

That would be strange.

And I am not strange.

I am simply a person lying on their sofa on a Tuesday evening, waiting for a response to a perfectly normal message. This is fine. I am fine. Everything is—

My phone lights up.

Busy. I'll explain later.

I read it twice.

Busy.

That's it. No context, no explanation — just a word dropped into the conversation like that's supposed to be enough. Like I haven't been waiting—

I check the time.

Forty minutes.

My jaw tightens.

Busy doing what.

Three minutes pass. Long enough to notice.

Niko had a few too many. Taking him home.

I stare at that.

Taking him home.

Call his fiancé, I type. That's what fiancés are for.

Brandon's asleep.

Wake him up.

Landon.

Just my name.

And somehow that lands harder than anything else.

I sit up.

What.

Stop being jealous. He's my best friend.

The audacity.

The absolute—

I'm not jealous. I don't get jealous. Jealousy requires a level of emotional investment I don't have, have never had, and am not about to develop over a man who disappears for forty minutes because he's playing babysitter to a six foot Russian with no self control.

I'm annoyed.

There's a difference.

Is there.

Again — not a question.

I hate him.

You told me to come over tonight.

You can still come over.

You're not even there.

I will be. Give me an hour.

I stare at that.

Forget it.

Two minutes.

Fine.

A pause.

I'll come to you.

He arrives in fifty-two minutes.

Not that I was counting.

He lets himself in like he belongs here. The code still works. Good to know.

I don't move from the sofa. The television is on — something loud enough to fill the room, meaningless enough that I haven't registered a single second of it.

"Are you sulking?" he asks.

I scoff. "You think too highly of yourself."

"Why didn't you come to mine?"

I shrug, eyes still on the screen. "Didn't feel like it."

He sits beside me, leaving a small gap between us. Not accidental. Never accidental with him.

"And before you say anything," I add, "I wasn't jealous. I was irritated. You invited me over and then disappeared. It's basic manners."

"Mm."

That's all he says before his arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me into him like there was never a conversation to begin with. He kisses me — once, twice — slower than usual. Not reaching, not taking. Just there.

He's probably drunk.

He settles back, guiding my head onto his shoulder like it's instinct.

Definitely drunk.

He still smells clean. Not like a bar. Not like anything messy. Just him.

We sit like that for a moment, the television talking to itself.

"I don't like Nikolai," I say eventually, mostly to the room.

A quiet huff from him. Not quite a laugh.

"Not because of you," I add. "He's just a brute. I don't know what Brandon sees in him. I'm not surprised he can't handle his liquor."

"He's loyal," Jeremy says. "And funny, when—"

I turn my head and look at him.

He stops.

"He had a lot on his mind today," he says instead. "That's why he drank like that." A beat. "He found out something. Needed to process it."

I don't ask.

I wait.

"About me."

That pulls my attention properly.

"What about you."

"That I'm seeing someone." A pause. "A man."

The room shifts. Just slightly. Enough to notice.

"You told him about me?"

"Not about you." His tone stays even. "He doesn't know anything about you. Just that I'm seeing a man."

I sit up, turning towards him.

"Why?"

He looks at me, actually confused. "Why? He's my best friend. I tell him things. Especially—" a pause, like he's choosing it carefully, "—things that matter."

Things that matter.

I push it down before it can settle.

Jeremy watches me for a moment and then turns his head away. A short exhale through his nose.

"Don't worry," he says. "He's not going to figure out it's you."

I stand up.

"Obviously not." I turn to face him. "Why would he."

Jeremy's gaze lifts, slower now. "What does that mean."

"It means there's nothing to figure out." I shrug. "We sleep together. That's it. So I don't know why you're going around telling people things like it's—" I gesture vaguely, "—like it's something worth announcing."

Silence.

"Right," he says. Like he doesn't believe it.

I laugh. Sharp. Because I don't know how else to react.

Then I stand there and keep going, because apparently I have no self-preservation instinct tonight.

"Jeremy." I soften my voice deliberately. "If you've built something bigger out of this in your head, don't drag me into it."

He's not listening. He's reading.

I hate that he looks at me like there's something underneath worth finding.

My throat feels raw.

I haven't raised my voice once.

"Reducing it doesn't make it go away, Landon," he says.

"Reducing what?"

"How you actually feel."

Something in my chest jerks.

"You're allowed to feel however you feel," he says. "But don't pretend you don't care just because it's easier."

I let out a breath through my nose. "And what do I care about?"

His eyes don't leave mine.

"About me."

I tilt my head slightly. Like I'm considering it.

Then I shrug.

"I don't."

It's immediate. Too quick.

Even I hear it.

My pulse spikes. Fast. Violent. Like I've just done something irreversible. Adrenaline floods in right after — clean, sharp, familiar.

Jeremy's expression dims. Like a light being turned down.

He stands.

Picks up his jacket.

"Okay," he says.

He walks out.

The door closes behind him. Quietly. The way he does everything.

I stand in the middle of my living room.

The television is still on.

I go to the bathroom. Run the tap. Press both hands flat against the sink and stare at nothing in particular.

I don't think about any of it.

I don't think about any of it.

I don't think about any of it.

Chapter Text

I walk to my bike.

My hands are shaking. I make a fist. Hold it until they stop.

Everything in me wanted to stay in that room. Argue with him. Tell him he's wrong — that he does care, that it's obvious, that I can see it every time he thinks I'm not looking. I wanted to say all of it. I wanted to make him hear it.

But the look on his face stopped me.

He wasn't cold. That would've been easier. He was afraid. Afraid of the possibility of us.

Of me.

There was nothing I could say to that. Nothing that wouldn't make it worse. So I left.

The ache in my chest came with me.

I strap on my helmet. Sling my leg over the bike. The engine rumbles under me as I pull away.

I don't know why it hurts this much.

I should have expected it. The rejection was inevitable. I knew from the start exactly what Landon wanted — he made it crystal clear. No illusions. No promises. Just this, whatever this was.

But fuck, it stings.

Moisture tickles my eyelashes. I blink hard until it's gone.

I drive without a destination.

I think about Paris. About the way he tucks himself into me in bed without admitting he's doing it. About the way he smiles — really smiles, not the performed one — and his perfect fucking teeth and the mole under his left eye. About the way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking.

About the way his brows furrow when he's sculpting. The way he looks when he's inside something he loves. So alive. So unguarded. So completely himself.

The way he loves being watched — in bed, in a room, anywhere. His games. His performances. The ones I could always see through and never called out because seeing through them felt like something private between us.

All of it led me to believe I meant something more to him than I thought.

At the next junction I slow down.

The right turn takes me to the mansion.

I go straight. Head toward my apartment instead.

I'd rather be alone tonight.

The apartment is dark when I get in.

I don't turn the lights on immediately. Just stand in the doorway for a moment, helmet in my hand, letting my eyes adjust.

I set the helmet down. Lock up. Move through to the kitchen.

His mug is still on the counter.

I washed mine. I didn't wash his. I don't know why — it was this morning, it was nothing, we were fine this morning — but there it is. His mug, still faintly tea-stained, sitting exactly where he left it when he said "I'm afraid I have to go, darling", like it cost him nothing.

I put it in the sink.

The bedroom is the worst of it.

I know before I get there. I know the way you know things you'd rather not — the specific anticipatory dread of something small that's going to land harder than it should.

I sit on the edge of the bed.

The right side. My side. Since Landon.

Landon had claimed the left within the first week — not asked, not negotiated, just arrived there and stayed, the way he does everything, like it was always going to be his. And I moved. Without discussion. Without deciding to. Just — shifted, and kept shifting, until the right side became mine and the left became something I didn't disturb even when he wasn't in it.

I'm not sure when that happened.

I'm not sure it matters now.

The sheets are cold but they still smell like him. That particular warmth of him, the thing I've never been able to name properly.

I sit there for a long time.

I don't lie down.

I just sit there with my elbows on my knees and my hands loose between them and the quiet of the apartment around me and think about a man who looked me in the eye and said I don't like it was easy.

It wasn't easy.

I know it wasn't easy.

That's almost the worst part.

I reach over and straighten the pillow on his side.

Then I get up. Go to the shower. Stand under the water until it runs cold and then stand there a little longer because the cold is at least something to focus on.

I dry off. Pull on a shirt. Stand in the bedroom doorway for a second.

I close the door behind me.

Sit at my desk.

Open my laptop.

The cursor blinks.

I start working.

It's the only thing I know how to do with something I can't fix.

Chapter Text

Ring ring.

"Remi." I flop back onto the sofa. "Please tell me you're not going to disappoint me tonight. You've got a good membership somewhere?"

"Landon." His voice arrives like a proclamation. "You dare question His Lordship's social connections? I am offended. I am wounded. I am—"

"Remington."

"—already texting the venue. Give me thirty seconds."

I hear him typing.

"His Lordship has secured us a booth," he announces. "Private. Elevated. Befitting of our respective stations. I've got just the thing for your peculiar pickings."

"I don't have peculiar pickings. What the fuck."

"Sure thing, Lando."

"Remi. Stop fucking calling me that."

"As you wish, Land- Landslide?"

"Just text me the address."

"You know, for a Lord you have very little appreciation for ceremony."

"Goodbye Remi."

"Landslide—"

I hang up.

I must tolerate this prank of a man for a whole fucking night.

Worth it, probably.

The place is almost invisible when I arrive.

No signage. No queue. Nothing that would tell you anything is happening here at all. I almost walk past it entirely — would have, if it weren't for a group of men stumbling out of a warehouse entrance, clearly several drinks deep, suits slightly wrecked, the particular shine of sweat on skin that means they've been inside somewhere hot and loud for a while.

I follow them back in.

Inside it's dark — dim enough to be atmospheric, light enough to see. Two very large men stand either side of a metal door. Strapped. Interesting.

The building is vibrating slightly beneath my feet.

A hand slaps my shoulder.

Remington. Obviously.

"Ready to get absolutely smashed, Lando? Here watch this."

He's already walking toward the two men, phone out, showing them something on the screen. They exchange a look. Press their keycards to the scanner.

The door opens with a clank.

Remington looks back at me, eyes bright with exactly the kind of mischief that has historically led to moderately terrible decisions. Mine probably look the same.

He tilts his head. I follow him through.

Red light bleeds from somewhere below. At the top of the stairwell, a neon sign glows:

Down The Rabbit Hole.

Beneath it, a blue rabbit falling into darkness.

Remington takes one step and nearly goes headfirst down the stairs. I grab the back of his jacket.

He swears under his breath.

We both look down.

Stairs. Going all the way down.

The stairs open into another world entirely.

That's the only way to describe it. You leave New York at the top and arrive somewhere else at the bottom — somewhere that has its own atmosphere, its own gravity, its own rules about what time it is and whether that matters.

It hits me in waves as I descend.

Sound first. Bass so heavy it lives in your sternum rather than your ears, the kind that reorganises your heartbeat without asking. Then heat — the specific warmth of two hundred bodies in an enclosed space, sweet and close and almost overwhelming. Then light, or the absence of it — red soaking everything, turning skin amber and shadow and deep, broken up by neon that bleeds from every surface in pink and white and acid green.

The place is three levels. Ornate iron railings curve around each one, draped with people leaning over, watching the floor below with the particular ease of an audience that knows it's also being watched. Chandeliers hang between the levels — decadent, dripping with crystals that fracture the red light into something almost violent.

And there are signs. Everywhere.

Above the bar, in looping white cursive so large it takes up the entire back wall: Pick Your Poison. Beneath the optics, smaller, more direct: Spit Or Swallow. On the east wall, rendered in hot pink neon two metres high — a pair of rabbits, doing what rabbits do. Above them in the same pink, the explanation: Like Bunnies.

I stare at that one for a moment.

From the ceiling hang five circular cages, spaced across the room like chandeliers. Each one occupied. Each one moving. The women inside them dance in their own private atmosphere, suspended above the crowd like they belong to a different plane of existence entirely, which perhaps tonight they do.

The crowd moves underneath all of it like a single organism.

Remington materialises at my shoulder, vibrating with the specific energy of a man who has pulled off something he's very proud of.

"Well?" he says, into my ear.

I look around the room for a long moment.

"Adequate," I say.

The look on his face is worth every second of the phone call.

I'm already moving toward the bar.

By the time I get there I've lost Remi to a crowd of people.

Meh. He'll survive.

I order shots. Hennessy. Tequila. Vodka. Everything. Anything. I down them like they're water and don't think about why.

That's when I notice the mimes.

White face paint, white gloves, boxes strapped around their necks like old-fashioned cigarette girls — except the boxes aren't cigarettes. Sachets of white powder and pills in every colour sit on display like a confectionary counter, exchanged openly, money passing through white-gloved hands without ceremony. They move through the crowd like they belong to the décor.

Across the room, I spot Remington.

He is sitting on the shoulders of a man who is approximately the size of a small building, wearing a crown made entirely of glow sticks, leading what appears to be a crowd of thirty people in a chant of Remi Rules.

I stop a mime passing the bar. Take three packets. Send him on his way.

The bathroom signs glow green across the room. I could probably do it here, honestly — nobody would notice, nobody would care. But I'm not careless. I push through the crowd toward the stalls.

The bathrooms are covered floor to ceiling in graffiti that looks like it was a design choice. A neon sign above the mirrors reads, in looping script: Please do coke in the bathrooms.

How polite.

It's crowded in here. Several stalls occupied in ways that have nothing to do with their intended purpose. I find a free sink, blue strobe catching the mirror, and look at myself for a moment.

My shirt is half unbuttoned — when did that happen. Sweat along my collarbone. Eyes brighter than they should be.

I've had considerably more than was strictly necessary.

It's his fucking fault.

I do the lines quickly, wipe my nose, button my shirt, fix my hair. Look at myself once more in the blue light.

Fine.

I look completely fine.

I go back out.

Back at the bar, someone has taken my stool.

I lean against the counter instead, drink in hand, and let the room wash over me. I've been approached twice already — once by a woman in something silver who had genuinely impressive commitment to eye contact, once by a man who offered to buy me a drink and looked offended when I pointed out that I already had one.

Then, I feel someone brush my elbow. I look up at him.

He doesn't appear to realise he has done so.

Dirty blonde. Green eyes. Wearing something that suggests he either just came from a beach or genuinely doesn't own anything with a collar. He's not trying particularly hard, which is either very confident or very careless. Possibly both.

He doesn't look at me immediately. Just signals the bartender, orders something, glances sideways.

"Hey." He finally speaks, accented. Maybe Australian. He nods at the chaos around us. "Having fun?"

My eyes scan over him once. Then I take a sip.

"A blast."

He chuckles. "Yeah, first time I came here I got home the next morning."

"So you took the signs a little too seriously."

He laughs again.

"No — no coke, no MDMA. Just a bad hookup. Guy was way too high, wasn't stopping. Had to knock him out."

I raise an eyebrow. "You came alone?"

"No. But my friends thought I was getting some and didn't want to disturb me. Left me there." He shrugs, unbothered.

"Why come back?" I ask.

"Oh, I dunno. It's fun, I guess. And occasionally you get to talk to someone worth talking to."

Our eyes meet.

He's objectively attractive. I'm not blind. Easy smile, the kind of person who laughs at everything and means it, which I usually find insufferable and am finding insufferable now.

"So, is that all you do?" I ask. "Talk?"

He chuckles. "I'm down for whatever. As long as I don't have to knock anyone out again."

I take a sip of my drink.

"Well. The night's still young."

He laughs again. Easy. Unbothered.

I watch him and think, distantly, about a man who doesn't laugh easily. Who makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite not one.

I finish my drink.

Just then his phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at the booth across the room. Something shifts in his expression.

"I've got to—" he nods towards something. Then he goes.

He moves through the crowd easily, people parting slightly without knowing why, and disappears behind the booth.

I lean against the bar.

Then the music cuts.

Not fades. Cuts. Clean and sudden, leaving the room in a single suspended second of silence that somehow makes the crowd louder — people turning, looking toward the stage, already knowing.

A voice comes over the system, enormous, dragging out every syllable like it's the most important announcement ever made:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEEEN — I hope you are absolutely READY — for the MAN of the night—"

The crowd surges forward.

"DJ. VOSSSS."

The booth lights up.

He's already there — headphones on, head slightly down, one hand on the deck — and the cheer that goes up is the kind that you feel in your back teeth. Then the bass drops and it's not music anymore, it's a physical force, the whole room reorganising itself around it, the cages above swinging, the lights fracturing red and pink across two hundred people who have completely surrendered.

There's a name on the screen above the booth, glowing white in the dark.

Elliot Voss.

I stand at the bar.

Don't move.

Watch him work.

Remington materialises at my shoulder approximately twenty minutes later, glow stick crown now at a forty-five degree angle, somehow holding two drinks he definitely didn't pay for.

He follows my eyeline to the booth.

"Good, isn't he?" he shouts, over the noise.

I take a sip of my drink. "You know him?"

"DJ Voss?" He looks at me like I've said something offensive. "Landon. Everyone knows DJ Voss."

"I didn't."

"Yes well." He pats my shoulder sympathetically. "You've been busy."

I say nothing to that.

Remington stays beside me for a moment, which for Remington is unusual. He's not a standing-still person. He watches the booth, the crowd, the cages above us rotating slowly in the haze.

"You alright?" he asks. Casual. Not looking at me.

"Fine."

"Only asking because you've been standing at this bar for—" he checks his glow stick wrist, which tells him nothing, "—a while."

"I'm enjoying the music."

"Right." He doesn't push it. Just hands me one of the drinks he's carrying. "His Lordship provides."

I take it.

The room thins gradually — not all at once, just the slow tide of people remembering they have somewhere to be, something to return to. The energy shifts from inside to outside, from now to later, and the club becomes aware of its own edges for the first time all night.

"Right," Remi says. "I'm calling the car."

"Already?"

He looks at me.

"Landon. It's four thirty."

I look around the room. He's not wrong — the crowd has thinned to maybe a third of what it was, the cages still, the lights slightly brighter now in a way that makes everything look slightly less magical and slightly more like a warehouse.

"One more drink," I say.

"The bar is closed."

I look at the bar. The bartender is wiping it down, not making eye contact.

"Fine," I say.

We head up the stairs, past the Down The Rabbit Hole sign which looks slightly less impressive on the way out, through the metal door, past the two large men who don't acknowledge us, and out into the street.

As we walk to the car waiting for us, my hand slides into my pocket.

The packets are still there.

I'm not ready for the night to be over yet.

Chapter Text

You coming tonight?

I check the message once and let my phone clatter back to the table. I finish off the detail I'm working on before picking it up again.

Obviously.

Elliot followed me on Instagram. I must've given him my handle somewhere between the third drink and the fourth — I couldn't tell you when exactly. He DMed me the next morning asking if I wanted to come back. He's doing a residency this week, plays the club every night. The place requires either an invitation or a membership, which apparently involves an interview process that sounds deeply tedious. But Elliot gets me in, so.

I could go with Remi. No idea how he got a membership to be honest, and I know better than to ask. But seeing Remington more than once a fortnight is seeing too much Remington. He starts to think we're close and then I'm subjected to an hour of what he calls a bro talk, which is just him describing in exhaustive detail the situationship with his one female friend who is clearly and obviously in love with him and has been for approximately ten years. He's either too stupid to notice or too cowardly to address it.

Either way I'd rather listen to teeth grinding than sit through another one.

Gives me shudders just thinking about it.

So. Elliot.

It's been almost seven days of this. Studio by day, the club by night, home by morning. The work is going well actually. I've finished two pieces I'd been stalling on for weeks. Brandon has called a dozen times in between. I've been meaning to ring him back. I haven't really had time to with… everything. But I will call him back. After tonight.

Tonight is the V Corp charity gala.

Meaning I'll be seeing Jeremy tonight. In a suit and tie.

I've done well not thinking about him. Forced myself to drown out any thoughts before they could form properly. He's been ignoring me for seven days and I've done exactly the same. His team contacts me now instead of him — all very professional, very courteous, very much not the person I actually want to hear from.

In my spare time I've started sculpting something new. It happened at five in the morning a couple of days ago — I'd just got home, should've crashed, but felt this uncontrollable urge to work instead. There I was, elbows deep in clay, no idea what I was making. It hasn't really formed into anything yet.

I can't say I'm looking forward to tonight, but it will be nice to have my work on display. Going out with Elliot these past few days has made me miss my own limelight. Watching him perform on a stage every night does something to you — makes you remember what it feels like to be the one people are looking at.

Speaking of Elliot, he's definitely getting too comfortable around me.

We were a few hours in — I'd been nursing a bottle of Don Julio, four lines deep, the club doing its usual thing around us — when he turned to me out of nowhere.

"So what's your deal man? Like are you ace or some shit?"

I looked at him.

"Nah, cuz I've been watching men and women come up to you and flirt with you — and really hot ones at that — but you never seem interested in them. So do you like chicks or dicks or nothing at all?"

He wasn't wrong. I had been skilfully evading every single approach all week.

I shrugged. The drinks and the coke in my system would make me a more honest man than I was willing to be.

"It's complicated," I said.

He pointed at me. "Nothing's complicated unless you're—" he paused, "—in a situationship, mate."

"I'm not in a—"

"Oi-yoy! You absolutely are." The serene confidence of someone who has been there. "I can smell it on ya." He leaned back, satisfied. "That's why you're here every night isn't it." Then quietly — "Running from something."

I took a long swig from the bottle.

"I'm here for the music," I said.

He laughed. Long and easy.

And I ignored him for the rest of the night.

I could invite him. Having someone there means I'm less likely to do something inadvisable.

Not that I was planning anything.

I pick up my phone.

>

The gallery had been carved out of an old banking hall on the riverfront, though there's nothing left of its former austerity now. Wealth has softened every edge — marble floors gleaming beneath chandeliers shaped like falling shards of ice, ceilings so high they disappear into shadow before the light can reach them. Violin and piano drift through the room in slow, deliberate strokes. Elegant enough to feel accidental.

The kind of place where people speak quietly because everything around them costs enough to deserve silence.

I've been in rooms like this my entire life. They stopped impressing me somewhere around age fourteen.

Black cars line the pavement outside like a procession for royalty rather than a charity event. Men in dark coats stand at the entrance with the posture of soldiers wearing tailoring fine enough to be insulting — gloved hands folded, eyes moving. Nobody questions them. Nobody ever questions men who look that dangerous while dressed that well.

Inside, the air smells of expensive perfume, old champagne, and polished stone.

My sculptures stand beneath individual pools of light like relics from another civilisation. I don't look at them directly at first. I never do, at these things — there's something faintly embarrassing about watching strangers circle your own work with reverence, tilting their heads, saying things in low voices that have nothing to do with what you actually made.

Some of the pieces are enormous things carved from black marble, sharp enough to look almost violent. Others are smaller — pale figures with hollowed throats and outstretched hands, frozen somewhere between grief and prayer.

Small plaques list the pieces. Larger plaques list the donors.

The real names, of course, are the ones nobody says aloud.

The Bratva's presence threads through the evening invisibly but unmistakably. It's in the diamond watches beneath tailored cuffs. In the women wrapped in silk and inherited money. In the men who smile too little and occupy too much space. Their money paid for the wine, the orchestra, the gallery restoration, my commissions. Their influence has transformed what should be a charity auction into something dangerously close to a royal court.

Every guest understands the arrangement. Tonight is about art, philanthropy, prestige.

Underneath all of that, it's about power.

I hand my coat to someone and take a glass from a passing tray without looking at it. Elliot appears at my shoulder, slightly wide-eyed in the way people are when they've walked into something grander than they expected. He says nothing for a moment, just takes it in.

"Mate," he says finally.

"I know," I say.

"These are all yours?"

"Yes."

He looks around the room slowly. Then back at me.

"Okay," he says. "I get it now."

I don't ask what he gets. I take a sip of champagne and look around the room.

Waiters move through the crowd with crystal trays. Laughter rises in soft bursts from clusters of socialites and politicians.

At the centre of it all, on a raised platform of white stone, stands the piece they've all come to see. An angel with broken wings, carved from Carrara marble — one side of its face serene, the other sharpened by shadow, mouth slightly parted like it's been interrupted mid-confession. People circle it reverently.

I made that three years ago.

I still don't entirely know what I was trying to say.

I take another sip. Look up.

Above it all, from the mezzanine balcony lined in black iron, the men sponsoring the evening watch the room below with the calm attention of people who have never had to perform for anyone.

One of them is Jeremy.

My stomach does something I don't give it permission to do.

He's already watching. Dark eyes moving across the room with that particular quality of attention he has — not scanning, not searching, just taking everything in with the unhurried certainty of someone who already knows what he's looking for. And then his gaze settles.

Not on me.

I follow the line of it.

Elliot.

Of course. Elliot stands out in a room like this the way an open window stands out in a sealed building — immediately noticeable, slightly disruptive, letting in air nobody asked for. He's wearing something that probably cost a reasonable amount of money and still somehow looks like he got dressed in the dark.

His smile is wide and easy, already charming the woman beside him without particularly trying. His hair is doing what it always does — a sort of cheerful disorder, like it made its own decisions this morning and Elliot agreed not to fight it.

It's nothing like the few dark strands that fall across Jeremy's forehead in that specific way. The way that's so precisely imperfect it seems deliberate, even though I know it isn't.

And Elliot's eyes, when he tipped his head back laughing, caught the light beautifully. Green. Clear green. Like grass after rain.

Not grey.

Not that terrible, impossible grey of Jeremy's eyes — the colour of a storm waiting somewhere just beyond the horizon. The kind of sky that made you uneasy without understanding why.

I looked back toward the balcony before I could stop myself.

Jeremy was still watching Elliot.

For a moment something hollow opened quietly beneath my ribs.

Then, slowly, his gaze lifted.

And found mine.

The world did not stop dramatically. It disappeared gently.

The music dulled first, strings sinking underwater. Conversations blurred into meaningless sound. Even the glittering room around me seemed to recede until there was only the distance between the mezzanine and the gallery floor, stretched unbearably thin.

His expression didn't change.

That somehow made it worse.

He looked tired in the way beautiful things sometimes do — like something held too tightly for too long. There was a faint line between his brows, barely visible from this far away, and I had the sudden aching urge to smooth it away with my thumb.

We held each other's gaze for only seconds.

Long enough for something unspoken to pass between us.

Then a hand collided with my shoulder hard enough to jolt me back into the room.

Sound crashed in all at once — laughter, glasses clinking, the orchestra beginning another piece.

"Oh my God, Landon," Elliot said beside me, holding up a champagne flute like he'd just discovered religion. "This is the best champagne I've ever had in my entire life. Try it."

I looked back toward the mezzanine instinctively.

Jeremy was gone.