“You hit me in the table first, you fucking prick.” The guy roars and swings again—sloppy.
“Nah, you slipped. He slipped, right baby? Guys?” They nod, and mac gives my hand a squeeze.
“Stand still you fucking cunt.” The attacker says.
Trey moves like lightning. One strike, his whole body behind it, the sound of the hit echoing over the music. The man goes down hard, crashing backward into the floor, motionless.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Trey stands over him, chest rising and falling, jaw tight. No gloating. No smirk. Just silence.
The lights flicker across his face, the calm after the storm. I can’t breathe, can’t blink—because even now, standing over his fallen rival, Trey looks heartbreakingly beautiful. A security guard steps forward, crouching beside the unconscious man.There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile—as he presses two fingers to the guy’s neck.
“He’s fine,” he says, glancing up at Trey. “Out cold, but fine.”
Trey doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his hands. At his fists. The knuckles are red, skin split just enough to sting. He flexes his fingers once, then shakes his head, a quiet curse slipping under his breath.
With a casual strength that makes it look effortless, the guard hauls the guy up and slings him over his shoulder. The crowd parts, whispers following as he stalks toward the exit. The moment he’s gone, the tension shifts—like the whole room exhales at once. But not Trey. I see the flicker in his expression. The distant, haunted shadow in his eyes. It’s not anger anymore. It’s something else. Something that makes my chest ache. He’s not seeing the man on the floor. He’s seeing someone else. Someone who once towered over him, fists raised, voice cruel.
My stomach twists.
I pull my hand from Mac’s and push out of the booth, the room still humming with tension and murmured shock. Rounding the table, I find him standing there—still as stone, chest rising too fast, eyes fixed on nothing.
“Trey…” My voice comes out soft, careful.
His gaze flicks to mine. Just a moment—but it’s enough. I see everything written there. The boy who learned to fight to survive. The man who promised himself he’d never become what he feared.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand. His fingers are trembling, heat and adrenaline still running through them, but he doesn’t pull away. I lace my fingers through his, squeezing.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though I don’t know if it is. “You’re okay.”
His throat works, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He nods once—barely—but it’s there. That tiny, broken piece of surrender that saysthank youwithout words. Trey exhales—slow, shaky—and his grip on my hand tightens before he finally lets out the breath he’s been holding. The noise in the club starts to rise again, a low buzz of whispers and the thrum of the bass reasserting itself, like nothing even happened.
Without a word, he sinks back into the booth, the leather sighing beneath him. He reaches for me almost instinctively, guiding me down until I’m straddling his lap again, my knees pressed to either side of his hips. His arm wraps around me, pulling me close, grounding himself in the only way he seems to know how.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice gravel and smoke against my ear.
I nod, though my heart’s still trying to catch up with the world that just spun off its axis. His chest rises and falls beneath me, quick and uneven. I can feel the tension still coiled in him.
Then, quieter—almost breaking—he asks,
“Did I… scare you?”
I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes aren’t cold now—they’re glassy, full of guilt and something rawer, something that makes my throat close up. He looks like a man waiting for punishment, braced for rejection. My hands find his jaw, warm under my palms.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You didn’t scare me.”
His eyes search mine, desperate, disbelieving. I press my forehead to his, breathing him in, his pulse still racing against my chest.
“You protected me,” I say softly. “That’s what you did.”
His shoulders ease—just a fraction. But enough.
I can’t look away.
It’s not the fight that has my pulse racing—it’s him. The way his control faltered only for a heartbeat, the way he didn’t flinch when the world stared. The way he looks at me now, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to breathe in my air. My voice comes out smaller than I intend, but sure.
“Kiss me.”
