Today,I’m filming a segment with an over-bulked steroid junkie who calls himself “Captain Killjoy” and smells like burnt protein powder and broken dreams.
He flexes every time the camera moves.
I ask him about his signature move, and he launches into a ten-minute monologue about physics, pain thresholds, and “branding synergy.”
I don’t hear a word.
Because behind the crew, across the training bay, Valtron walks through the door.
My chest knots.
He’s not looking at me.
Not yet.
But hefeelsme.
I know he does.
His steps slow. Shoulders tighten.
He peels his shirt off mid-stride like the heat’s nothing to him, muscles catching the overhead light like a damn storm.
Captain Killjoy keeps talking.
I’m not listening.
Because Valtron’s walking this way now.
Straight toward me.
“Cut,” I bark, voice sharp enough to break glass. “We’re done.”
The crew scrambles. Killjoy puffs up like a bruised peacock, then deflates when I ignore him and power down the mic.
I’m halfway through packing the gear when Valtron stops right in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
He doesn’t speak right away.
Neither do I.
Because up close, he’s worse.
More.
His scent hits me—leather, smoke, something metallic and clean underneath. Not sweat.Him.
And I hate that I still want to bury my face in his neck and forget everything else.
“You let me think you were dead.”
His voice is low, rough, not yelling—but it hits harder than a shout.
I turn slowly. “And you left first.”
