Then faster. Harder.
Crack.
Her choice echoes in my skull. Damon’s cool certainty, the way he looked at her like he already owned the space beside her in bed.
Crack.
I know he kissed her during the challenge. He wouldn’t have asked her otherwise. But did she make that same breathless little moan—the one that has my cock stand at attention?
Crack.
I slam harder than I should. Pain shoots up my arm, bright and welcome, yanking me out of this mental spiral.
“Fuck,” I snarl, the word ripping out.
I brace my forehead against the bag, chest heaving, forcing the beast within back under. This is a dating show. She’s supposed to explore options. As she fucking should. But logic doesn’t stop my blood from boiling at the thought of his hands on her. His mouth. His anything.
I can’t fight this the caveman way—not without torching my shot. Not without ruining my chance at getting Lyla to hear the truth. I have to play their game. Rebuild the trust I shattered. Prove I’m not a man she can’t just love, but also rely on, again.
I straighten, my jaw locked so tight my teeth ache.
As much as I’d love to tell this Damon guy to fuck off, I can’t. So for now, I’m punching this bag—and imagining it was him.
The gym door creaks open behind me. Footsteps quickly follow.
I don’t turn immediately. When I do, Damon’s framed in the doorway like he owns the fucking villa.
The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows. His hair slicked back. Hands in his pockets. He’s calm, almost nonchalant.
“Quite the healthy outlet,” he observes, voice smooth as silk over steel.
I roll my shoulders, crack my neck. “Got something to say?”
He steps inside, letting the door click shut—soft, deliberate. The sound lands like a gauntlet.
“She said yes to dinner.” His statement is flat. Factual. As if I didn’t watch the whole goddamn thing.
I stay silent.
He tilts his head. “And the entire time, she was fighting not to look at you. Even after the word left her mouth.”
“You got the date,” I grit out. “What’s your point?”
“Something’s been nagging at me.” He meets my eyes—cool, assessing. Calculating. “You’re the ex, aren’t you?”
I don’t deny it.
He nods once, like the final puzzle piece snapped in. “That explains…everything.”
“Explains what?” I lower my voice an octave, bracing.
He doesn’t rush. Just studies me, no doubt measuring whether this conversation is worth the risk of my fist.
“You overwhelm her,” he says finally. “That’s exactly why she said yes to me. Because I’m not you.”
My next breath is razor-thin.
“So what? You think playing the safe, chill guy automatically wins you brownie points?” The words come out rough-edged.
