Chapter 24 Theo
THEO
It’s four months to the day when I realize our Thursday coffee dates have become the highlight of my week.
I spot Victor through the window of Grind House, already at our usual corner table—the one with the best view of both entrances.
His eyes constantly scan the door between sips of black coffee, a habit I’ve come to find endearing rather than paranoid.
The hypervigilance of a fighter, never letting his guard down, even in a coffee shop.
I slide into the seat across from him, placing my iced latte on the wooden table. “Sorry I’m late. Label negotiations ran over.”
“Three minutes isn’t late,” Victor says, checking his watch. There’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there months ago, a softness reserved only for these Thursday mornings.
“Did you listen to that Massive Attack album I sent?” I ask, settling in.
Victor nods. “Mezzanine? Yeah. Reminds me of that underground Berlin club you talked about.”
I smile, remembering how much I shared about my European tour last week. “Where I lost my passport and had to bribe the bouncer with DJ lessons.”
“Still can’t believe you taught a German skinhead how to mix tracks.” Victor laughs, the sound still rare enough to make my chest tighten.
Our conversations flow like this now, weaving through music and memories, his fighting career and my foster care nightmares. We’ve mapped the territories of each other’s lives, Thursday by Thursday, coffee by coffee.
His voice drops when he tells me about his father’s alcoholism. Mine breaks when I describe the day I was taken from my mother. We talk about business strategies and profit margins, then shift to childhood heroes and adolescent mistakes.
Victor’s fingers occasionally brush against mine when reaching for sugar packets—a subtle touch that somehow carries more intimacy than when he’s buried inside me.
It’s these moments—these conversations—that I find myself craving more than the sex.
The unguarded Victor who emerges in this corner table, away from his fight club persona, feels like a privilege I never expected.
I take a sip of my latte, watching Victor over the rim of my glass. Our coffee dates have become a safe space between us—neutral territory where we talk about things that matter. Maybe that’s why I decide to test the waters.
“There’s a gallery opening I’m going to tonight,” I mention, trying to keep my voice casual.
“It’s for a friend of mine—Jasmine Chen.
She does these amazing mixed media installations.
It’s going to be a big event, lots of industry people.
” I pause, heart beating a little faster. “You could come with me.”
The change in Victor is immediate. His shoulders tense, jaw tightening as his expression closes off completely. The openness from seconds before vanishes behind a familiar wall.
“Can’t,” he says flatly. “Got a thing at the gym.”
I know his schedule. Of course, I know his schedule—I’ve been memorizing it for months. “It’s Thursday night. You don’t have anything scheduled.” Usually, he comes over to mine on Thursday night.
Victor shifts in his seat, eyes dropping to his coffee. “Still can’t.”
The rejection stings more than it should.
This isn’t about a gallery opening—it’s about being seen together.
About stepping outside the carefully mapped territories we’ve established: his apartment, my place, secluded corners of Eclipse after hours, and these coffee dates where nobody from his world ever ventures.
“Right,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “No problem.”
But it is a problem. It’s the same answer he gave when I mentioned Julian’s dinner party last month. And when I suggested catching a film at that indie theater downtown. Always the same wall that goes up, the same distance that snaps back into place.
I’ve never been anyone’s dirty secret before. I don’t know how to navigate caring about someone who can only meet me in shadows.
I let the rejection settle between us, taking a slow sip of my latte before shifting the conversation. “So how did Jenkins do in his qualifier last night?”
Victor’s relief is palpable, his shoulders relaxing as we move to safer territory. “Knocked the guy out in the second round. His ground game’s improving.”
We slip back into our rhythm—Victor describing the technical aspects of Jenkins’ fight while I ask questions that let him showcase his expertise.
The tension gradually dissolves as we talk about his fighters, my upcoming DJ set, and a documentary we’ve both been watching about sound engineering in the seventies.
For nearly an hour, we exist in this bubble, where the world beyond our corner table doesn’t intrude. When Victor checks his watch and says he needs to get back for a training session, I nod and don’t suggest meeting up later.
“Next Thursday?” I ask as we stand.
“Same time,” he confirms, and I pretend that’s enough.
The gallery is packed by nine, Jasmine’s exhibition drawing the exact crowd she’d hoped for—art collectors with deep pockets, industry influencers, and enough genuine art lovers to make the conversations worthwhile. I’m nursing a gin and tonic by her centerpiece installation when my phone buzzes.
It’s a notification from Instagram—a mutual friend tagged in a post. I tap it without thinking and freeze.
The image shows Victor at The Final Round sports bar, arm slung casually around Marco’s shoulder, surrounded by fighters I recognize from his gym. Beers, wings, and a basketball game playing on the expansive screens behind them. The timestamp shows it was posted twenty minutes ago.
I enlarge the photo, studying Victor’s face—relaxed, smiling, completely at ease in public with his fighters. My throat tightens as I stare at the evidence.
He could have come here tonight. There was no thing at the gym. He just chose to go somewhere else—somewhere he wouldn’t have to feel conscious of why we’re together.
Looking closer at the photo, I study every detail of Victor’s easy smile. His arm is draped casually over Marco’s shoulder, his body relaxed in a way I’ve only seen in private moments.
The gin turns bitter on my tongue as I scroll through more photos in the set. Victor raises a beer in a toast. Victor is laughing at someone’s joke. Victor exists freely in the world without looking over his shoulder.
A fracture opens in my chest—a small, painful crack that sends spiderweb fissures through everything I thought we were building.
I’ve fallen for him. The realization hits me with staggering clarity as I stand surrounded by beautiful art and beautiful people.
Somewhere between our coffee conversations and tangled sheets, between his unexpected vulnerability and the way he holds my hand when he thinks I’m sleeping—I’ve gone and done the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I thumb through the pictures again, a masochistic impulse I can’t resist. There it is: proof that Victor has a life—a public, normal life with friends and laughter and sports bars—that I’m not allowed to touch. A life where he doesn’t have to hide or whisper or check exits.
What am I to him, really? The thing he keeps locked away in private rooms and dark corners of clubs. The thing he does when no one’s looking.
My reflection in the gallery window shows a stranger—someone wide-eyed and wounded. This isn’t me. I don’t pine after unavailable men. I don’t settle for scraps of someone’s attention.
Yet here I stand, heart breaking over a man who can sit with me for an hour discussing our deepest fears but can’t bear the thought of being seen with me in public.