Chapter 32 Theo
THEO
Thursday morning at Grind House feels different today.
The scent of espresso and freshly baked pastries surrounds me as I arrive fifteen minutes early, claiming our usual corner table—the one with the worn leather chairs and the view of the street.
I order two drinks: my oat milk latte and Victor’s black coffee, no room for cream.
Our routine. Our standing date that isn’t really a date because Victor won’t acknowledge what this is.
I watch the barista prepare our drinks, my fingers drumming against the wooden tabletop. Eight months of this—of stolen moments, hungry kisses behind locked doors, and Victor’s constant fear of being discovered. Eight months of being someone’s secret.
The bell chimes at exactly 11:00 AM. Victor walks in, broad shoulders filling the doorway, expression guarded. He’s wearing a black henley that stretches across his chest, jeans that hug his thick thighs. His eyes scan the café before settling on me.
“Morning,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me. His voice gives nothing away.
I push his coffee toward him. “Right on time.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes the cup, and despite everything, my body still responds to his touch, traitor that it is.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine.
The coffee shop bustles around us—laptops opening, conversations flowing, baristas calling out orders—but between us sits the heavy silence of what happened in that alley. Of Victor’s panic when headlights swept over our bodies. Of his words: This can’t happen again.
“How’s the gym?” I ask finally, because someone has to speak.
“Fine.” He rotates his cup slowly. “Reynolds signed a new sponsorship deal.”
I nod, waiting for more, but he offers nothing. The careful distance in his eyes makes my chest ache. I’ve seen this man come apart beneath me, watched him surrender everything, heard him beg for more—yet here we sit like distant acquaintances.
“Are we going to talk about the other night?” I finally ask.
Victor’s jaw tightens. His eyes dart around the café before returning to mine, confirming exactly what I already know. Even here, in our safe space, he’s scanning for witnesses, for anyone who might see Victor Kaine sitting across from another man.
The weight of his silence becomes unbearable, pressing against my chest until I can’t breathe.
“What are we doing, Victor?” The question escapes me, direct and unadorned. No games, no clever wordplay, just the glaring truth hanging in the air between us, the truth that I keep telling myself will change with time.
Victor’s fingers tighten around his coffee cup. “What do you mean?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is that we’ve been doing for over eight months.”
He shifts in his seat, eyes dropping to the table.
“Things have been crazy at the gym. Dawson made another move—approached Reynolds this time. Kid’s got real potential, and Dawson knows it.
” His voice takes on that animated quality it always does when he talks about fighting.
“Had to restructure his entire contract, throw in performance bonuses—”
“I don’t care about Dawson.” I cut him off, my voice low but firm. The coffee shop continues to buzz around us, oblivious to the way my world is tipping on its axis. “Are you ashamed of me?”
Victor freezes, his mouth slightly open, words dying on his lips. The silence stretches between us, seconds feeling like hours, and I have my answer before he speaks.
“It’s not that simple, Theo.” He leans forward, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
“My business, my reputation—everything I’ve built is in a world where.
..” He trails off, struggling. “The guys at the gym, they wouldn’t understand.
The investors, the sponsors, they expect a certain image. I operate in a world where—”
His words sound hollow, excuses meant to work as a centrifuge, clearing what he sees as practicality. What hurts more is the flash of pain in his eyes that tells me he knows it too. He’s reciting lines he’s rehearsed to himself, justifications that grow thinner each time he repeats them.
“So I’m what? Your dirty secret? Something to be hidden away?” I ask, the hurt making my voice sharper than intended.
Victor stares at me, his face a mask of conflict.
His mouth opens slightly, then closes again.
No words come. In the silence between us, I can almost see the war raging behind his eyes—desire versus fear, connection versus image.
The coffee shop’s ambient noise seems to grow louder around us, highlighting his deafening silence.
I wait, giving him one more chance to say something—anything—that might salvage what we’ve built. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. His eyes drop to his coffee cup, fingers tracing the rim.
Nothing.
A cold weight settles in my chest. After eight months of passion, of whispered confessions in the dark, of learning each curve and angle of his body, Victor can’t even offer me words.
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile, though it feels brittle on my face. “I see.”
The chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, leaving my latte untouched on the table. The warmth from the coffee cup rises in faint wisps of steam—all the words and feelings left unspoken between us, abandoned to the ether.
Victor looks up at me, his expression totally unguarded for once. If only he could muster the courage to match that vulnerability with his words.
“I think we both need some space to figure out what we actually want,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel inside.
Victor opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head slightly. The man who commands a fight club, who dominates every room he enters, sits before me utterly speechless.
I’ve seen enough.
Without another word, I turn and walk toward the door. Each step feels heavier than the last as the reality sinks in.
The bell above the door jingles as I push through it, sunlight hitting my face. My vision blurs, tears building at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not where anyone might see.
God, the irony. Even now, I’m hiding my emotions in public—just like him.
I make it halfway down the block before I have to stop, pressing my hand against a brick wall to steady myself. The weight in my chest is crushing.
I believed in us—in him. The way his body responded to mine, how desperately he wanted me.
The night he let me inside him, watching our reflection in those mirrors as he came completely undone.
The way he surrendered everything to me.
I thought it meant something profound. I thought it meant I was winning him over.
What a fucking joke.
All those nights, all those whispered confessions in the dark, all those moments when his guard came down completely—none of it was enough. I gave him every part of myself, and he can’t even acknowledge me in daylight.
I straighten my shoulders and keep walking. The tears recede, replaced by something colder. I was naive to think physical surrender would translate to emotional courage. That’s not how this works. That’s not how Victor works.
Eight months of being someone’s secret. Eight months of being good enough for his bed but not for his life.
No more.