Chapter 19
Jacob
He didn’t make it far, only down the hall to the first door with a lock.
His robe was already wrapped around him, handed over by the intimacy coordinator the moment Ellen called cut.
His shorts were damp, a humiliating wet patch staining the front.
He prayed no one had noticed it before he covered up.
He hadn’t looked at Liam, just kept his head down and pushed through the blur of crew, their silence louder than words.
The bathroom hit him too bright, the fluorescents humming above him, and the white tiles sterile as an operating room. He leaned over the sink with both hands braced against the porcelain, dragging air through his lungs like he’d sprinted there.
He couldn’t bring himself to look in the mirror.
His mouth still tasted of Liam, lips swollen from too many kisses.
Every time he let his mind slip for even a second, he heard it again: the broken sounds Liam had made when Jacob kissed him deeper, the moans tearing out of him like he couldn’t hold them back.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pain slicing behind them.
Somewhere between the cameras rolling and Ellen’s quiet “cut,” he lost every thread of control.
He hadn’t just lost the scene, but everything they’d agreed to—the script, the careful choreography, the boundaries they had sworn to hold—all of it gone.
Hurled out the window the second Liam had touched him back.
He hadn’t given a damn about the people in the room, even though he wasn’t the type to get off on being seen.
His cock had been hard, painfully so, straining against the confines of his shorts.
He remembered Liam trembling beneath him, clutching at his sides, spreading wider under the sheets as if begging Jacob to take more.
Jacob had done just that—greedy and relentless—moving against him with a rhythm too good to stop, licking into his mouth in a way that hadn't been safe at all.
He twisted the faucet and splashed water on his face, the cold shock offering nothing, his pulse still pounding against his skull.
He had felt Liam come apart under him, voice breaking, body convulsing against his own.
The memory alone was enough to set him on fire.
It had dragged him over the edge too, spilling in his pants like some desperate teenager.
Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. He was supposed to have his shit together, but all he saw was a weak idiot who couldn’t keep it together when it mattered.
His hands clenched tighter on the sink until his knuckles threatened to split through skin.
When he finally forced himself to raise his head, the man in the mirror looked lost, as if the hunger clinging to his skin had stripped away every piece of who he thought he was.
Leaving nothing but a stranger wearing his face.
He yanked the robe tighter around himself and forced the door open. The hallway wasn’t empty as he expected. Ellen was waiting for him with her arms folded, her calmness edged with something he couldn’t read.
“The intimacy coordinator wanted me to cut it sooner,” she said without preamble. “I told her no.”
Jacob froze, throat dry.
“I’ve known you too long, Jacob. And Liam is easy to read. I know what it looks like when someone’s uncomfortable, and that wasn’t it. That’s why I let it go on.” Her gaze was steady, unblinking. “What the two of you gave me wasn’t acting anymore. That’s why it worked.”
She exhaled, showing just the faintest crack in her composure. “I know that wasn’t the call I was supposed to make. The coordinator was right. But you were both giving me something I couldn’t script—something raw and real. I took it.”
The words landed heavy, because she wasn’t absolving him—she was joining him in the mess.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I got the scene. It’s on film now. I can live with my decision. The art will always come first for me, as long as nobody’s hurt. The question is, can you live with how you got there?”
Ellen didn’t wait for an answer. She left him standing in the quiet, carrying the weight of what they’d both allowed to happen.
* * *
It was barely past six in the morning when Jacob pulled into the back lot of the boxing gym.
The building was a concrete box tucked between warehouses, the kind of place no one stumbled on by accident.
No sign out front, just a battered blue door and the kind of silence that said the world hadn’t woken up yet.
It was exactly the kind of anonymity he needed.
He had texted Mason the night before, asking if he was free to spar. He needed the hit of leather and bone; the give-and-take that burned the tension out of his system. Mason never asked for a reason. He just showed up when he was needed.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of rubber and old sweat, a fan overhead turning too slow to make any difference.
The steady slap of jump rope marked the rhythm of someone already working out in the corner, and Jacob recognized him as one of the regulars.
He gave a curt nod in passing and went straight to the ring, pulling on gloves with mechanical precision.
Mason arrived five minutes later, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, and hair falling into eyes so dark they seemed almost black. He gave Jacob a long look and muttered, “Christ, you look like you haven’t slept or gotten laid in a month.”
Jacob finished tightening his gloves, refusing to bite. “Let’s go.”
Mason tossed him a towel, mouth twitching. “Alright, straight to business then.”
They stepped into the ring, circling each other, Mason loose and steady, Jacob all focus and angles. They squared up, and Jacob threw the first punch.
“So,” Mason said, catching it clean and sending it away with a minimal shift of shoulder. “Are you gonna tell me why you look like someone just pulled the rug out from under you?”
Jacob shut it out and kept moving, muscles burning with the need to strike. Maybe if he hit hard enough, the question would vanish—or at least the answer would.
Mason held his ground. He was tall and broad-shouldered, all efficient muscle honed by hard work. The kind of body that telegraphed nothing and wasted less. He moved with certainty, like someone who knew exactly how to use every inch of his body.
Round one stayed controlled: footwork solid, movements clean, both of them running on muscle memory. Jacob’s jabs were quick, only focusing on the rhythm. Mason moved with him, deflecting each strike and answering with precise counters.
During round two, Mason pressed harder. Jacob blocked and answered with more power, his gloves thudding into Mason’s guard with force. The exchange picked up speed—sharper footwork and heavier blows.
Mason’s gaze tightened, his eyes narrowing as if he were piecing together the reason Jacob kept hitting harder than necessary.
By the third, Jacob came in even fiercer, reckless in the way his fists swung. His combinations landed with too much force. He caught Mason clean in the ribs with a left hook that made him grunt, the sound rough and real in the quiet gym.
“Jesus,” Mason gasped, stepping back. “What the fuck’s eating you?”
Jacob rolled his shoulders and lifted his gloves, ready to go again. They kept at it another round, both pushing, sweat stinging their eyes. His punches became sloppier but relentless, like he didn’t care where they landed, as long as they did.
When it was over, they both sank down against the edge of the ring, gloves off, and forearms braced to their knees.
“You wanna talk about whatever the hell that was?” Mason asked, tipping his head back, chest still heaving.
Jacob wiped his face with the towel, the fabric rough against his skin. “No.”
The ache in his ribs, the sting in his knuckles, the sweat dripping down his spine—none of it had done what he had needed it to do. Liam was still there, clinging like smoke to his lungs, impossible to breathe out no matter how hard he tried.
“Okay,” Mason said, his tone easy. “You know I won’t push, but if you ever want to unload, I’m here.”
“It’s nothing,” Jacob muttered.
Mason arched a brow. “That bad, huh.”
Jacob shook out his wrist and felt the faint tremor still there. “I crossed a line.”
Mason didn’t blink. “With someone?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they cross it with you too?”
Jacob looked up, caught by the weight of the question.
Mason shrugged. “Makes a difference.”
Jacob said nothing. Sweat cooled on his shirt, sticking to his skin.
Mason tossed him a bottle of water, then clapped his shoulder once. “You don’t have to tell me what happened.” He waited a beat, making sure Jacob was listening. “Just don’t lie to yourself about it.”
He paused, eyes on the floor. “You want my advice: if it meant something, face it. If it didn’t, let it go. But figure out what matters most—and hold on to that. Don’t sit in it so long it turns into regret. That shit stains the soul worse than blood.”
He left it at that, no judgment, no push. He never asked for more than Jacob could give, but he didn’t ignore the hard questions either. It was his unshakable presence that made him one of the few people Jacob trusted.
Mason pushed to his feet, snagged his bag, and glanced down at him. “Wanna grab breakfast before I have to work?”
Jacob hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Sure.”
Food he could manage. The rest would have to wait.
* * *
He had seen it coming long before it happened.
Liam had been unraveling all day, one frayed thread at a time, until the snap was inevitable.
When it finally came, there was no explosion, no curses or raised voices.
He simply walked off set, looking like a man holding himself together by sheer force.
Jacob watched him disappear down the hallway. He should’ve stayed put, kept the distance he’d been clinging to since everything between them spilled over. But his legs didn’t listen.
By the time he caught up, Liam had already shut himself in the nearest empty dressing room, door half-closed like a warning Jacob ignored. He stepped inside and shut the door. The room felt smaller with both of them in it. He hovered, mouth opening like he might speak, but nothing came out.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Liam bit out, anger scraping through every syllable. “You followed me here.”
Jacob stayed by the door, jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. Words hovered at the back of his throat, but he didn’t dare let them loose.
Liam gave a laugh that broke halfway through. “What, you’re just going to stand there? Pretend it didn’t happen? You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
Jacob’s chest pulled tight. If he spoke—if he admitted anything—there’d be no taking it back.
Liam’s eyes were bright with fury and hurt, his fists knotted at his sides. “We both came… in front of half the crew. Don’t you dare try to deny it. I was there. I know what happened. And now you won’t even fucking look at me.”
“Don’t.” He meant it to sound firm, but it came out like a plea.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it sound so simple.”
Liam’s glare burned, but his voice softened on the edges. “I’m not. It’s not. It’s a fucking mess.”
Jacob took a step forward, not closing the space, but nearer all the same. “It happened,” he ground out.
The words stilled Liam where he stood.
Jacob forced himself to hold his gaze. “I’m not pretending it didn’t happen.”
Liam’s face twisted, equal parts relief and anguish. “Then talk to me. Don’t freeze me out like I’m crazy. Like I’m the only one drowning in this.”
He hated how easy it was to read him. Every thought spilled across his expression, a map of emotions anyone could follow. Meanwhile, Jacob fought to keep his own locked down where no one could touch them.
He exhaled slowly, a sound that felt too much like surrender. “You’re not alone.”
For a moment Liam only stared at him, suspicion etched deep. He looked like he wanted to believe those words, but couldn’t quite let himself.
“You think this is easy for me?” Jacob’s voice snapped louder, frustration breaking through restraint. “You think I’m walking away clean here?”
“I don’t know.” Liam’s shoulders sagged with the words. “You’re sure as hell acting like it.”
“I’ve got a family too,” he said, the confession punching out of him before he could stop it. “I have a wife. Kids. And I still—” He cut himself off. No way in hell he was finishing that thought.
He met Liam’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”
Liam’s throat worked. “I don’t know. I just… I can’t keep pretending.”
Neither could he. Denial felt pointless when the truth was already there between them. The damage was done, and pretending otherwise would only make him a coward. “It wasn’t nothing,” he managed, the words barely more than a breath.
Liam’s eyes shone with desperation. “Then what are we doing?”
Jacob shook his head, the motion tight with turmoil. “I don’t know.”
They stood locked in that space, breath shallow, air thick with everything unsaid. The distance between them crackled with want and shame. Jacob’s fists curled, every muscle drawn tight, wanting too many things at once.
He broke the stare first. “Get your head on straight,” he said, his voice even only because he forced it.
The second the words left him, he wanted them back.
He sounded like an asshole, and he knew it.
But creating distance was easier than dealing with the mess between them.
Sometimes he wished he was capable of being vulnerable, of giving Liam the words he deserved—instead he said: “We’ve got another scene. ”
He left before he could say more and make it worse. As he walked down the hall, the truth followed and landed in his chest like a goddamn verdict: there was no way in hell he’d be walking away from this clean. Not even close.