Wyatt
The protein shake tasted like chalk and regret, but I downed it anyway.
Discipline didn't stop just because my morning workout had left my muscles screaming.
Sweat soaked through my shirt, plastered the fabric against my chest and shoulders.
Hair still damp, dripping occasional cold drops down the back of my neck.
I'd pushed harder than necessary. Punished my body with reps that would make my trainer wince, sprints that left my lungs burning.
Anything to silence the loop playing in my head—the soft sound she'd made when I pulled her close during practice.
The way her body had fitted against mine like it belonged there.
Like she belonged there.
I shook my head, reaching for the coffeepot.
That was when I heard it. A soft inhale. Sharp. Caught. The kind of sound someone made when they'd been doing something they shouldn't.
I turned slowly. Deliberately casual.
She stood frozen in the hallway entrance. Deer in headlights didn't begin to cover it—her eyes wide, lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with whatever she'd been thinking before I caught her.
Before she'd caught herself.
Her gaze darted away. Too late. I'd already cataloged the trajectory—the way her attention had traced the lines of my shoulders, the damp fabric clinging to muscle I'd earned through years of brutal conditioning.
She'd been staring. Absolutely, undeniably staring.
I took a sip of coffee. Let the silence stretch while she squirmed, shifting weight from foot to foot, arms wrapping around herself in that defensive posture I was starting to recognize as her tell when she was rattled.
"See something you like?"
The words came out darker than intended. Rougher. Threaded with an edge I should've buried.
She jolted. Actually flinched. "No! I—I was just—um—wondering if you wanted breakfast."
I lifted a brow. Let skepticism paint itself across my features while something dangerous coiled tight in my chest. "You never wonder about breakfast."
The flush deepened. Spread down her throat in a way that made my jaw clench.
I knew exactly what had happened. Could read it in the panicked flutter of her pulse, the way she couldn't quite meet my eyes, the defensive set of her shoulders fighting against the involuntary attraction her body was starting to register.
She was getting used to me. To my proximity. My touch. The controlled violence I carried like second skin. And that realization landed with the force of a cross-check to the ribs.
Dangerous.
For both of us.
I set the coffee down. Stepped toward her.
She took half a step back.
Half.
She used to take three.
The shift registered somewhere primal. Possessive. Wrong.
I noticed. Worse—I liked it.
"We have the charity skate today. Cameras'll be right on us."
She nodded. Swallowed hard enough I could track the movement down her throat.
"You'll panic again if we don't run through more physical contact."
Her spine went rigid. Arms tightened around herself. "I'm trying."
"You're overthinking."
I took the coffee mug from the counter. Set it down with deliberate care. Let the ceramic clink fill the charged silence.
Then I stepped closer.
She didn't retreat this time. Not fully. Just shifted weight like she was considering it, calculating escape routes her body had already started forgetting.
Progress.
I let the smirk curve slow. Predatory. Dropped onto the couch. Spread my knees. Patted my thigh once—sharp, commanding.
"Sit."
Her breath stopped. Actually stopped. Chest frozen mid-inhale, eyes wide with something between shock and something darker she wasn't ready to name.
"W-what?"
"Sit on my lap."
The panic hit immediate. Full-body. Beautiful in its transparency. "Wyatt—"
"If I pull you into my lap in public, and you scream like a startled squirrel, everyone will know it's fake. Practice."
I kept my tone flat. Clinical. Left no room for negotiation or escape.
Her throat worked again. Hands twisted together, knuckles white. But she moved. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like approaching live ordinance.
She perched on the edge of my thigh, rigid as steel, barely making contact.
Not good enough.
My hands shifted automatically—one to her hip, fingers splaying across the curve there, the other steadying her lower back. Drew her in properly, settled her weight against me.
She made a small sound. Choked off, strangled, desperate.
I felt every inch of it.
The tremor that ran through her. The way her breathing went shallow, rapid, uneven.
The heat bleeding through thin leggings and my joggers like friction waiting to ignite.
Her hands hovered uselessly, unsure where to land, before settling tentatively on my shoulder—light, barely there, like she might bolt any second.
"Relax." The command came rougher than intended.
"I can't—this is—"
"Breathe."
She did. Shaky, unsteady, but she did.
I adjusted my grip. Firmer. Anchoring. Let my thumb trace small circles against her hip bone—slow, deliberate, grounding. Watched her pupils dilate. Watched her pulse hammer against the delicate skin of her throat. Watched her body fight between fear and something far more dangerous.
"This is what it'll look like," I said quietly. "When I pull you close for photos. When fans ask for pictures together. When reporters crowd us and I need you right here."
My hand flexed against her back. Possessive. Deliberate.
She shivered again. Not from fear this time.
I knew the difference. And that knowledge landed like a punch I should've seen coming.
"This is ridiculous." Her voice came out breathless, defensive. Exactly the reaction I expected.
"It's necessary."
She tried to keep space between us—leaned forward slightly, shoulders hunched, creating invisible barriers her body language screamed. Amateur mistake. Made the whole thing look wrong.
I adjusted her. Effortlessly. One hand at her hip, the other guiding her shoulder back.
Until her spine pressed against my chest. Until my arms bracketed her in, caging her between muscle and heat and the deliberate cage I'd built.
Until she felt my heartbeat. Steady. Controlled.
Trained through years of high-pressure situations where panic meant failure.
Hers hammered against my forearm where it rested below her ribs. Rabbit-fast. Uneven. Honest.
Her breath trembled.
I cataloged every micro-response. The slight arch of her back when my hand settled properly at her waist. The way her fingers curled into fists against her thighs. The tension bleeding from her shoulders in incremental surrenders she didn't want to give.
Too real.
All of it.
I ran one hand slowly down her arm. Light pressure. Deliberate pace. Let my palm trace from shoulder to elbow in a measured glide designed to ground, not seduce.
Her breath hitched. Sharp. Audible.
I felt it everywhere. Registered in the flex of muscle against my chest, the stutter of her pulse, the heat bleeding through fabric like an accusation.
"If you tense like that in public, it won't look right." My voice came rougher than intended. Darker. Threaded with warning I wasn't entirely giving her.
"I'm not—tensing."
Lie. Beautiful, transparent lie.
I stroked her arm again. Slower this time. Let my touch linger at the inside of her elbow where skin went soft and vulnerable. Watched goosebumps chase my fingers.
She melted. Just a fraction. Small surrender, monumental impact.
I felt every inch of it. "You are."
She swallowed. The sound audible in the quiet. Her head tilted slightly—unconscious movement, exposing the curve of her throat. Submission she didn't understand she was offering.
Dangerous.
My fingers drifted deliberately. Shoulder to elbow. Elbow to forearm. Traced the delicate bones, the soft skin, the tremor she couldn't suppress.
She went still. Held her breath like waiting for verdict.
Then…
I captured her wrist. Gentle. Firm. Wrapped my fingers around the fragile joint where her pulse hammered wild betrayal. Lifted it. Turned it.
Her pulse fluttered against my thumb like trapped bird. Frantic. Honest. Wanting.
Her breath stuttered.
I brought her wrist to my mouth. Kissed it. Soft. Slow. Intentional. Let my lips press against the exact point where her heartbeat screamed everything she refused to say.
Her entire body reacted—
A tiny gasp that punched through careful control. A full-body shiver that rolled through her like aftershock. A stuttering heartbeat I felt against my chest, my forearm, the sensitive skin of my lips.
I felt all of it. Every surrender. Every denial. Every terrified realization that her body had stopped listening to the rules her mind kept trying to enforce.
Her voice barely whispered. Broken. Confused. "Why… why did you do that?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Not honestly. Because the honest answer was dangerous. Unplanned. Real in ways that threatened the entire architecture I'd built.
I let her wrist go—but not fully.
My hand stayed wrapped around hers. Fingers threaded through delicate bones. Possessive. Anchoring. Wrong.
I felt her confusion bleeding through skin-to-skin contact. Her panic rising like a tide. Her want buried underneath everything else, denied and desperate and absolutely undeniable.
And inside me? Something sharp. Territorial. Instinctive. Something that whispered she wasn't leverage anymore. She was mine.
The thought detonated.
She jerked forward suddenly, muscles tensing to escape.
My hand tightened on her waist. Not hard. Not painful. Just firm enough to communicate Not yet.
"Where are you going?"
Her voice came out strangled, desperate. "I—I need space."
Wrong answer.
I leaned in. Let my breath ghost against her ear, voice dropping to something dark and intimate and absolutely deliberate. "That's the problem, sweetheart. You run every time you feel something."