Chapter 5
Travis
Travis woke feeling pleased with himself. He stretched under the fresh new duvet and looked up at the ceiling of the strange, almost empty room.
Yesterday was the first time he’d actually seen Cole Steele struggle to find his words. That had been a small win. Not the sort of win that Travis would normally get a kick out of, but nothing in this situation was normal.
Cole’s stunned silence, the stammering, the way his gaze darted anywhere but Travis’s bare chest—it was priceless.
That little smirk, the barely concealed amusement, and especially Cole’s suspicious quiet after the bench-press comment?
Yeah, Travis was holding onto that one. It left him feeling oddly pumped.
He shifted under the covers, scowling at the ceiling as his morning wood ached for his attention. That damn prickling irritation was still there, lurking beneath the amusement, dancing over every inch of him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It had been there since the stakeout.
Travis shoved it aside, gripping his hard-on beneath his underwear, toes curling as pleasure shot up his spine. He pictured soft feminine curves, pink womanly lips replacing his hand, tight and hot around him. Faces from past encounters blurring into a fleeting mirage of ecstasy.
But his fantasy blurred, shifting—soft curves morphing into sharp angles, a familiar smirk replacing painted lips.
Cole. A jolt of terror and excitement shot through him as he gripped himself harder, picturing that cocky mouth silenced around his cock.
Pleasure coiled, dangerously close to tipping over, before he yanked his hand away with a ragged gasp.
He tore off the sheets and bolted upright, breath heaving, his father’s gruff voice echoing in the back of his mind.
Routine will straighten you out.
It had to. It always did.
Discipline kept everything in check.
He dropped straight into push-ups, feeling the strain in his muscles, welcoming the burn, and sighing with relief as his hard-on softened and the image of Cole vanished from his mind.
Focus.
Breathe.
Control.
Forty reps in, he was already thinking more clearly, and by the time he was under the freezing spray of the shower, the prickly sensation under his skin had dulled to a more manageable level. The tension, the thoughts, the distractions all washed away with the cold.
By the time he was dressed, black coffee in hand, he could at least pretend that he felt normal again.
And yet, somehow, Travis knew—Cole would ruin that normality soon enough.
◆◆◆
Travis stood to the side of the window, coffee in hand, staring out through the veil of net curtains. His gaze was fixed on the warehouse across the street.
It was a hulking, weathered structure, all rusted metal and grime-streaked windows.
The corrugated steel walls were faded, streaked with years of pollution and neglect, the once-white paint now a dull, peeling gray.
Large roll-up doors sat heavy and closed, padlocked from the outside, but Travis knew better. There were other ways in, always.
It was the unnatural stillness between movements that unsettled him most. The occasional figure slipped in and out of the shadows, hushed exchanges, and the faint scuff of boots on concrete was all the neighborhood had to show for itself. It was as if the whole block was operating on the down low.
Travis sipped his coffee, watching. Studying. He was starting to see that there were no patterns. People came and went at random intervals. He scanned for movement and tracked who lingered and who left in a hurry, committing everything to memory and his notes.
But this morning, something unusual caught his eye.
The wiry, gang member with the trench coat and the scarred face from their stakeout, was crouched down near the alleyway. A stray ginger cat was curled up by his feet, rubbing against his knee, and he was… feeding it.
Travis didn’t know why that moment struck him. Maybe it was because men like that weren’t supposed to have soft edges. Men weren’t supposed to be soft. Especially not the bad guys. Either way, he couldn’t look away.
From behind him, Travis heard the unmistakable sound of Cole waking up announced by an exaggerated yawn, the shuffle of socked feet against hardwood, and then the clatter of an object being set down far too carelessly on the counter. He inhaled sharply. Involuntarily.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Cole drawled, voice thick with sleep.
Travis heard him opening the fridge. The distinct hiss of a takeout cup being pried open was quickly followed by the smell of the full-fat, sugar-laden monstrosity of a latte drowning in caramel or whatever other abomination Cole passed off as coffee.
The scent of artificial sweetness filled the room, clashing against the bitter black coffee in Travis’s hand.
He ignored Cole, as best he could. But when a long stretch of silence followed—too long for Cole’s usual attention span—he sensed movement at his side.
A second later, Cole was right there, peering out the window.
“Jesus, Captain, what’re you staring at? ”
Too close. Too casual. His heat, pleasant and familiar like sugar and the lingering warmth of sleep, like the remnants of the dream he hadn’t quite shaken off. It prickled at the edge of Travis’s awareness, an irritation or an itch he couldn’t place, couldn’t shake.
His skin bristled.
Cole squinted out the window, following his line of sight.
His voice became instantly softer when he spotted the scene a short distance away.
“Huh,” he muttered. “We got an ID on him. He’s Victor ‘Scarface’ Ruiz, he’s a dangerous violent thug, a really twisted guy,” Cole murmured, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t peg Ruiz for a cat guy.”
Travis spoke quietly. “People are never just one thing.”
Cole didn’t seem to know what to say.
There was no immediate quip, no teasing remark. Just silence.
The apartment felt smaller. Warmer.
Travis kept his eyes on the scene outside, but Cole’s presence was impossible to ignore.
He’d closed the space between them before Travis could stop him—not that he tried.
His heat and the steady rise and fall of his breath, the effortless way he filled Travis’s space—it all pressed in, unsettling in a way Travis refused to name.
He squeezed his mug, the ceramic warm against his fingers, grounding him. He needed the anchor. Because whatever this was—the subtle, creeping sensation, the strange pull in his chest—he wasn’t used to it.
Cole was an irritation, a distraction, a too-loud, too-messy presence who never took anything seriously. That’s what Travis kept telling himself. But standing this close, the edges of that certainty blurred.
It wasn’t just that Cole was here. It was that some part of Travis—some reckless, traitorous part buried beneath years of discipline—might actually be starting to enjoy his presence and his teasing.
◆◆◆
The morning stretched thin with too much silence, too much proximity. Travis normally didn’t mind silence, but Cole unsettled him in ways he didn’t like.
Travis sat at the kitchen table, fingers tapping idly against his laptop, pretending to focus on his report. Across the room, Cole lounged on the couch, legs sprawled out, one socked foot resting on the coffee table like he had no concept of personal space or respect for furniture.
The problem wasn’t Cole being there. It was how much Travis felt him there.
Every stretch, every lazy shift of his body, every absent-minded rake of fingers through his messy hair.
Travis noticed all of it. Worse, every time Cole moved, Travis developed an itch at the back of his neck, an instinct to glance over.
And when Travis moved, he swore he caught Cole’s eyes following him, quick, unreadable.
The damn room kept shrinking. The air seemed heavier. Travis tried to ignore it.
Then, as if on cue, Cole shattered the quiet with a loud, exaggerated groan as he stretched, arms lifting over his head, T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above the waistband of his sweatpants.
How is he so skinny considering all he eats is crap? Travis forced himself to stare at his screen. Do not engage.
Cole, of course, had no such discipline.
“You’re quiet today, Captain,” he mused, voice thick with amusement. “Thinking deep thoughts?”
Travis grunted. He wasn’t taking the bait.
Cole rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “You brooding about me beating you in our verbal sparring match yesterday?”
Travis spoke with confidence. “You didn’t win.”
Cole’s grin was instant, lazy, victorious. “That’s what losers say.”
Travis glared at him, the heat prickled over his skin, and his invisible collar constricted his breathing again.
He deliberately didn’t show any response on his face.
But whatever messed up things were going on in his head must have shown in his eyes because Cole smirked knowingly.
Then he stretched again, as if testing just how much he could get away with.
And the worst part?
Travis still caught himself looking.