Chapter 5
Damien
The sunlight comes through my sheer curtains and lands on my eyes. Jesus, my head aches. It takes a second to register why. I’m naked, sprawled across my bed, and I don’t remember getting here.
I stay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while my brain tries to catch up with my body. The light filtering through the window is too bright, and the dull pressure behind my eyes makes everything feel slightly delayed, like I’m a step behind my own thoughts.
Fuck, I hate being hungover. I drag a hand over my face and push myself upright, the sheet sliding down as I sit there, trying to piece together last night.
Dinner comes first. That part is easy—the restaurant, the team, the way the entire evening turned into something bigger than it was supposed to be. I remember the questions, the teasing, the constant attention that followed me and Atlas from the second we walked in.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my temple as I try to move past that part. The rest takes longer. It comes back in pieces instead of a clean line. The car.
Atlas leaning against the seat, his head tipped back slightly, his tie loosened just enough to make him look less polished and more real than usual. I pause there, because that image is clearer than anything else.
He looked good. Not just presentable or put together, but genuinely good in a way that was harder to ignore than it should have been. The black suit, the way he carried himself, the way everyone kept circling back to him throughout the night like he was the easiest thing in the room to focus on…
I shift slightly on the bed, my jaw tightening as the rest of the memory catches up.
Next comes the teasing. Carter and Alex kept pushing it, making jokes about Atlas flirting, about him having a thing for me, about how obvious it all was.
I remember brushing it off at the time, but something about it stuck.
It settled somewhere under my skin and stayed there.
I let out a quiet breath as the next part hits, sharper now, no longer avoidable.
The car. Oh my God, the car. The way the moment shifted without warning from something controlled into something impossible to contain.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. “Right.”
A wave of heat moves up the back of my neck, settling into something heavier in my chest.
I don’t embarrass easily. That feeling isn’t something I deal with often, so I don’t tolerate it well when it happens.
This is different. This isn’t just a misstep or a poorly timed decision. This is something I let happen without thinking it through. Something I should have stopped…and I didn’t.
I straighten slightly, dragging a hand through my hair as I try to force the memory into something manageable. “It was a mistake.” The words sound weaker than I intended.
Because they aren’t entirely true. I knew what I was doing, even if I didn't think about the consequences.
That is the part that doesn’t sit right. I don’t lose control; I command it with a heavy hand.
I don’t let things escalate without deciding in advance.
Last night, I didn’t decide anything. I just reacted.
I wanted to kiss him, and I did. Simple.
I stand and start pacing, needing to move even though I have nowhere to go. Because it wasn’t just the alcohol. It wasn’t just the situation. It was him.
Atlas looked hot last night, and I couldn’t ignore that.
There was something about the way he carried himself, something about the way he responded to everything happening around us, that made it easy to focus on him longer than I should have.
He was protective and angry and undone. And all I wanted to do was sit on his lap and make him melt against me.
I turn toward the bathroom and step under the shower, running the water colder than I usually would.
It doesn’t help the want pulsing within me. It didn’t help last night, either.
I remember standing here, trying to reset, trying to strip away whatever was left over from the car and turn it back into something simple. But it didn’t work, so I jacked off thinking of Atlas with his loose tie and his mouth on mine.
I shut the water off after a few minutes and dry off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweats as I move back into the bedroom. I collapse on my bed face-first.
What the hell am I going to say to him today?
I could apologize.
That would be the cleanest option.
I could blame the alcohol, the pressure, the situation, and shut it down before it turns into something harder to manage. That would keep this arrangement controlled.
Predictable.
Temporary.
Or I could ignore it.
Treat it like nothing more than an extension of what we’re already doing and move forward without acknowledging it at all. That would be easier in the moment.
It would also leave too much of an opportunity for it to happen again.
I exhale slowly into my bedding. “This wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.”
I stand again, grabbing a shirt and pulling it on as I force my thoughts into something more structured.
Why am I so pent up? I do the math and realize it’s been three weeks since I’ve been properly fucked.
That realization lands harder than I expected. I’m not some kind of sex addict, but Jesus, I like to have a routine, and now that routine is fucked because of this contract.
That kind of pressure builds up whether I acknowledge it or not, and last night was the result of that.
“That’s all it was.”
I pick up my phone from the nightstand, trying to distract myself. I make the mistake of opening social media, and it takes less than a second to regret it.
My notifications are flooded. Tags, mentions, articles, videos—everything is centered around one thing, and none of it is subtle.
Headlines speculate about timelines, about chemistry, about whether this has been happening behind the scenes for longer than anyone realized.
Some of them have photos from last night. All of them have opinions.
I scroll for a few seconds, then stop. There’s no point in going through all of it. The narrative has already taken on a life of its own, and there’s nothing I can do to control it now.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the bed.
It buzzes immediately, like it can’t stand the thought of me looking away.
Notifications from the team group chat flood my screen. I hesitate, then open it.
The messages are moving fast enough that I have to scroll back to catch up.
Carter: I knew it was bad but I didn’t know it was THIS bad
Patrick: someone explain what I just watched
Alex: nah I’m crying
There’s a video attached.
I already know I shouldn’t open it, but I do anyway.
The clip is grainy, clearly taken from outside the car, angled in a way that doesn’t show everything but shows enough to make it obvious what’s happening.
Atlas is visible, his head tipped back against the seat, expression unfocused, his body language giving away more than the camera should have caught.
He bites his fist. The memory of him coming in my mouth makes my cock twitch in my pants.
I’m not visible.
At all.
The video cuts off quickly, but the damage is already done.
I stare at the screen for a second before closing it. Of course someone saw us. Of course that’s what made it online. The chat explodes again.
Patrick: WHERE ARE YOU IN THAT VIDEO, DAMIEN??
Alex: he vanished
Carter: looks like Atlas is having a revelation
Patrick: is your jaw broken today or what
I exhale slowly through my nose, unimpressed even though something tight is building beneath the surface. This is exactly why I avoid attention. It never stays surface-level. It turns into speculation, jokes, people filling in blanks they have no business filling.
Before I decide whether to respond, another message drops into the chat.
Atlas: lay off. he was already dropped off at this point
I read it once.
Then again.
It’s a lie.
An obvious one.
And yet it lands differently than I expected.
He didn’t have to say anything. He could have ignored it, let them keep talking. Instead, he shut it down and protected me.
The chat shifts targets almost immediately.
Alex: so you were just in the car by yourself like that?
Patrick: bro??
Carter: you good???
Alex: you were just sitting there thinking about life??
Atlas responds quickly this time.
Atlas: shut up. It was a rough night.
The conversation derails from there, moving into something less pointed, less focused on me.
I lean back slightly against the headboard, phone still in my hand. I’m not used to people stepping in like that, protecting me...
My phone buzzes again.
Same chat.
Carter: actually wait I found something better
A link appears.
Alex: NO WAY
Patrick: mama i’m scared.
Carter: you’re welcome
I open the link to a smutty fanfiction of me and Atlas fucking in the Tigers’ locker room.
I skim just enough to understand where it’s going before stopping on a particularly…interesting line.
“Kneel for me.” Damien said. Atlas obeyed, eyeing his master’s cock.
Ew.
I go back to the group chat.
Me: Do I give off the vibe that I’d be into slave/master kink?
Carter: YOU FUCKING READ IT??
Patrick: yes, daddy damien
My phone buzzes again—a text from Atlas, not in the group chat. I open it.
Atlas: you good?
I stare at the message for a second. He’s checking in with me. That sits differently than it should.
I type back before I think too much about it.
Me: I can’t believe the writer made me a top
There’s a pause. Long enough that I know he’s reading it twice.
Then…
Atlas: okay?
I lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
Of course he doesn’t get it immediately. I try again.
Me: That’s not typically the part I play...
The typing bubble appears. Vanishes. Appears again. Then disappears completely.
I wait with a small smile on my face. I wonder if he’ll understand or if I’ll have to show him what I mean.
Atlas: oh
Atlas: OH