Then Matthew, turned away and kept walking with a dismissive smirk, his shoulders tensing in subtle defiance.
Masahiro pulled his car over and got out, his shoes hitting the pavement sharply. “Matthew!” he called, his voice cool but firm, reaching after him. But Matthew didn’t even flinch, his steps quickening, the silence between them thick.
Matthew walked faster, the rhythm of his steps mocking the tension. Masahiro closed the distance effortlessly, his long stride eating up the space, until he reached him and grabbed his wrist.
“Let go,” Matthew snapped, yanking his arm back with a glare that could cut glass. “You don’t get to touch me.”
Masahiro’s grip tightened, the cool steel of his resolve never wavering, though his gaze hardened slightly. "Matthew, stop."
Matthew exhaled a puff of smoke, his lips curling into a smirk, cocky and unmoved. “Or what? You’ll cheat on me again?&rdq
Cassidy pulled his car to a smooth stop outside Arthur’s building, his headlights casting long shadows on the sidewalk. He glanced briefly at his phone before unlocking it, dialing Arthur’s number with practiced ease. As the call rang through, he leaned back in his seat, the night air cooling his skin.“Yeah?” Arthur’s voice came through, still a bit groggy.“I’m already here,” Cassidy said, his tone smooth, deliberate.“Give me a sec. I’ll be right down,” Arthur replied, his voice fading into the background before the call ended.Cassidy hung up, eyes scanning the street for any sign of movement. He sat there for a while, letting the silence between them settle, the tension of the night already beginning to build. He could almost feel the impending storm of their connection, the unspoken words and unresolved tension between them.Finally, after what felt like forever, the door of Ar
The meal continued in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each course a careful dance of glances and quiet exchanges. Arthur, still processing the whirlwind of the evening, did his best to keep his composure. He picked at his food, occasionally offering a polite smile or a nod in response to Cassidy's banter, but it was clear he was out of his element. His mind was too preoccupied, the tension between them far more pressing than the delicate flavors on his plate.Cassidy, on the other hand, was completely at ease, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual dominance. He ate with deliberate elegance, but his eyes never strayed far from Arthur. Every time their gazes met, there was a silent challenge, an unspoken invitation to cross some invisible line. The space between them was charged, heavy with the weight of what could… and probably would… happen next."So," Cassidy started, his voice low, drawing out the word in a way that made Arthur’s pulse quicke
Arthur stirred from his sleep as his phone buzzed beside him. His hand reached out instinctively, and he glanced at the screen. Cassidy.A soft sigh escaped his lips as he swiped to answer, still half-dazed from sleep. "Hi.""Sweetheart. Morning!" Cassidy’s voice came through, warm and teasing. "By this voice, are you still in bed?"Arthur rubbed his eyes, blinking into the dim light of his room. "Yeah... You woke me up."Cassidy chuckled softly. "Sorry about that. How did you sleep?""Good," Arthur mumbled, still fighting the pull of sleep. "What about you?""I slept well," Cassidy replied, but the faint edge in his voice gave it away. He’d barely slept, he had just gotten home from the club."So, why are you still in bed?" Cassidy’s voice dropped slightly, but there was an edge of curiosity. "Won't you get late for work?"Arthur's eyes flicked to the clock. "I got a day off today."Cassidy paused, the silence thickening. "Oh... I wonder what job gives you a day off in the middle of
Two days laterArthur spotted Cassidy standing near the entrance of the theater, leaning against the wall with an air of confidence that seemed almost too practiced. Cassidy’s eyes immediately locked onto Arthur’s, and he straightened up, a smug smile creeping across his face as he walked toward him."Right on time, Arthur," Cassidy said, his voice smooth with an edge of amusement. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to bail on me."Arthur, completely oblivious to the pressure behind Cassidy’s words, smiled brightly. "Nah, wouldn’t dream of it," he said with a shrug, brushing off the tension he didn’t sense. "I’m here for the movie."Cassidy’s smile deepened, the slightest flicker of something possessive crossing his features before he masked it with a charm-filled grin. “Good,” he said, voice a little too steady, a little too sure. “Let’s grab our tickets then.”
Arthur had always been the type to lose himself in the chaos of everyday life. Work, the investigation, his past… all of it churned in his mind like a never-ending storm. So when Cassidy suggested meeting at an art gallery, Arthur had almost laughed at the idea. He had never been one for fine art, never seen the appeal of standing in front of a painting for hours trying to find meaning in brushstrokes. But something in Cassidy’s voice, that smooth, confident way he’d offered it, made Arthur hesitate, then agree.Now, standing in front of the glass doors of the gallery, Arthur felt oddly out of place. He adjusted his jacket, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he had, before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The cool air inside hit him in a way that made him shiver, though it was warm enough outside. He glanced around at the sleek white walls, the delicate lighting that made the space feel like a sanctuary. Everything about the place felt m
It had been two months since that night at the bar. In that time, Arthur and Cassidy had spent countless evenings together... sometimes talking late into the night over drinks, sometimes sharing comfortable silences during walks through the city. They had slipped into a rhythm, something unspoken but undeniable. The moments between them had grown more relaxed, more comfortable, as if they had always been destined to find each other.Arthur never thought he’d be in a relationship like this, not in the way Cassidy made him feel. It was different from anything he’d known. They weren’t just two people casually hanging out anymore. They were… something more.Casual touches had become frequent... fingers brushing as they passed a menu, hands lingering longer than necessary when they reached for something at the same time. A soft look here, a quiet laugh there. Their conversations had deepened, too... about things beyond the surface level, mom
Cassidy drove home in complete silence, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His mind was racing, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Arthur is a cop. A cop. For two months, he had been dating, touching, kissing, and sleeping with a damn police officer.He parked the car but didn’t get out immediately. He sat there, staring blankly at his hands. This had to be some kind of sick joke, right? Some elaborate prank Arthur was pulling on him? But no… Arthur wasn’t that type. Arthur was oblivious, naive, and frustratingly honest. If he said he worked at the police station, then he did. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like it wasn’t the most insane thing Cassidy had ever heard.Cassidy exhaled sharply and ran a hand down his face. Two months of investing in Arthur… two months of getting attached. He had been this close to introducing Arthur to his family. Hell, he had promised Arthur he would. And now?
Cassidy guided the car smoothly through the dimly lit streets, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the night. His fingers drummed idly against the steering wheel, his mind half on the road, half on the weight of the past few hours.Arthur had asked him to pick him up from work. A simple request. Something normal couples did. But there was nothing normal about them. Arthur was a cop, and Cassidy was a capo.The contradiction burned in his chest like a cigarette ember.He pulled up near the police station, parking in a shadowed spot across the street. He didn't need the wrong set of eyes spotting him and asking questions. If anyone recognized his car sitting outside a precinct for too long, rumors would spread like wildfire. He couldn't afford that kind of attention.His phone buzzed in the cupholder. The screen lit up with a name that had been at his side for years… Nate.Cassidy picked up, keeping his voice low. "Talk to me."
Clark stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, glasses fogging slightly as he adjusted them with one hand. A loose t-shirt clung to his frame, baggy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, flip flops slapping lightly against the hardwood as he moved.The scent hit him before he reached the living room—rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet. His stomach, traitorous as ever, growled on cue.Adam was at the stove, shirtless, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted with each movement, smooth and effortless as he stirred something in a pan.Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “You cook like that and still act surprised people want to fuck you.”Adam didn’t turn. “You flirt like that and still wonder why you end up bruised.”Clark smirked, stepping further in. “Touché.”Adam plated without a word, setting two dishes on the table like it was routine. Like they weren’t still bruised from each other in all the wrong ways.Clark raised an eyebrow. “Settin
The low hum of the television filled the living room. Adam sat sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, remote balanced loosely in his hand. Some news anchor droned on about the latest scandal, but Adam barely glanced at the screen. The sunlight filtering through the windows cast a warm glow over the space, though the tension clinging to the room remained as cold as ever.Clark stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his fingers drumming impatiently against his elbow. He was still in yesterday’s clothes—the wrinkled shirt barely buttoned, the trousers creased from hours spent tangled in bed. He’d rolled up the sleeves at some point, exposing pale forearms that still bore faint impressions of Adam’s grip. Every mark, every ache, gnawed at him."I need to go home," Clark said flatly.Adam didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained on the screen, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly against his dark skin. "No."Clark's jaw clenched. "I wasn’t as
The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n
The air between them was suffocating.Clark’s eyes flashed, his bare chest still heaving as he jerked the sheets higher, though there was little point. The bruises were already visible—dark purple splotches along his neck, across his chest, down his sides. Some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. He felt every mark. Every ache. And the soreness that ran deeper than his skin."You—" Clark’s voice cracked, still rough from sleep, from the night before. He swallowed. "You took advantage of me."Adam stood at the edge of the bed, already tugging his sweatpants back on. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just pulled the waistband up with that same brute force that lingered in Clark’s bones."I'm just as horrified as you are," Adam muttered, his voice low, stripped of anything that resembled guilt. "I’m making breakfast.""Breakfast?" Clark's laugh was sharp. "You think I care about breakfast? You think eggs and coffee are going to make me forget that you—" His hand flew to the side of his
Adam woke to the sound of his phone vibrating.The dull hum buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, insistent and unforgiving. He ignored it at first, the weight of exhaustion still heavy. His body ached. Not the usual ache—not from fights or workouts or even a bad mattress. This was different. Deep. Lingering. And the sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat and something else —something worse. Then it hit him.Clark.Barely covered. Skin marred with darkened bruises and red marks that Adam’s hands—his hands—had left behind. The bite marks at the base of Clark’s neck. The faint outline of teeth against pale skin. The way his chest rose and fell, lips parted, a mess of tangled blond hair sprawled over the pillow. He looked ruined.Adam swallowed hard.`What the fuck did I do?’The memories clawed back like a slow burn. The rough kisses. The bruising grip. Clark’s gasping, stuttering pleas. The bed creaking beneath the relentle
The second bottle was already half empty.Clark’s glass dangled loosely between his fingers, half-forgotten. The amber burn had long since softened to something gentler. Warmer. It dulled the edges, smoothed out the cracks. But the fire inside him? That wasn’t from the scotch.It was from Adam.Barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low... he sprawled across the couch, the muscles in his chest and arms carved deep beneath dark skin. The light brown of his eyes gleamed under the dim lamplight, their sharpness dulled only slightly by the alcohol. Every now and then, Adam’s hand curled lazily around his glass, swirling the drink, his fingers broad and rough. Unbothered. Unapologetically masculine.And Clark? Clark was eating him alive.He wasn’t hiding it anymore.Why should he? The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol. The way his eyes lingered a second too long, traced the line of Adam’s collarbone, the slope of his shoulders—none of it was subtle. And A
Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,