Joey and you had been sneaking moments together, despite the fact that you were still with Batista. You had convinced yourself this was just a casual fling, a fleeting indulgence. After all, you weren’t entirely sure how Joey felt. His actions hinted at something deeper—like the way his eyes lingered on you, soft but intense, even when you were near Batista. It was as if he was trying to tell you something he couldn’t say out loud. And then there was his touch—gentle, deliberate, and strangely intimate despite the roughness of his calloused hands. It felt like his tenderness was reserved exclusively for you.

Still, your heart was conflicted. You cared for Batista. Loved him, even. That’s what you told yourself, at least. You wouldn’t still be with him if you didn’t… right?

Now, lying in Joey’s bed, your body still buzzing from the intensity of what had just transpired, the weight of the moment pressed down on you. The room was dim, illuminated only by the muted amber glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Joey lay beside you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His hand reached out, fingers brushing your temple as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was feather-light, yet it sent shivers through you, as if every nerve in your body was attuned to him.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes held yours, brimming with an emotion so raw, it made your breath hitch. Love and admiration radiated from him, unguarded and sincere. His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, each word carrying a quiet intensity that struck you like a bolt of lightning. There was no hesitation in his tone, no regard for the fact that you were with Batista. In that moment, it was just the two of you, suspended in the fragile, stolen space you had created.