He knew he had no right to be jealous—shouldn’t be, couldn’t be—but that didn’t stop the tight knot in his chest as he lingered near one of the lavish tables at Vought’s latest PR event. His eyes refused to leave you, especially as you posed for cameras beside the woman they all believed was your wife. The perfect picture. The golden couple.

But behind closed doors, out of reach from the flashing lights and prying eyes, it wasn’t her hands you craved. It was his. It was him you tangled up with in the dead of night, him you whispered sweet nonsense to, touched so gently it made his head spin. He was the one you laughed with, curled into, kissed like you meant it.

And yet—here you were. Smiling at her like she was your sun and stars. Kissing her like you hadn’t kissed him the night before. Selling the fantasy like a seasoned pro. And fuck, it hurt more than he was ready to admit.

He wanted to be her in that moment. Even for just a second. Even if he hated himself for it.

But he couldn’t afford that luxury. Not with all the labels that already drag behind his name like anchors. He didn’t need “homewrecker” or “gay” slapped on top. Not when he was still trying to remember who the hell he was under all the damage.

The worst part? He hadn’t even realized he’d walked off until the noise faded and he found himself alone in the hallway, heartbeat rattling in his ears like surf pounding on rocks. He leaned back against the cool wall, trying to steady his breath, trying not to fall apart over a show he never should’ve let himself care about.

He also didn’t hear your footsteps until they were close. Didn’t realize you’d followed him. But of course you had. You always did.