Leo's gaze traced the sharp line of the man's jaw, then drifted lower. The duvet dipped dangerously low. Without thinking, driven by a reckless mix of gratitude and that confusing heat, Leo's fingers brushed the waistband of the stranger's sweatpants, then dipped lower. His fingertips grazed warm skin, then the soft, heavy weight beneath. He froze.
The stranger's eyes snapped open. Instantly awake. Instantly furious. That pale grey gaze locked onto Leo's, sharp as shattered ice. "What the *fuck* do you think you're doing?" The gravelly voice was a low growl, vibrating with barely contained violence. Leo's apology died in his throat as the man moved faster than Leo could blink. A powerful hand clamped around Leo's wrist, wrenching it away. Then the stranger was on him, a crushing weight pinning Leo flat to the mattress. One knee pressed hard between Leo's thighs, immobilizing him. The man's other hand slammed down beside Leo's head, caging him. Leo gasped, the air driven from his lungs, the sudden helplessness terrifyingly familiar. The stranger's face hovered inches above his own, breath hot and angry. "You don't touch," he snarled, his grip on Leo's wrist tightening like a vise. "Not unless I say."
Leo flinched, the raw command stripping away any flicker of misplaced gratitude. The heat in his belly turned to ice. "I... I just... you saved me," he stammered, voice cracking. "I thought..." The words sounded pathetic, foolish. What *had* he thought? That brutality bought intimacy? That danger was an aphrodisiac? He'd slipped back into old reflexes, trading submission for a sliver of perceived safety. Stupid. So stupid.
The grey eyes bored into him, unblinking. "Saving you was incidental," the man stated flatly, his weight still pinning Leo effortlessly. "Don't mistake it for kindness." He released Leo's wrist, leaving bruises forming beneath the skin. "Get out." The word hung in the dawn-lit room, cold and final.
Leo scrambled back, scrambling off the bed, his ribs protesting. Confusion warred with shame. Why had he touched him? Gratitude felt cheap, misplaced. The man hadn't saved him out of compassion; it felt more like territorial intervention. He grabbed his ripped hoodie from the floor, the fabric cold and damp. "Thank you," he mumbled, the words thick and inadequate, directed at the stranger's broad, turned back as the man stood by the window again, staring out, utterly dismissing him. "For... stopping them." Silence was the only reply. Leo fled the bedroom, through the sterile luxury of the living room, his bare feet silent on the cool marble. The apartment door clicked shut behind him with unnerving softness.
The elevator descended smoothly. Leo leaned his forehead against the cool metal wall, closing his eyes. The phantom scent of expensive detergent clung to his borrowed clothes, mingling with the lingering stench of the alley dumpster trapped in his hoodie. His wrist throbbed where the stranger had gripped him. But it wasn't the pain he fixated on. It was the unexpected heat, the sculpted planes of muscle glimpsed in the morning light, the sheer, terrifying *presence* of the man. The memory flashed: the coiled stillness before the violence, the brutal efficiency of the takedown. A shudder ran through Leo, part fear, part something else entirely. He hadn't asked for his name. Didn't know who he was. Only knew the crushing weight, the grey eyes, the brass knuckles gleaming darkly.
For seven nights, Leo lay awake in his cramped, rented room above a laundromat. The drone of washing machines below vibrated through the thin floorboards. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, replaying the alley ambush. But inevitably, his mind drifted past the terror, past the scraping concrete and tearing fabric. It landed on the shower's heat, the borrowed clothes smelling faintly of cedar and spice. It landed on the bedroom, the soft light catching the dust motes, the powerful lines of the stranger's sleeping form. The unexpected intimacy of waking pressed against that heat. The forbidden touch. Leo's hand dipping lower, the rough fabric of the sweatpants waistband, the soft weight beneath. Leo's fingertips grazing warm skin. He'd jerked away, furious. Leo squeezed his eyes shut, chasing the sensation. His own hand slid beneath the thin sheet, rough callouses catching on cheap cotton pajamas. He imagined it was the stranger's hand instead, large and capable, wrapping around him. He pictured the grey eyes locked on his, not with fury, but with that same unnerving intensity focused solely on him. Leo's breath hitched. He imagined the man's low growl, not a snarl, but a command: *Show me*. Leo's hips arched off the thin mattress, his hand moving faster, rougher. He bit his lip, stifling a moan, chasing the image of that sculpted chest, the defined ridges of the abdomen disappearing beneath linen, the sheer power held in check. The climax ripped through him, sharp and sudden, leaving him gasping, trembling, soaked in sweat and shame. It wasn't gratitude. It was raw, desperate need ignited by danger and beauty intertwined.
The fluorescent buzz of Burger Blitz felt like sandpaper on raw nerves the next afternoon. Leo didn't bother changing into the stiff polyester shirt. He walked straight into Darren's cramped office. The manager looked up from a grease-stained ledger, his smirk faltering when he saw Leo's expression. "Uniform's in the locker," Darren started, his eyes flicking to Leo's unbuttoned collar. Leo slammed his locker key onto the desk. It clattered loudly. "I quit." The words felt thick, clumsy. Darren blinked, then chuckled, leaning back in his squeaky chair. "Quit? Kid, you got nowhere else to go. Who's gonna hire 'Leo Lust' for flipping burgers?" He gestured vaguely at Leo's chest. "You need this gig. Remember the alley?" The greasy threat hung in the air. Leo met his gaze, the memory of cold brass knuckles flashing in his mind. "Try it," Leo said, his voice surprisingly steady. "See what happens." He turned and walked out, leaving Darren gaping, the stale fryer smell clinging to his back like a bad memory.
He spent hours walking, the city's pulse thrumming beneath his feet. He avoided the alleys, sticking to broad avenues washed in afternoon sun. His feet eventually led him towards the riverfront district, where sleek glass towers reflected the water. He paused outside "Azure," a restaurant whispered about for its tasting menus costing more than Leo's monthly rent. Polished chrome doors, soft lighting emanating warmth. Through the spotless window, he saw waiters gliding in crisp black uniforms, carrying plates like works of art. Clean. Precise. Demanding skill, not... performance. A waiter emerged, holding the door for an elegantly dressed couple. He caught Leo's gaze – assessing, professional, devoid of leering recognition. Hope, fragile and unfamiliar, flickered in Leo's chest.
\
He pushed the heavy door open. Cool, herb-scented air replaced the city's exhaust. The hostess, immaculate in a tailored black dress, offered a polite smile. "Reservation?" Leo cleared his throat. "No. I... I'm looking for work." Her smile didn't waver, but her eyes sharpened slightly. "Kitchen or front of house?" "Front," Leo said, forcing his spine straight. "Experience?" He hesitated. "Customer service. High-pressure environments." It wasn't a lie. Just... selective. She nodded, jotting something on a pad. "Chef Laurent prefers to interview potential staff himself. He's finishing service. Can you wait?" Leo sank into a plush velvet bench near the entrance, the quiet luxury a stark contrast to Burger Blitz's fluorescent glare. He watched the ballet of service – the silent communication, the precise movements. No grease smell. Just seared scallops and rosemary.
The polished chrome door swung open again. A silhouette filled the frame, momentarily blocking the afternoon sun. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unmistakable. Leo's breath hitched. The man who'd pulled him from the alley stood there, scanning the restaurant's dim interior with those pale, assessing eyes. He wore a charcoal suit that looked custom-cut, emphasizing the powerful lines Leo remembered beneath the borrowed sweatpants. His dark hair was neatly combed now, but the coiled stillness remained, radiating an aura that silenced the room's quiet murmur. The hostess's professional smile widened into genuine warmth. "Mr. Thorne. Your usual table is ready."
*Thorne.* The name landed like a stone in Leo's gut. Recognition flashed in those grey eyes as they swept past the hostess and locked onto Leo, sitting rigidly on the velvet bench. Thorne's gaze didn't linger on Leo's face; it dropped, sharp and deliberate, to the ripped seam near the collar of Leo's worn hoodie – the tear made by frantic hands in the alley. Then, just as swiftly, it rose back to Leo's eyes. No flicker of surprise. No anger. Just that unnerving, icy assessment. Leo felt pinned, exposed. The memory of Thorne's furious snarl – *You don't touch* – echoed in his mind, warring violently with the illicit heat that surged low in his belly at the sight of him.
Thorne didn't acknowledge Leo. He gave the hostess a curt nod and strode past Leo's bench towards the back of the restaurant, his movements radiating controlled power. The scent of expensive cologne – cedar and something darkly metallic – briefly replaced the aroma of herbs. Leo watched him disappear into the dimmer recesses, his heart hammering against his ribs. The fragile hope sparked by Azure's quiet elegance felt suddenly foolish, overshadowed by the visceral reality of Thorne's presence. Why was he here? Did he own this place? The hostess's deference suggested he was more than just a customer.
Leo sank back against the velvet, the plush fabric feeling alien against his worn hoodie. His mind raced back to that sterile apartment, the crushing weight pinning him to the bed, the fury in Thorne's eyes. Yet, Thorne had also offered shelter, clean clothes, a shower. He'd slept beside him, radiating heat Leo couldn't forget. Was it mere convenience? A predator safeguarding something he'd claimed? Or something else? The thought twisted inside Leo – a confusing knot of terror and the illicit thrill he'd chased alone in his rented room. Thorne hadn't saved him out of kindness; he'd stated that plainly. So why share his bed? The intimacy felt deliberate, a violation far deeper than the alley's brutality. It whispered of ownership, a silent claim Leo hadn't consented to.