Uppercut {a pedro pascal au}

seven {a}

Maisy

A week passes and every night before bed, I recall the low timbre of Pedro's voice as he put Nathan on the spot in the bar.

It appealed to me how protective he was of me and the jealous glint in his eyes when he saw Nathan touching me. It appealed to me entirely too much.

His—perhaps overbearing—behaviour at the bar last Saturday lit a fuse that's shortening by the day, and I'm not sure what happens when it burns to the end.

Each time he's within arms reach, he sends my brain into a sea of nothingness. I have to ward off every thought that features me wanting to climb him like a child would a tree.

I still get phantom sensations of his leather jacket around my shoulders and can still recall the pressure of his calloused palm holding mine.

He's messed up my brain chemistry to the point sometimes I think he is too attracted to me. Randomly, I think I catch him staring at me with those warm, deep-set brown eyes. Much of the time, he appears as if he's fighting an internal battle; it feels like he wants to touch me but decides against it at the last second.

It's stupid, really, because Pedro means nothing to me. I'm supposed to tell myself that he's the intimidating boxer who is trained by my dad or the untouchable father of the boy I look after.

But as I wake today, I'm done lying to myself.

Over the last week, I've come to terms with the fact that I am attracted to a man twelve years my senior. And there's nothing I or anybody else can do about that.

I've come to like him a lot. How he is with Malakai, all gentle and warm. How he is in the ring, all lethal and dominating. And I like how he is with me. I've searched for red flags so I could stop myself from harbouring these feelings but I've come up short.

I like him so much so that I'm starting to think it's not just a fleeting crush.

×××

I should've been smarter, thinking that sitting in on Pedro's training session wouldn't affect me.

I'm exceptionally good at self-sabotage.

Malakai and I set up camp in a lesser frequented corner of the gym from where we have a clear view of Pedro exhausting his body.

His workout is a mix of conditioning and strength training.

Right now, I'm watching him bench-press two times my bodyweight, and he reps it.

When he finishes with his set, he reracks the bar and sits up.

A cutoff t-shirt and basketball shorts grace his body. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric.

Malakai squeals, handing me one of the wooden building blocks he's playing with. I tear my eyes away from his—very hot—dad and help him stack the pieces on top of each other.

Halfway through his session, Pedro takes off his shirt.

Rick is demonstrating for him, moving back and forth in a fighting stance to avoid the swinging of the punching bag and Pedro's eyes move to me before promptly focusing back on my dad.

Heat radiates off my body. I feel like I'm on fire.

Now my dad's wearing mitts and coaches Pedro to punch his palms in a series of reaction drills.

Sweat drips down Pedro, cascading in ripples until it falls prey to the crevices of his taut ab muscles.

When he fixes his gaze on me once more, he catches my eyes drifting across his torso.