Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

13

TW: Pete is intentionally hurting himself to
test a theory.

There's a little announcement at the end 👉🏻👈🏻

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Counting each step, one after the other, Pete fell into his old routine—something he used to do when he needed to gather his thoughts on the way back to what was supposed to be his safe haven. The first family's building, his "home." But tonight, that word felt as empty as his attempts to find some kind of comfort, of peace.

He didn't take the elevator. First, because he wanted to be discreet, and second, because he needed this time to breathe. He really needed it to try to make sense of everything that happened tonight, even though deep down he already knew it was a complete waste of time. He knew it was all in vain. He knew it was like trying to untangle a mess of wires only to realize they were frayed beyond repair.

But apparently, Pete's brain didn't get the memo. He had long given up trying to reason with it—what's the point, anyway? What's the plan? Eat his feelings until he blows up like a balloon? Already done that. Cry himself to sleep again because he finally figured out that, him, acting like a complete lunatic was just him falling for the one guy he absolutely shouldn't? Done too. Even Daw saw it coming before he did. Pete's heart just wouldn't shut up about it. As for his rational, down-to-earth, and oh-so-objective brain? It didn't think being in love was a good enough excuse to act like the world just stopped—or to admit it to the guy who had his lips on him two minutes earlier.

The smell of dust and cleaning products filled the air, blending with the low hum of the AC. His heart pounded in his chest, not from the midnight stair workout he'd inflicted on himself, but from the electric thrill that was still pulsing in his veins. The feeling of being truly alive in a way that was completely new to him.

All of this—every dizzying rush of blood and breath—because, just minutes ago, he'd been clinging to the strong waist of a man he'd always thought of as nothing more than his boss's nemesis: the psycho, the monster, the pervert. The man who had shown him something unexpected, something Pete never thought he'd experience—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of vulnerability that left him questioning everything all over again.

Two hundred ninety-nine steps later, Pete hoped that somehow, on this twenty-third floor, he might find some kind of answer. Six minutes and twenty-three seconds to reach his room—six minutes and twenty-four seconds, and still not nearly enough time to make sense of this whole masquerade.

Pete fumbled with his keys and tried to unlock the door as quietly as possible. It was the middle of the night, and the last thing he wanted was to wake anyone up—or worse, get caught sneaking back in by Chan. Sure, they technically had the right to have a life outside the building, but Chan would definitely ask questions. And right now, Pete wasn't in the mood to explain why he looked like he'd been mugged by a pack of rabid dogs, why he was wearing a shirt three sizes too big, or most importantly, why his neck looked like he'd contracted a rare and highly contagious exotic disease.

But of course, Pete wasn't the lucky type—never had been, never would be. The universe probably had a dartboard with his face on it at this point. So, when he finally managed to slip the key into the lock without waking the entire floor and got the door open, he froze. He realized there was a lot more to fear than just Chan.

"So, now you're home," a voice cut through the dark like a knife.

Pete nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. His hand instinctively reached for the non-existent gun that should've been tucked into his waistband. But of course, in his infinite horny wisdom, Pete's brilliant brain had decided it was a better idea to grab a pack of condoms before going on a date with a complete stranger rather than, you know, an actual weapon.