From Frost to Flame

Part 35-Traces of You

The game finally ended with a round of laughter and light teasing, Porsche looking the happiest of them all. Still half-draped over Kinn, he pulled both Kinn and Pete into a tight hug, giggling against their shoulders like a kid who just got away with too much sugar and too many dares.

"I'm tired now," Porsche mumbled, resting his head lazily against Kinn's chest. "Let's go to sleep, babe."

Kinn chuckled, slipping an arm around Porsche's waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Alright, party boy. Let's go."

They both turned to Pete and Vegas. "Good night," Kinn said with a small smile. "Vegas, show Pete his room, yeah?"

Vegas gave a simple nod while Porsche waved sleepily before disappearing with Kinn down the hallway.

"Come on," Vegas said, turning toward Pete. "Let me show you your room."

Pete followed silently, trailing behind as Vegas ascended the grand staircase. The house was nothing short of stunning—spacious, tastefully designed, and every corner exuded quiet luxury. Pete's eyes scanned the hallway on the first floor, admiring the artwork and subtle lighting until Vegas finally stopped in front of a room at the end.

"This one's yours," Vegas said, pushing the door open. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm in the next room, so if you need anything... just let me know."

Pete gave a small nod, stepping inside. His breath caught for a second—the room was gorgeous. Sleek modern lines met warm tones, and the bed looked way too inviting for someone used to basic dorm-style living. Before he could say anything, Vegas added quietly, "Is there something you need?"

Pete glanced at him, surprised by the gentle tone. "I'll let you know," he replied.

Vegas didn't answer, just gave a quiet nod before stepping out. Pete stood there, still as a statue. Something about that interaction felt... off. Not cold. Not warm. Just—unreadable.

But a few minutes later, the door creaked open again.

Vegas stepped back inside, holding a neatly folded set of clothes. "You won't sleep well in those office clothes," he said, nodding toward Pete's wrinkled shirt. "Thought you might want something more comfortable."

A small, almost shy smile tugged at Pete's lips. "Thanks."

"Good night," Vegas said softly before turning and walking out.

Pete closed the door behind him, his heart a little lighter, yet his mind more confused. He explored the room for a moment, fingertips grazing the velvet throw on the bed, the books arranged just right on the shelf.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he disappeared into the bathroom for a warm bath—ready to wash off the chaos of the night, though some feelings still lingered, refusing to fade.

The bathroom was as elegant as the rest of the house—marble tiles underfoot, soft ambient lighting, and a large soaking tub that practically invited him in. Pete twisted the faucet, letting warm water rush in and swirl with gentle steam. He found a bottle of lavender-scented bath gel and poured a little into the stream, watching as the foam slowly built, soft and soothing.

As he undressed and stepped into the tub, the warmth enveloped him instantly, drawing a quiet sigh from his lips. His shoulders finally dropped. The tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying slowly began to melt away. He leaned back, letting the water cradle him, eyes fluttering shut.

The water rippled gently as he dipped his hand beneath the surface, his smile lingering—but his heart already tangled in questions he didn't dare answer yet.

After what felt like the longest bath of his life, Pete finally stepped out of the tub, skin flushed warm and body feeling lighter. He wrapped a thick, soft towel around himself and padded across the heated floor, taking in the quiet luxury of the room.

The clothes Vegas had given him were neatly folded on the nearby armchair—plain but cozy. A soft oversized white tee and loose grey cotton pants. Pete smiled faintly, touching the fabric as if it held some kind of secret warmth.

He slipped them on, the fabric hugging his skin like a gentle promise of rest. So much more comfortable than the stiff office clothes he'd worn all day.

He then stood before the mirror and towel-dried his damp hair, ruffling it gently until it flopped messily over his forehead. A small laugh escaped his lips—he looked younger like this. Less guarded.

As he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror, he paused.

The soft fabric draped over his frame wasn't his—it was Vegas's. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he lifted the collar to his nose, breathing in the subtle, lingering scent. It smelled like unmistakably him.

Then, his eyes trailed downward—landing on his waist.

His eyes were drawn lower, to his waist. He slowly reached down, fingers brushing the spot where Vegas's hands had been. A subtle touch, but it had burned itself into his memory. The way Vegas had held him—not rough, not casual, but steady. Intentional. Like he was something fragile, something to be handled with care.

Pete exhaled slowly, trying to shake the heat that pooled in his chest. He remembered the firm press of Vegas's fingers, the warmth of his palms against his sides. The way his breath had hitched when he was guided down.

The way Vegas had adjusted to his weight, arms tense beneath him, yet never pushing—just there, holding him. Quiet. Grounded.

And Pete? He'd been a mess of flustered nerves. He hadn't even dared to meet Vegas's eyes, not after feeling that close—too close.

His gaze shifted then, trailing from his waist to his hands.

He lifted both, holding them up in front of him like he was searching for answers written in the lines of his palms. His fingers curled slightly, unconsciously remembering the game—that moment when he and Vegas had to hold hands.

It hadn't been an accident. Just a silly rule in a silly game.

But why had it felt like the ground shifted beneath him?

Vegas's palm had been warm—firm, yes, but not forceful. His grip had wrapped around Pete's with a strange kind of gentleness, like he didn't want to scare him off.

Pete remembered how his own hand had trembled just a bit, how his heart had started racing the second their skin touched.

And then their eyes had met.

It was barely a second, but that single glance had knocked the air out of Pete's lungs. Everything around him, Porsche's loud gasps, the teasing, the chaos had faded to a muffled hum.

All he'd felt was heat rushing to his face. His ears had burned. His fingers had twitched. But he hadn't pulled away.

Even now, staring at his hands, Pete felt that same nervous flutter in his chest. The same confusion curling tight in his stomach.

Why had it felt like more?

Why did he still feel it now?

With a shaky breath, he lowered his hands, the ghost of Vegas's touch still clinging to his skin like a secret. Pete turned away from the mirror and padded toward the bed, trying to shake it off.

But it clung to him, like warmth in the silence, like a whisper that refused to fade.

To be continued...

Hey there,
I just wrapped up this chapter and couldn't wait to upload it—my heart's still kinda racing from writing it.
Did you like this chapter or... didn't vibe with it? Be honest, I'd love to know.

Your thoughts and support mean the world to me.
So please, drop a comment as it really keeps me going. 💛

Thank you for reading, always.