From Frost to Flame

Part 69: Pete's Apartment

Pete unlocked the door quickly, like if he hesitated too long he might change his mind.

The door opened to a soft wash of warm yellow light.

Not bright.

Not dim.

Just... calm.

Vegas stepped in behind him.

And stopped.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Pete slipped off his shoes near the entrance. Vegas did the same.

The living room was small but open. White couch. A soft yellow lamp glowing near the corner instead of the ceiling light.

It didn't feel staged.

Just lived in.

A blanket half-folded on the armrest. A book left open on the table.

Vegas glanced around once.

"You live alone?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Vegas nodded slowly.

It was quiet here.

Not empty.

Just calm.

Pete ran a hand through his hair.

"You can freshen up," he said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Bathroom's on the left."

Vegas loosened his tie slowly.

"Bossy in your own house," he murmured.

Pete rolled his eyes. "Just go wash up."

Vegas slipped off his blazer and draped it neatly over the couch.

Then he tugged his tie loose, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and disappeared down the hallway.

Pete stood still for a moment after he was gone.

Then exhaled.

"Relax," he muttered to himself.

He changed quickly into a soft white T-shirt and comfortable pants.

When Vegas returned a few minutes later, his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms.

His hair slightly damp from washing his face.

Tie gone.

Top buttons open.

Pete looked up from the kitchen entrance—

And paused.

Vegas walked in casually, drying his hands with a small towel.

The rolled sleeves exposed the veins along his forearms.

Pete's eyes dropped.

Slowly.

From his shoulders.

To his chest.

Down to his waist.

Then back up.

Vegas didn't notice.

Pete blinked hard.

Concentrate.

Vegas is not dinner. You are making dinner.

Vegas leaned against the counter like he belonged there.

"You stare a lot," he said lightly.

Pete almost choked.