The apartment feels suffocating when I return. I drop my bag by the door and stand in the darkness, unable to move, unable to think about anything except that locker room.
Blaze's face inches from mine. The warmth of his skin beneath my fingers. The way he went completely still when I touched him, like he was afraid to breathe and break whatever spell we'd fallen under.
That laugh. God, that laugh. Warm and familiar and so achingly nostalgic it unlocked something I've spent years trying to bury.
I lean against the wall, chest tight with emotions I can't name and don't want to examine. This is what Blaze does to me. Reduces me to this—desperate, aching, completely undone by the memory of his skin under my hands.
I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t. But here I am anyway, phone clutched in my trembling hand, fingers sliding across the screen like they’ve got a mind of their own.
A sick, needy fucking mind that doesn’t care about boundaries or self-respect or anything else but the sweet, sinful ache Blaze’s face puts in my chest and my cock.
The feed loads, and there he is, grinning like the goddamn devil himself.
Blaze on the ice, Blaze in a suit that clings to his body like it was sewn on him just to torture me, Blaze shirtless and glistening with sweat, those fucking veins running down his arms like they’re begging for my tongue to trace them.
My cock twitches, hardening against the fabric of my boxers as I scroll, each image a punch to my gut, a twist of lust and regret and pure, unrelenting desire.
And then—fucking Sophie. Her hand on his chest, her laughter bright and smug, her eyes locked on Blaze like he’s her fucking prize. “Date night with my favorite person,” the caption reads, and I hate her.
I hate her. I hate her so much it makes my chest burn and my dick throb harder, because she’s got him now, and I’m here, alone, with nothing but memories and Instagram photos and the desperate, pathetic urge to touch myself to the thought of him.
My breath hitches as I let my head fall back against the wall, the phone slipping from my fingers to the bed. I know this is wrong.
I know I’m a fucking mess, a grown man reduced to a horny, desperate wreck because of one man’s stupid face and the way he used to make me feel.
But my hand is already moving, palm cupping the bulge in my boxers, fingers curling around my cock through the fabric. A shaky exhale escapes me as I squeeze, the pressure just enough to make my hips jerk, to make my breath come faster, sharper.
“Fuck,” I mutter, voice rough and broken as I shove my boxers down, my cock springing free, hard and leaking against my stomach. My fist wraps around it, tight and familiar, and I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over.
It’s Blaze’s hand instead of mine, calloused and strong, stroking me with that fucking smirk on his face, the one that always made me feel like I was his—only his.
“You’re so fucking needy,” he’d say, his voice low and teasing, his breath hot against my ear as his fingers tightened, as his thumb swiped over the slick head of my cock, and—fuck.
My hips buck into my fist as I imagine it, his voice, his touch, the weight of him pressed against me, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh.
“Missed me?” he’d growl, and I’d nod, because yes, fucking yes, I missed him, missed the way he’d take control, missed the way he’d make me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Blaze,” I gasp, his name falling from my lips like a prayer, like a curse, as I stroke myself faster, harder, the heat building low in my gut, spreading through me like wildfire.
My free hand grabs at the sheets, fingers twisting in the fabric as I imagine him above me, inside me, his cock stretching me open, his hips slamming into mine with the kind of possessive urgency that used to leave me breathless and begging.
“That’s it,” he’d say, his voice rough and fucking wrecked, “take it, take me, you’re mine.”
And I am. I’m his. I’m his in every fucking way, body and soul, and I can’t stop myself from moaning his name, from fucking into my fist with reckless abandon, chasing that edge, that release, that sweet, devastating high only he could give me.
The orgasm crashes through me like a fucking tidal wave, intense and overwhelming, my cock pulsing in my hand as I come, ropes of cum splashing across my stomach, my chest, fucking everywhere.
I bite down on my lip to stifle the groan that wants to escape, but it’s no use—it’s too much, too good, and I’m trembling, fucking shaking with the force of it.
But as soon as it’s over, the shame hits me. Hard. I’m a fucking mess, a grown man jerking off to Instagram photos of his ex-boyfriend like some horny fucking teenager.
I clean up mechanically, my breath still ragged, my heart still racing, and I hate myself. I hate myself so fucking much.
I'm still catching my breath when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. Again. My stomach drops before I even read the message: You think you're safe now? Think your little performance tonight changes anything? You have more to lose than you realize, Captain.
My blood turns to ice.
I stare at the screen, reading the message over and over. The previous texts flash through my memory—months of harassment, threats, someone who seemed to know too much about my private life.
But it's that final word that stops my breath cold.
Captain.
Something clicks. The timing of these messages, the way they always seem to come when I'm most vulnerable, the calculated cruelty wrapped in intimate knowledge of my life.
The person sending these knows me, knows my team, knows enough to hit where it hurts most.
I scroll back through the previous messages, looking for patterns I missed before—the language, the timing again, the specific details that felt too personal to be random.
A terrible suspicion begins to form in my chest.
Someone close to me is doing this. Someone who has access to my schedule, my emotions, my weaknesses, someone who's been watching me unravel for months and feeding on it.
My hands shake as I set the phone down.
If I'm right, if these messages are coming from someone I trust, then I've been even more isolated than I realized. Living with a predator wearing a friendly face.
The apartment feels even more suffocating now, filled with shadows and the paranoia of not knowing who I can trust.
I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and sit in the dark, staring at my phone like it might reveal its secrets if I glare at it long enough.
Somewhere out there, someone who calls me Captain is watching me break apart, piece by piece.
And the worst part is, they might be someone I considered a friend.