Page 3 of Second Sin

When we reach the elevator, he presses the button, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The elevator dings.

He steps in first. I follow.

It’s tight. Quiet.

Too quiet.

I watch the numbers climbing overhead, willing myself not to notice the way he fills the space. Or his scent—faint sweat clinging to cotton, and whatever lingers when the gear comes off. Grounded. Male.

My pulse betrays me.

I steal a glance. His jaw’s clenched. His eyes stay forward. Hands flex once, then still.

It’s not attraction I feel. Not really.

But I’m not blind.

The man is gorgeous in that rough, unyielding way—sharp cheekbones, a cut jaw, skin still flushed from exertion. His hair is dark and damp at the edges, curling slightly at the nape. And that body… built not just to take impact, but to own it—like he was made for collisions and came out the other side harder.

There's tension in him, but not the sharp kind that comes with ego or arrogance.This is quieter. Like a man who’s been carrying something too long to call it heavy anymore.

The elevator doors open. He steps out, shoulder brushing mine.

Barely a touch.

Still, I feel it more than I should.

“You always this quiet after practice?” I ask, voice lighter than I feel.

“Sometimes,” he says.But there’s the briefest hesitation—like he almost said more.

I nod to myself and fall into step behind him.

He stops outside a plain door.

“This’ll be yours...therapy, wellness,whatever.”

I glance around the room. Empty desk. Neutral walls. A start.

“You good here?”

I turn to answer—and catch him watching me. Not casual. Not curious. Just... watching.

Something flickers in those stormy grey eyes.

Just for a breath. Then gone.

He shifts, hand curling around the doorframe. The line of his shoulders taut, like something’s always held in check.

“I’m good,” I say.

He gives a short nod. “Alright then.”

And he’s gone. No small talk. No lingering.

Just footsteps echoing down the hall.

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