Steve never thought he could feel this kind of rage.
He had felt anger before—raw, violent, the kind that made his knuckles split and his vision go red. But this? This was something else.
This was betrayal.
He stood frozen in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, hidden behind rusted metal beams, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out Christian's voice.
"I need more time." Christian's voice was steady, but Steve knew him well enough to hear the tension beneath it.
From his hiding spot, Steve watched as Christian stood in front of two men in suits—men Steve recognized all too well.
FBI.
His stomach twisted.
One of the agents sighed. "You've been undercover for months, Christian. We're done waiting. We have enough evidence to bring Steve in now."
Undercover.
The word made Steve feel sick.
Christian wasn't here by accident. He hadn't just noticed Steve.
He had targeted him.
Christian hesitated. "Steve is... different."
"Different?" The agent scoffed. "He's a criminal, Christian. One of the worst. Don't let whatever personal attachment you've developed cloud your judgment."
Steve clenched his fists.
Personal attachment.
Was that all this had been? A game? A mission?
Had Christian ever felt anything for him?
"We'll move in by the end of the week," the agent continued. "Get Steve somewhere isolated. Somewhere we can take him quietly."
Christian didn't respond.
Steve didn't stay to hear more.
He turned and walked away, his vision blurring with rage, with something worse than rage.
Something that felt a lot like heartbreak.
⸻
He didn't go home.
He didn't call Christian. Didn't give him a chance to explain.
Instead, he vanished.
For days, he ignored the texts, the voicemails, the constant knocking at his door.
Steve, please, let me explain.
It's not what you think.
I didn't mean for this to happen.
But Steve knew better.
Christian had chosen to lie. Had chosen to infiltrate his life, make him feel things, only to throw it all away the moment it suited him.
Steve wasn't some fool. He wasn't some lost kid waiting to be hurt again.
Christian had made a mistake.
Because now, Steve didn't know whether he wanted to kiss him... or destroy him.
Three days passed before Steve saw Christian again.
He hadn't meant for it to happen. He had been walking through the city, trying to clear his head, when he turned a corner and—
There he was.
Christian was leaning against the hood of his car, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles beneath them.
The moment he saw Steve, he pushed off the car. "Steve—"
"Don't."
The word came out sharp, cutting, and Christian flinched.
Steve stepped closer, slow, deliberate. He kept his voice low, even. "How long?"
Christian swallowed. "Steve—"
"How long?"
Christian's jaw tightened. Then, finally—
"Since the beginning."
Steve exhaled sharply. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
The beginning.
From the first night. From that first damn drink.
"Was any of it real?" Steve asked, his voice quieter now, more dangerous.
Christian took a step forward, but Steve didn't move.
"Yes," Christian said. His voice cracked. "Steve, I didn't plan for this. I didn't—"
Steve let out a hollow laugh. "You didn't plan to fuck me? Didn't plan to look me in the eyes and make me think I actually mattered to you?"
Christian winced, pain flashing across his face.
"That's not fair," he said. "You do matter."
Steve shook his head. "No, I don't. I was just a case. A name on a fucking file."
"No." Christian reached out, but Steve stepped back. Christian's hand hovered in the space between them, trembling. "I was supposed to get close to you. That's true. But what happened between us—that wasn't a lie."
Steve stared at him. "And yet you were still going to turn me in."
Christian opened his mouth. Then shut it.
And that told Steve everything he needed to know.
He turned.
"Steve—"
Steve didn't stop walking.
Not even when Christian whispered, broken—
"I love you."