I wake up with a content smile. I feel warm and tightly cocooned, like I’m wrapped in a cloud with the sun shining down on me. My body feels well-rested, too lazy still to fully wake up. I sit comfortably between the sleep and waking state. The whole sensation is so comfortable that I sigh happily and snuggle further into my cocoon.
The cloud tightens around me.
I frown, the sensation abruptly waking me. Do cocoons move?
I blink my eyes open. I’m still too close to whatever is wrapped around me, so I slowly pull back to analyze the wall in front of me.
My breath catches as I realize I’m staring up at Tristan’s face only two inches from mine. He’s snoring softly. His expression is so peaceful, so happy, that for a moment, I can’t stop staring. It’s such a different image from how I usually see him.
His arms tighten around me again and I realize that his body is my warm cocoon. He pulls me closer so all I can do is press my face into his chest. I feel his cheek against my hair.
I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. We must’ve fallen asleep during the fights last night and ended up tangled together on the couch. I’m shocked to be in this position but I’m even more shocked at how much my body is enjoying the feeling. I realize that the last thing I want to do is get up.
My relationship with Tristan has only ever consisted of arguments, sarcasm, and harsh insults. It feels bizarre to have a moment free of all that. With him unconscious, I’m free to experience him in a way that I’ve never even imagined. And my mind can’t seem to wrap around it.
It suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been nuzzling into his chest for the past few minutes, entirely too comfortable with the feeling of his arms wrapped around me. I need to get up. I can’t be in this position when he wakes up. It would be way too awkward for both of us.
I take a deep breath—ignoring the pang inside of me that hates that I’m about to pull myself away from this moment of perfection—and gently wriggle down and out of his arms. I roll off the couch, landing with a small thud. I jerk my head toward Tristan to see if the sound woke him up, but let out a sigh of relief when I see his eyes are still closed.
I watch, curious, as the expression on his face changes. Where only a moment ago he looked peaceful, now his brow is furrowed, and the corners of his lips have turned down. He looks confused, even angry. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I think about how I hate this change in him, and that I wish he would be happy again.
I realize then that he’s probably about to wake up. So, before he can spot me standing there staring at him, I bolt out of the room and head upstairs to get ready for work.
My workday is a clusterfuck of chaos. Between the constant stream of people stopping by my desk with nonsensical questions and my own jumble of distracted thoughts, I feel like I’m actually getting further behind on my work. By the time 5:00 comes around I’m ready to scream my frustration.
Typically, on days where I’m in a bad spot with my to do list at work, I stay as late as I need to in order to get comfortably caught up. But I feel so frustrated with work lately that I’ve officially reached a strong state of fuck-it.
Ignoring the surprised glances of my coworkers around me, I pack away my laptop and grab my gym bag from beneath my desk.
‘Leaving already, Remy?’ someone calls from behind me in a teasing tone.
I slow my determined march toward the exit and turn to see who called after me.
I realize from the lazy grin on his face that it was one of the sales guys. He’s leaning against the front desk, clearly flirting with the giggling and doe-eyed secretary.
He straightens when he sees me turn around, his smirk still firmly in place. ‘I’m surprised. Isn’t it a little early for you to be leaving?”
I continue to stare at him in sheer amazement at his set of brass balls. Even looking past his particular work habits, 5:00 is the official end of the workday. There’s no reason anyone should be teased for leaving on the dot. Not to mention the company is flexible enough that plenty of people often leave at 4:30 or even 4:00—this asshole included.
‘I’d say I’m more surprised that you’re still here,’ I answer tightly. ‘Doesn’t your workday typically end after a two-hour lunch? Or are you putting in overtime because Becca got a new haircut and looks really cute today?’
Becca shoots me a stupid, grateful smile at the same time that the smirk drops from his face. His brows furrow in anger, probably having never been called out for his lazy work habits that everybody knows about but is too polite to address.
I turn and continue toward the stairs, not wanting to hang around this place for another second. ‘Have a good night,’ I call behind me.
By the time I reach the gym in the basement, I’ve walked enough steps and taken enough deep breaths that I’ve worked through the majority of my enraged anti-work thoughts. I’m so over my own coworkers and the amount of work that’s piled up on my plate—none of which I enjoy doing—that I know spending any more time thinking about it will only make the situation worse. I’ll put everything work-related out of my mind, run a few miles, and then maybe I’ll try to get a little more work done at the house.
I change into my running gear and start on the treadmill at a jog. It doesn’t take long for my thoughts to go from angry, to forcibly meditative, to now puzzled and reflective.
Except now my frazzled thoughts aren’t about work—they’re about my night with Tristan.
I increase the speed of the treadmill to try to further distract myself from the confusing replay of our questions game. In just two hours last night, Tristan managed to completely change my view of him. And in just a few minutes this morning, my own subconscious reaction to him changed it even more.
I meant what I said to him about never thinking he was a dumb brute. But I also never really thought of him as more than a fighting-obsessed womanizer who only cared about himself.
Although, I admit the womanizing skills have been deliciously appreciated lately.
But to find out that he has intellectual interests, that he understands what a person’s favorite book says about them, and that he’s had a life plan outside of fighting since before he began, is not something I expected to learn about him. I also never thought about how fighting explains a lot of his apparent self-centeredness. I’ve seen how much time and energy goes into being a professional athlete, but I never really considered how selfish they have to be at that level. To be the best they can be, athletes need to center their whole world around the sport and devote every second, every resource, every last ounce of their energy.
It’s no wonder he doesn’t date seriously. He probably knows he wouldn’t be able to give a girlfriend the time or attention she needs. In a way his player attitude actually makes sense now—something I never thought I’d say. I always assumed he just thought of women as interchangeable and didn’t care to see them as more than an hour of pleasure. But maybe he’s actually being considerate of their feelings by being honest with them that he can’t offer a real relationship.
As I increase the speed on the treadmill, I can’t stop thinking about my new feelings toward Tristan. I obviously don’t hate him as much as I did a few weeks ago if I bent over for him—three times. Something about being in close confines with him has allowed us to see more of each other than we ever have in the past few years. We’ve never spent time together with just the two of us, and I’ll admit that getting to know each other beyond a surface level understanding when there’s always a horde of other fighters around us isn’t exactly an easy task. It’s no wonder we didn’t really know each other.
I was also correct in my thinking last weekend when I realized our verbal sparring is actually proof of the sexual tension between us. It always has been, even though we never realized it. And fuck if the years of ‘foreplay’ didn’t set us up for a few seriously explosive encounters.
But where do we go from here?
By Tristan’s own admission, he’s not looking for a girlfriend. And I’m definitely not looking to be one. He’s too focused on fighting and I’m… just not interested in being a couple. I like being independent. I like not having to consult someone else about my plans or worry that they won’t like that I spend so much time around guys in the gym. God knows I’ve dealt with enough of that jealousy in past relationships. But I mostly just enjoy being by myself right now.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy sex. I don’t do sex with strangers, but I’ve had a few friends with benefits over the years. I’m not sure I consider Tristan a friend yet, even if I don’t hate him anymore, but the benefits with him are definitely a thousand times better than with anyone else. Maybe hate sex—or barely-just-stopped-hating-you sex—really is the best kind.
I decrease the speed on the treadmill as I start to cool down from my 5-mile run. I feel appropriately winded, and my legs are screaming from the exertion and fast pace. My head feels ten times clearer than it did an hour ago, and I happily jog the last mile. Exercise endorphins are a wonderful thing.
I wonder if I’ll see Tristan tonight. He’s usually at the gym until late, so I don’t know if I’ll run into him again before I go to bed. I wonder if last night is making him consider the same things I just spent the last hour thinking about.
I snort. Fat chance.
He’s probably surprised he allowed himself to be engaged in a series of personal questions. Maybe he actually enjoyed himself. Maybe I should actually consider us friends.
Well, maybe non-enemies with benefits is more accurate.
I slow my pace to a walk as I let myself come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t mind having Tristan on me again. Memories of his hands gripping my hips, of my tongue tangling with his, of the overwhelming feeling of him moving inside me, flash through my mind. A blush flames my cheeks and a light sweat breaks out across my skin—separate from the one I worked up with my hard run.
I shake my head to clear the distracting thoughts. Just because I wouldn’t say no if Tristan came on to me again doesn’t mean I’m going to throw myself at him the next time I see him. For one, neither of us wants to get involved, and too many encounters just increase the chances of something going wrong. So, it’s probably smarter to not make this into a reoccurring thing. But for another, I don’t want Tristan to think I’m just another desperate plaything. The last thing I need is him thinking he holds any power over me.
I exhale a heavy breath as I press the Stop button on the treadmill. Now that I’m calmer and have a clear head, I really do have work I need to finish. But I’m definitely not doing it at the office, since I’m actually more productive in a casual setting where I can be sprawled out on a bed wearing sweats with my hair in a messy bun.
The house is empty when I get home, for which I’m grateful. I’ll get more work done if I don’t have Tristan distracting me—both physically and mentally. I reheat the chicken alfredo I made earlier this week and head upstairs to shower and get settled for the night.
I smile happily when I finally flop down on Jax’s bed, clean and full and comfortable. I force myself to resist the urge to snuggle into the pillows with a book and instead pull my laptop from my bag with a dejected sigh. I start in on a product marketing campaign.
It doesn’t take long for my frown to reappear and my head to begin pounding again. I feel so bored doing this work.
I actually enjoyed the writing when I first started at the company. It obviously wasn’t the kind of literature that I had loved studying in college, but part of me enjoyed the fact that I was using my skills to project a valuable technology product into the world. I even enjoyed the challenge of learning the marketing aspect.
But nowadays I just can’t find it in me to care about what I’m writing. I don’t enjoy doing technical research for a product I don’t understand, just because the engineer was too lazy to write the datasheet themselves. I don’t enjoy writing about the same product over and over again. And on top of everything else, I can’t stand the fact that I care so little about what I’m writing, yet it eats up so much of my time—I feel like I’m expending way too much energy on something that, in reality, is just mindless grunt work.
I stick my pen through my bun and rub my eyes tiredly. I stand up from the bed and begin pacing around the room. I find myself remembering Tristan’s last question to me.
What’s your biggest struggle in life?
I can definitely appreciate that my biggest problem right now is something as easy as not enjoying my job. I inhale a deep breath and take a moment to silently express my gratitude that I have a stable, well-paying job that I can afford to dislike.
But as soon as that moment is over, I think about how unhappy it really makes me.
This is not what I wanted to be doing with my life. When I realized after college just how hard it was to become an author, I accepted this job for the stable paycheck. But the plan was never to stay here for years. I should’ve used the first year to work through my writing process and get a few books ready to publish.
And yet somehow, after I failed so horribly at writing during that summer after graduation, I just couldn’t get myself back into it. It was almost like I had scarred myself away from my own passion. I still read a lot and would jot down ideas in my journal, but I haven’t given writing an honest shot in years.
Instead, I let myself remain stuck with writing blurbs about a technology I don’t care about and will never use.
I wonder if Tristan is right. I wonder if the choice here is really between a life of definite regret from not going after what I want, and possible disappointment if I try and fail. Is it really that simple? Was I so scarred from my first try that I’ll never attempt it again?
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t realize Tristan is home until I hear him coming up the stairs. His phone rings just as he gets to the hallway. I don’t think he knows I’m here because he doesn’t shut the door to his bedroom before he answers. I can hear him clear as day even through my own closed door.
‘Hey, Mom. I was actually just about to call you… No, everything’s fine, I just wanted to talk to you about something… Where are you with planning your birthday trip? Is everything officially scheduled?’
I hear Tristan start to pace the hallway. Even his steps sound agitated.
‘Okay, so everything is set then. Fuck… Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to slip out. I’m just asking because I got offered a really big fight that weekend and it would be huge for my career if I could take it. A win would definitely put me on the UFC’s radar… No, of course I’m not saying I don’t care about your 50th birthday. I love you, and I would love to be there for you. I know how excited you are to get the whole family together for a weekend. But this is a really huge opportunity and—Mom, please stop crying. Please don’t cry…’
Tristan’s angry steps cease, and I can only imagine the frustration that I’m sure is plastered all over his face. I know his relationship with his parents is rough when it comes to fighting so I can guess how difficult this call is for him. To find out that you have a great opportunity that might catapult you into your lifelong dream, and then have to turn it down because your Mom wants you at her birthday party, sounds painful and unfair.
I meant what I said to Tristan last night. I really think his Mom will come around at some point—she just needs to realize how important fighting is to him.
Apparently, today is not that day.
‘If it means this much to you then of course I’ll come for the weekend. I just want you to be happy… But Mom, I need you to try to understand how big this decision is. I know you and Dad don’t understand why I fight but I need you to want to support me anyway. I love fighting and Mom, I’m really fucking good at it. As in, I’m telling you I’m going to be one of the best fighters in the world one day. Will you be proud of me then? When I have a belt strapped around my waist? Or will you always just be waiting for me to grow out of my silly little karate phase?’
I feel my own heart breaking just listening to this.
‘Fine, Mom, I don’t want to talk about it now, either. We’ll talk another time… Yeah, I’ll be there for your birthday weekend… I promise… I love you too… Bye, Mom.’
I’m still frozen in place when I hear Tristan’s huff of frustration as he enters his room. I can’t tell what he’s doing in there, but I hear him aggressively moving things around.
I try to wait for him to go back downstairs or at least shut his door, but after a few minutes I decide it’s ridiculous for me to walk on eggshells around him. Plus, I really need to get some water.
As softly as I can, I open the door and start to tiptoe down the hall. I guess I was lying to myself about the eggshells.
But it doesn’t matter how quietly I walk because Tristan picks that moment to step out of his room.
He freezes when he sees me. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he realizes I heard every word of his conversation. And although he opened up to me about his Mom last night, I get the feeling that he wouldn’t have wanted to share what just happened with anyone. I wince guiltily.
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ I blurt awkwardly. ‘I was just going to get some water.’
I go to step past him but, per usual, he blocks my path. Except this time there’s nothing teasing in his expression. No jokes tumbling from his lips, no smirks, no sleazy innuendos. He just looks deflated.
‘You’re never in the way,’ he says gruffly. His eyes bore into mine, clearly studying me for something. I shuffle my feet awkwardly.
‘OK, well I’m going—’ I start but he cuts me off.
‘What would you do if you were me?’ he asks suddenly. “What would you do if you had to pick between your dream and your family?”
My eyes widen in shock. Not just because I’m surprised he’s letting me into a side of his life that I know he prefers to keep a secret, but because he’s asking for my opinion, too. This conversation with his mom is clearly weighing heavily on him if he’s desperate enough to talk to someone about it. He rarely even opens up to Jax about it.
I feel a pang of deep sadness for him.
I hesitate, knowing he’s not going to like my answer. ‘I would give up everything for my sister,’ I answer softly. ‘Not just because she’s my best friend, but because family—whether by blood or by choice—is the foundation of everything. Without them we have nothing.’ I cock my head as I study him, trying to figure out how I can say what I want to without seeming like I’m trying to push him in one direction or the other. ‘There will always be another dream, or at least another opportunity for the dream. Nothing is the end of the world but the end of the world. We’re always changing, always re-prioritizing things in our lives. Something we didn’t give a shit about last week might be important to us this week.’
Something blazes in his eyes when I say that. I don’t quite understand it, and he doesn’t say anything out loud, but I can see his mind spinning a million miles a minute right now.
He looks so vulnerable, so much like a lost child, that part of me wants to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything will be okay. The moment is so surreal that I forget this is Tristan I’m talking to. Instead of our usual easy banter, this feels heavy, and real. I can’t bring myself to look away.
I’m still locked in place when he takes a step toward me. His gaze feels like it’s devouring my soul, the tension so thick I can barely breathe. And even though I’ve vowed multiple times over the past few days to never let him near me again, I can already tell my defensive walls are about to come tumbling down.
‘Remy…’ His voice cracks on my name.
And with it, cracks my resolve.
Suddenly all the games, all the power moves, everything that makes our relationship as vicious as it is, disappears. Suddenly, I couldn’t care less about whether or not he has power over me, whether or not he’ll consider this me surrendering to him. I’ve been lying to myself about how much I want him near me anyway, and right now it’s obvious that I’m not the only one. He’s clearly just as desperate as I am. Just as powerless.
And in this moment, the game of who’s in control disappears, and we’re left with only each other and the unbearable heat between us.
His lips crash down to mine. I kiss him back just as hard, giving myself up to him completely and sliding my arms around his neck as I open my mouth to him. The kiss charges an already overcharged tension between us, and we begin grabbing desperately at each other.
Tonight, neither of us has the power. Tonight, we both win.
