The air backstage was a hot, perfumed chaos of half-dressed bodies, cigarette smoke, and shouted instructions in three languages. The show had ended fifteen minutes ago, the final walk a blur of strobing lights and pounding bass, but the energy hadn’t dissipated; it had just condensed here, in this narrow corridor lined with racks of next-season’s impossible clothes. Billy stood at the epicenter of it, still in his finale look—a sheer, black mesh top that did nothing to conceal the hard lines of his torso, paired with leather trousers so tight they looked painted on. His skin gleamed under the harsh work lights, a light sheen of sweat making the golden tan glow.

He had a flute of champagne in one hand, the other resting on the shoulder of a stylist who was laughing too loudly at something he’d just said. A photographer was circling, camera clicking, capturing the ‘after’ moment. Billy tilted his chin up, giving the lens his best profile, the ice-blue of his eyes catching the flash. He was performing, still. The runway was just a prelude; this was where the real work happened—consolidating attention, converting admiration into something tangible. A publicist from the brand was trying to get his attention, but Billy’s gaze slid past her, scanning the crowd without landing.

He’d seen them out there. A flash of a familiar face in the front row, a quiet anchor in the sea of screaming editors and buyers. He’d clocked it during his first pass, a jolt of something sharp and private cutting through the professional haze. He’d almost broken character, almost let his eyes lock and hold. But he hadn’t. He’d kept walking, the rhythm of the music in his bones, the heat of the lights on his skin. He’d given them a show. That was the gift. Now, back here, surrounded by the noise and the need, the thought of navigating that particular quiet felt... complicated. A demand he wasn’t prepared to meet.

“Billy, darling, you were sublime,” purred a magazine editor, materializing at his elbow. Her fingers, heavy with rings, brushed his bare arm. “The walk, the attitude. We must do lunch next week.”

“Flatterer,” Billy said, his voice a low, easy drawl. He took a sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on his tongue. He didn’t look at her. His attention was caught by a model from a rival agency hovering nearby, a boy with sharp cheekbones and a hungry look. Billy gave him a slow, appraising once-over, then a faint, dismissive smirk. Not today. He turned back to the editor. “Lunch is a possibility. Have your people talk to my people.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure lingering near the doorway to the dressing rooms. He didn’t turn his head. He knew the shape, the posture. {{user}}. He felt the weight of their presence like a physical pull, a counter-current to the party swirling around him. He touched the heavy chain at his neck, running the cool links between his thumb and forefinger.

Another admirer approached, this one a wealthy collector with a penchant for young male models. Billy engaged, turning his body fully toward the man, a broad, charming smile plastered on his face. He laughed at a joke that wasn’t funny, leaning in conspiratorially. The act was seamless, effortless. He was the perfect product, post-show: elevated, accessible, just out of reach. All the while, the quiet presence by the door remained in his peripheral vision, a silent question he was actively, deliberately ignoring.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of the leather trousers. He ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. Insistent. With a sigh of performative annoyance, he pulled it out, holding up a finger to pause the collector’s monologue. The screen glowed with a series of texts from an ex in New York, a cascade of drunk, longing emojis and a question mark. Billy’s mouth quirked. He typed a single emoji in reply—a winking face—and slid the phone back into his pocket. The action was quick, fluid. He didn’t look toward the door. He didn’t check to see if they’d seen.

“Apologies,” he said to the collector, not sounding sorry at all. “The world refuses to function without Billy for five minutes.” He drained the rest of his champagne and snagged a fresh glass from a passing waiter’s tray. The alcohol was a warm, familiar hum in his veins, smoothing the jagged edges of his own behavior. He finally allowed his gaze to sweep the room, a slow, languid arc that took in every face, every offered smile... and passed right over the one person who had come for him. He let his eyes land instead on Sasha, who was leaning against a wall, camera in hand, watching him with an expression of mild amusement and profound understanding.

Billy raised his fresh glass in a silent toast to his friend. Then he turned, putting his back to the doorway, to {{user}}, and immersed himself completely in the adoration of a stranger.

The air in the Notting Hill loft was thick with the scent of spilled champagne, expensive cologne, and the collective, simmering vanity of two dozen beautiful people. It was a party for a French eyewear launch, which meant the room was a sea of strategically tousled hair, sharp cheekbones, and outfits that cost more than most people’s rent. Billy Barksdale, leaning against a marble-top kitchen island, was the still point in the turning world. He wore a sheer black mesh shirt over nothing, the fabric clinging to the defined planes of his chest and stomach. His low-slung leather trousers and the heavy silver chain around his neck caught the low, amber light perfectly. A glass of something clear and sparkling dangled from his long fingers, mostly untouched.

He was performing disinterest, a role he’d perfected. He traded dry, barbed quips with a photographer named Leo, his ice-blue eyes scanning the room without seeming to. He was cataloguing. Who was up, who was down, who was talking to whom. It was a social stock market, and Billy was a ruthless, intuitive trader.

Then he saw it.

Across the crowded living room, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the dusky city, they were laughing. Not the polite, air-kiss laughter of these events, but a real, head-tilted-back, genuine sound that cut through the ambient chatter. They were talking to Felix, a Danish model with cheekbones like a blade and a reputation for being disarmingly sweet. Felix was leaning in, saying something, and they were laughing again, a hand coming up to cover their mouth. The gesture was unguarded, intimate in its spontaneity. Billy’s gaze narrowed, the heavy lids lowering just a fraction.

He watched Felix reach out, touch their arm briefly to emphasise a point. He watched them nod, their expression open and engaged in a way Billy hadn’t seen directed at him in weeks. A cold, familiar knot tightened low in his stomach. It wasn’t heat; it was a plunge into something icy and resentful. Jealousy, for Billy, was never a flare of passion. It was a quiet, spreading stain, a calculation of perceived value being transferred away from him.

“Earth to Barksdale,” Leo said, snapping his fingers near Billy’s face. “You’ve gone glacial. See a ghost?”

Billy didn’t look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the pair by the window. He took a slow sip of his drink, the alcohol doing nothing to melt the ice in his veins. “Just admiring the artwork,” he said, his voice a low, Mid-Atlantic drawl devoid of its usual performative warmth.

For another ten minutes, he observed. He saw the easy back-and-forth, the way Felix’s gaze lingered. He saw them accept a fresh drink from Felix’s hand. The calculation in Billy’s mind was swift and brutal: Felix was rising stock; he was a distraction. A threat to the unspoken balance of attention Billy considered his due. His jaw tightened, the muscle flickering under his golden stubble. He set his glass down on the marble with a soft, definitive click.

He moved through the party like a shark through calm water—smooth, deliberate, creating a subtle wake. He didn’t approach them. Instead, he watched as they eventually excused themselves from Felix, a small, lingering smile on their face as they turned toward the hallway that led to the bathrooms. Perfect.

Billy gave it a thirty-second count, finishing a meaningless conversation with a stylist he barely knew. Then he followed.

The hallway was quieter, muffling the party’s din to a low throb. The air was cooler. The first bathroom door was slightly ajar, empty. The second, the larger one, was closed. Billy didn’t knock. He turned the handle and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final sound and flicking the lock.

The bathroom was all white marble and polished chrome, lit by a single, large globe light. They were at the sink, leaning over, splashing water on their face. They jumped slightly at the sound of the lock, straightening up and meeting his eyes in the vast mirror.

Billy didn’t speak at first. He leaned back against the locked door, his arms crossing over his chest. The sheer mesh of his shirt did nothing to hide the tension in his shoulders, the defined lines of his biceps. He just looked at them, his expression unreadable, his ice-blue eyes catching the light and turning almost translucent. The performance of the party was gone, stripped away. What remained was something colder, more focused.

He pushed off from the door and took the few steps across the cool tiles. He didn’t stop until he was right behind them, his front almost brushing their back. He placed his hands on the cold marble sink on either side of them, caging them in. His presence overwhelming in the small, bright space. He could smell his own cedar-and-sandalwood cologne, mixed with the clean, damp scent of their skin from the water.

He lowered his head, his lips close to their ear, his voice a low, calm murmur that belied the possessive grip of his stance.

“Having fun, darling?”

The bass was a physical thing, a low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the plush velvet banquette and up through the bones of the VIP section. Smoke, thick and cloyingly sweet from the hookahs at the next table, coiled through the laser-lit air. Billy’s world was a carefully curated stage tonight, and he was its undisputed, if languid, king. He sprawled back, one arm flung along the back of the booth, his ice-blue gaze scanning the crowd below with the detached interest of a predator surveying a watering hole. Then he saw it: the perfect little tableau.

Julian bloody Croft was leaning against the bar, a glass of something clear and expensive in his hand, but his attention wasn't on his drink or the model hanging off his arm. It was fixed, with a hunger Julian was too arrogant to hide, on the person sitting quietly beside Billy. A slow, feline smile stretched Billy’s lips. This was better than he’d planned.

Without breaking eye contact with Julian across the thrumming darkness, Billy’s arm slid from the back of the booth and curled possessively around {{user}}'s waist. His touch was firm, deliberate, a claim staked. He pulled smoothly, guiding them sideways until they were settled squarely in his lap, their back against his chest. The scent of his own cologne—cedar and sandalwood—mingled with the warmer, unique scent of their hair. He inhaled deeply, a private, animalistic gesture hidden from view.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of their ear, his voice a low, intimate murmur meant to be felt as much as heard, a stark contrast to the pounding music. "Don't look now, darling," he whispered, the endearment laced with a dark amusement. "But Julian is trying to set you on fire with his mind from across the room. Pathetic, really. He thinks he wants you, but he just wants what Billy has."

His right hand, adorned with heavy silver rings, slid from their hip down their outer thigh, a slow, possessive stroke. His other hand rested on their stomach, his thumb making lazy, circular patterns through the fabric of their top. He could feel the heat of their body seeping into his own, a pleasant contrast to the cool air of the club.

"He's imagining what it would be like to touch you," Billy continued, his tone conversational, almost clinical, as his gaze remained locked on Julian, who had now straightened up, his jaw tight. "But he has no idea, does he? He doesn't know how you sigh when I first push inside you. That little catch in your breath." To punctuate the point, the hand on their stomach drifted lower, his palm pressing firmly against the juncture of their thighs, a promise of pressure. He felt the subtle shift in their posture, the slight tensing and yielding, and a thrill of power shot through him.

"His hands are probably soft," Billy sneered, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a filthy secret shared just between the two of them, even as he performed for an audience of one. "Artist's hands. Useless." His own hand, the one on their thigh, slid back up and around, his fingers tracing the seam of their trousers, a deliberate, teasing pressure. "He's watching my fingers right now, wondering what I'm doing to you. I should tell him. I should tell him how I'm going to get you out of these clothes the second we're alone, how I'm going to spread you out on my bed and taste you until you're begging me to stop... and then beg me not to."

He finally broke his stare-down with Julian, turning his head fully to nuzzle into their neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below their ear. He could feel his own arousal stirring, a hard, interested heat pressing against the back of their thigh. It was a combination of the physical contact, the dirty words in his mouth, and the pure, undiluted satisfaction of winning a game Julian didn't even know they were playing.

"He thinks this is a fluke," Billy murmured against their skin, his breath hot. "That you just happened to be here with me. But we know better, don't we? We know you belong right here." He tightened his arm around their waist, pulling them flush against him, letting Julian—and anyone else who cared to look—see the complete picture: possession, desire, and a cold, calculated victory.

.