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The room was too quiet. Vegas sat at the edge of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, bruises dotting his arms like shadows. His gun lay discarded on the floor. Blood stained the hem of his sleeves—not his, he knew. But it didn’t feel like a victory.
The mission had gone wrong. Too many bodies. Too close a call. And Pete had been right in the middle of it, even after Vegas told him to stay back.
The door opened behind him with a quiet click. Pete stepped inside, shutting it carefully behind him.
Vegas didn’t turn.
“You ignored my order,” he said flatly.
“You were going to bleed out.”
“I had it under control.”
“You didn’t.”
Vegas stood and faced him, the tension sharp in the set of his shoulders. “You never listen.”
“I listen to what matters,” Pete shot back, jaw tight, still in his blood-streaked clothes. His eyes searched Vegas’s face, softened. “You matter.”
Vegas stared. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. The air between them crackled with something heavy—anger, fear, desire—all laced together in the same unbearable silence.
He crossed the room in three steps and grabbed Pete by the front of his shirt. “You think I don’t know what it means when you put yourself in danger for me?” he hissed, voice tight. "You think I don’t see it?”
“I didn’t do it to prove anything.”
Vegas’s hand loosened. He looked away, jaw flexing. “Then why?”
“Because I’d rather take a bullet than bury you.”
Vegas released him and stepped back. “Take off your shirt.”
Pete obeyed without hesitation. He peeled the fabric away from his skin, revealing a gash on his side, bruises climbing up his ribs. Vegas flinched.
“Jesus, Pete.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Vegas reached out, hand hovering just above the wound. Then, slowly, he brushed his fingers along Pete’s skin—so gently it almost didn’t feel like a touch at all.
“Sit,” he murmured, guiding Pete to the edge of the bed. He fetched a cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from the drawer and knelt in front of him. For a while, neither of them spoke—Vegas cleaned the wound with silent precision, his hands unusually careful.
Pete watched him the whole time. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
Vegas froze.
“Hey,” Pete whispered, reaching down to cover Vegas’s hand with his own. “It’s over. We’re okay.”
Vegas looked up, eyes dark and wide and afraid.“I saw you drop, Pete. I thought—”
“You didn’t lose me.”
Vegas’s lips parted like he might say something, but nothing came out. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Pete’s thigh. Pete threaded his fingers through Vegas’s hair, scratching gently at the scalp. The touch grounded them both.
“Let me take care of you now,” Pete whispered.
Vegas looked up, eyes glazed with something deeper than lust. He rose slowly, pushed Pete back onto the bed, and hovered over him. “You’re too soft for this world.”
“Not for you.”
That broke something in Vegas. He kissed Pete with raw hunger, the kind that came from fear and love twisted together. Pete melted under him, arms winding around his neck. Every brush of skin, every whispered name, felt like proof they were still here, still whole.
Vegas undressed him slowly, reverently. When Pete was bare beneath him, Vegas sat back and let his eyes drink him in—not like a man claiming a prize, but like a sinner in awe of his salvation.
“Do you trust me?” Vegas asked, voice rough.
“With everything.”
He bent forward and kissed the cerulean collar around Pete’s neck. “Keep this on,” he murmured. “I need to see it.”
Pete nodded, lips parted in anticipation.
When Vegas finally entered him, it was slow—achingly slow. He held Pete like he might vanish. Pete clung to him, eyes locked on Vegas’s, every breath a confession.
“I thought I lost you,” Vegas whispered against his skin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Pete whispered back, voice breaking. “I’m yours.”
They moved together like they were trying to memorize each other’s shape, each thrust drawing them closer to something neither of them had dared name—safety, love, home.
Afterward, Vegas lay with Pete wrapped in his arms, their legs tangled, foreheads pressed together. The world outside was still sharp and cruel, but inside this room—inside each other—they were something softer. Something real.
Vegas stroked Pete’s hair gently and whispered, “Only you get this part of me.”
Pete smiled, sleep-heavy and warm. “Good. Because I’ll never give it back.”