Julian moved into Ethan’s penthouse with two duffel bags, three guitar cases, one motorcycle helmet, and a box of engine parts.

Ethan stared at the box.

“No.”

Julian carried it past him.

“Good morning to you too.”

“That is not entering my apartment.”

“It already entered.”

“It’s leaking oil.”

“That means it’s authentic.”

Ethan looked toward the ceiling as though requesting patience from a God he didn’t believe in.

Julian grinned.

The Tribeca penthouse occupied the top two floors of a converted industrial building.

Glass walls.

Steel.

Stone.

A view across Manhattan that probably cost more than Julian’s favorite garage.

It was also painfully clean.

Julian hated it immediately.

“This place looks like nobody lives here.”

“I live here.”

“My point exactly.”

Ethan showed him the guest suite.

Julian dropped his bags.

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs.”

“Scared?”

“Of what?”

“That I’ll wander in.”

Ethan looked at him.

Julian smiled.

Ethan closed the door in his face.

By the third day, Julian had left guitar picks on the kitchen island.

By the fourth, his jacket lived permanently over one of Ethan’s Italian dining chairs.

By the fifth, a carburetor appeared on the coffee table.

Ethan stared at it for a full ten seconds.

“Julian.”

“Yes, honey?”

“Why is there a car part in my living room?”

“Because the garage has terrible lighting.”

“You do not have a garage here.”

“Exactly.”

Ethan pointed toward the elevator.

“Remove it.”

Julian took a bite of apple.

“No.”

That evening, the carburetor disappeared.

The next morning, Julian found it professionally cleaned and placed inside a storage cabinet.

He stared at it.

Then at Ethan.

“You cleaned this?”

“No.”

“Your staff?”

“Yes.”

Julian smiled.

“That’s adorable.”

Ethan nearly choked on his coffee.

---

At 2:13 a.m. six nights later, Ethan heard the private elevator.

He opened his bedroom door.

Julian’s room was empty.

Ethan checked the security system.

Julian had disabled the interior alarm eleven minutes earlier.

“Son of a bitch.”

Twenty minutes later, Ethan’s car stopped outside an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn.

Music vibrated through the brick walls.

Ethan entered through a side door.

He found Julian in the ring.

Shirtless.

Sweating.

Laughing.

The man fighting him was almost twice his size.

Julian ducked a punch, drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, and swept his legs.

The crowd shouted.

Ethan remained in the shadows.

So this was another piece of him.

Not just a racer.

Not just a singer.

Julian fought like someone who had learned because losing had once carried consequences.

The match ended.

Julian climbed out.

Then three men blocked his path.

The first wore a Cross family ring.

Ethan recognized it.

The second said something too low to hear.

Julian stopped smiling.

“Not tonight.”

One man grabbed him.

Julian broke his wrist grip and hit him in the throat.

The other two moved.

Ethan sighed.

He removed his jacket.

Julian punched one attacker and turned just as Ethan drove his fist into another man’s jaw.

Julian blinked.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Saving you.”

“I was winning.”

A fist came toward Ethan.

He caught the arm, twisted, and drove the attacker into the wall.

Julian stared.

“Okay.”

Another man charged.

Julian kicked him backward.

Ethan grabbed his collar and finished the job.

Within thirty seconds, all three men were down.

The gym had gone silent.

Julian looked at Ethan’s white shirt.

Blood marked the collar.

“You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

Julian touched his lip.

“Occupational hazard.”

Ethan picked up his jacket.

“Home.”

Julian raised an eyebrow.

“You followed me across Brooklyn, got into a fistfight, and now you’re giving me a curfew?”

“Yes.”

“That’s incredibly controlling.”

“Get in the car.”

Julian smiled.

“Yes, fiancé.”

---

Back at the penthouse, Julian pushed Ethan into a kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have blood running down your face.”

“So do you.”

“I’m prettier.”

“That’s debatable.”

Julian stopped.

Ethan did too.

A slow grin appeared on Julian’s face.

“Did you just flirt with me?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I suffered a head injury.”

“That explains everything.”

Julian opened the first-aid kit.

He stood between Ethan’s knees and cleaned the cut near his eyebrow.

For once, neither man spoke.

The apartment was quiet.

Julian’s fingers were unexpectedly gentle.

Ethan watched him.

Up close, Julian had a small scar beneath his chin.

Another near his right eyebrow.

His eyes weren’t quite brown.

Amber, maybe.

Julian noticed the stare.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re terrible at nothing.”

Julian dabbed antiseptic against the cut.

Ethan didn’t flinch.

“Do all CEOs fight like that?” Julian asked.

“No.”

“So where did you learn?”

Ethan’s expression closed.

“Board meetings.”

Julian laughed.

Then Ethan said quietly:

“Only when my fiancé gets himself into trouble.”

Julian’s hand stopped.

The word felt different this time.

Not a joke.

Not an insult.

Ethan seemed to realize it too.

Julian stood between his legs, one hand resting against Ethan’s temple.

Neither moved away.

The air shifted.

Julian looked at Ethan’s mouth.

Ethan saw it.

Then the security system beeped.

Both men pulled apart.

A message appeared on Ethan’s phone.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS — SERVICE ELEVATOR.

Ethan stood instantly.

The softness vanished from his face.

He reached beneath the kitchen counter.

Julian stared as Ethan removed another handgun from a hidden compartment.

“You keep guns in your kitchen?”

Ethan checked the magazine.

“I keep one in every room.”

Julian’s smile disappeared.

“Who the hell are you, Ethan Blackwood?”

The elevator began to rise.