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My attention fixes on him before I can stop it.
White tank top. Loose jeans. Heavy boots striking the pavement in an unhurried rhythm. The tank top clings to his chest, revealing tattoos curling across his collarbone and running down both arms.
His hair is longer now, noticeably longer than the low buzzcut he’s worn for as long as I’ve known him.
I remember telling him to grow it out.
The memory hits me hard—Maksim on his knees in my office, mouth stretched wide around my dick, eyes watering as I gripped his hair and fucked his throat.
“Grow your hair out. I want to grab them harder whenever I feed you this dick.”
He’d done it.
The realization settles low in my gut, warm and dangerous. He’s keeping it longer because of me. Because I asked. Even when he’s furious with me, some part of him still wants to please me.
He looks good despite what’s been going on with him. He looks too good, dangerous, and recklessly beautiful in that unhinged way only he can pull off.
He gets closer, and I roll down the window, gesturing toward the passenger side without a word.
He stops walking.
One eyebrow lifts and his mouth purses into something deliberately, theatrically stubborn. The exact expression of a man who has decided, on principle, that he is not going to make this easy for me.
“You expect me to just get in?” he asks, voice carrying easily across the short distance between us.
“Yes.”
“Just like that? No apology first? No groveling?”
“Maksim.”
“That’s not an apology.”
I let out a slow breath, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “I don’t want to argue with you on the street.”
“You started this conversation by calling me a child.”
“And you threatened to blow my head off. I’d say we’re even.”
He tilts his head, considering that with far too much amusement for someone who spent the last week refusing to answer a single one of my calls.
“Get in the car, Maksim.”
For a long second, he just stares at me, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. Then he rolls his eyes dramatically, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “arrogant asshole.”
But he opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.
The moment he closes the door, the air in the car shifts—thick, charged, heavy with everything we haven’t said. He smells of his usual cologne, Amber and musk, mingled with the faint scent of jasmine. I want to reach over and pull him to me. Instead, I start the engine.
The drive is quiet. Too quiet.
Maksim is never quiet. He’s chaos and noise and sharp-tongued commentary wrapped in one infuriatingly beautiful package. But right now he’s silent, staring out the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. The kind of silence that feels loaded, like a storm cloud hovering just overhead, waiting for the right moment to break.
I keep my eyes on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Not when he’s like this. One wrong word and we’ll be arguing again. I’m tired of fighting him when all I really want is to pull him close and remind myself he’s still here.
When I turn into the Walmart parking lot, I feel his gaze shift to me. He’s been watching me with that curious, slightly suspicious raised brow ever since I left the hotel. I kill the engine and finally glance over at him.
“What are we doing here?” he asks.
