HIS SECRET FLAME🔥

Rain and Regret

Thunder rolled across the city like a warning Alex refused to heed.

It was just past midnight when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging him from a restless half-sleep.

The screen lit up with an unknown number, but the message preview made his stomach drop.

Unknown: It’s Dami. Marcus said you’re closest. Can I come over?

Alex sat up, heart already kicking faster. He typed back quickly.

Alex: Yeah. Text when you’re outside.

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to. Dami’s father had a reputation for explosive nights,

and Marcus was out of town for a work conference until tomorrow afternoon.

That left Alex as the next safe harbor in the Rivera-adjacent storm.Ten minutes later, another buzz.

Dami: Here.

Alex pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, not bothering with anything else. His apartment was a modest one-bedroom in a converted warehouse building—exposed brick, high ceilings, and big windows that showed the city lights glittering through sheets of rain.

He buzzed Dami in and waited by the door, nerves crackling like the storm outside.

When the knock came, it was heavier than expected. Alex opened the door to find Dami drenched, water streaming from his dark hair and dripping off the hem of his black leather jacket.

A fresh split on his lower lip glistened under the hallway light, already swelling. His hazel eyes looked hollow, shadowed with exhaustion and something sharper—anger, shame, defeat.

“s**t,” Alex breathed, stepping aside.

“Get in here.”Dami didn’t argue.

He crossed the threshold, boots leaving wet prints on the hardwood.

The scent of rain, cigarette smoke, and faint whiskey clung to him. He shrugged off the jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair with a heavy slap.

“You want a towel?”

Alex asked, already moving toward the bathroom.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

While Dami dried off in the living room,

Alex grabbed two glasses and the half-bottle of decent whiskey he kept for nights like this—

though he’d never imagined one involving Dami Kane standing barefoot and shirtless in his apartment, water still tracing paths down the defined lines of his chest and abs.

The tattoos looked darker when wet: a phoenix rising along his ribs, intricate script curling over his collarbone, and the small compass on his wrist that Alex had noticed more times than he cared to admit.

Dami accepted the towel and rubbed it roughly over his hair, then draped it around his neck.

“Sorry for showing up like this. Dad lost it again. Same old s**t—called me a disappointment, said I was wasting my life behind a bar instead of ‘being a man.’”

He let out a bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Like getting my face rearranged makes him feel better about his own failures.”

Alex poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass and handed one over. Their fingers brushed. The contact sent a small jolt through him, but he pushed it down.

“You don’t have to apologize. You’re always welcome here.”

They moved to the couch.

Dami dropped onto it with a sigh, legs sprawled, head tipping back against the cushions.

Alex sat at the opposite end, giving him space, though every instinct wanted to close the distance.

For a while, they drank in silence, the storm providing a steady percussion against the windows.

Lightning flashed, illuminating Dami’s profile—strong jaw, the fresh cut on his lip, the way his damp hair curled at the nape of his neck.

“You ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough?” Dami asked suddenly, voice low and rough from the whiskey and the shouting match he’d clearly endured.

Alex studied the amber liquid in his glass.

“Yeah. Every time my parents hint that I should be ‘settling down’ with someone serious. Or when my boss looks at my designs and says they’re good but not bold enough.” He paused. “Or when I watch Marcus build the perfect life and wonder why I can’t seem to want the same things everyone expects.”

Dami turned his head, hazel eyes locking onto Alex’s.

“You’re the only one in that family who actually sees me. Not as Marcus’s screw-up friend. Not as the bartender with the guitar. Just… me.”

The admission hung between them, heavy and vulnerable.

Alex’s throat tightened. He set his glass on the coffee table and shifted closer without thinking.

“You’re not a screw-up, Dami. You’re talented. Your music—” He stopped, realizing how close they’d become. Only a foot of couch separated them now.

Dami’s gaze dropped to Alex’s mouth for a fraction of a second.

“You really think that?”

“I do.”

The air thickened. Rain hammered harder against the glass. Dami’s breathing had changed—shallower, rougher. He reached out slowly, as if testing whether Alex would pull away, and brushed his thumb along the edge of Alex’s jaw.

The touch was surprisingly gentle for hands that looked like they’d seen their share of fights.

“You’re always so put together,” Dami murmured.

“Makes me want to mess you up a little.”

Alex’s pulse roared in his ears. This was dangerous territory.