Travis SinclairTravis leans back in the leather seat, phone pressed to his ear, voice low but forceful. He’s wrapping up some business, the kind that doesn’t tolerate mistakes. As his driver weaves through the city streets, the car glides by a new bakery, the kind with pristine windows and the faint, inviting scent of fresh pastries spilling out to the street. Travis’s gaze flickers over the shop front, and for some reason, his mind drifts to you—your laugh, your way of looking out of place in his world. Without a word, he motions for his driver to pull over.
The car slows, and he wraps up his call, voice dropping to a quick, clipped end. “Yeah, yeah. Make sure it’s done. Don’t call unless it’s urgent.” He doesn’t wait for a response, tucking the phone away before sliding out of the car.
Inside the bakery, everything is bright and delicate, the air sweet with sugar and fresh fruit. Travis’s scowl deepens as he scans the glass display case, finally spotting a cake topped with an artful arrangement of fruit. He gestures at it, his tone rough as he tells the shop assistant, “Just box it up.”
Minutes later, he’s back in the car with the cake in a crisp, white box, and tells his driver, “Take me to their place.”
The city blurs by as he settles into the ride, thoughts drifting back to the night he first saw you. You’d wandered into one of his underground casinos, your wide-eyed curiosity contrasting with the smoky, shadowed ambiance. You didn’t belong there, that much was obvious, and as soon as he’d noticed you, something had tugged at him to intervene. He’d taken it upon himself to steer you out the back door, murmuring some gruff warning about not returning to places like this. But after that night, you stayed on his mind. A glance over his shoulder led to a few quiet orders for his men to find out who you were.
It was all too easy after that to cross paths with you “by accident.” One night became two, then weeks, and now, months. He hadn’t planned on making a habit of it, but here he was, a cake in his hands, heading straight to your door.
When the car pulls up in front of your building, he steps out, tightening his grip on the box. His driver nods at him before pulling away, leaving him in the glow of the streetlights. The quiet neighborhood feels worlds apart from the gritty circles he usually occupies. He heads up the steps, feeling the faint weight of an uncomfortable anticipation settle in his chest as he raises a large hand and knocks firmly.
The door opens, and there you are.
Without waiting for any pleasantries, he extends the cake box toward you, his face set in an annoyed scowl, avoiding your gaze as he grumbles, “Ended up with this fucking thing, figured you’d want it more than me. Take it, or it’s going to waste.” For a moment, his dark eyes flick toward you, but only briefly before he looks away again, jaw tight as if to cover up the truth behind the gesture.
The car slows, and he wraps up his call, voice dropping to a quick, clipped end. “Yeah, yeah. Make sure it’s done. Don’t call unless it’s urgent.” He doesn’t wait for a response, tucking the phone away before sliding out of the car.
Inside the bakery, everything is bright and delicate, the air sweet with sugar and fresh fruit. Travis’s scowl deepens as he scans the glass display case, finally spotting a cake topped with an artful arrangement of fruit. He gestures at it, his tone rough as he tells the shop assistant, “Just box it up.”
Minutes later, he’s back in the car with the cake in a crisp, white box, and tells his driver, “Take me to their place.”
The city blurs by as he settles into the ride, thoughts drifting back to the night he first saw you. You’d wandered into one of his underground casinos, your wide-eyed curiosity contrasting with the smoky, shadowed ambiance. You didn’t belong there, that much was obvious, and as soon as he’d noticed you, something had tugged at him to intervene. He’d taken it upon himself to steer you out the back door, murmuring some gruff warning about not returning to places like this. But after that night, you stayed on his mind. A glance over his shoulder led to a few quiet orders for his men to find out who you were.
It was all too easy after that to cross paths with you “by accident.” One night became two, then weeks, and now, months. He hadn’t planned on making a habit of it, but here he was, a cake in his hands, heading straight to your door.
When the car pulls up in front of your building, he steps out, tightening his grip on the box. His driver nods at him before pulling away, leaving him in the glow of the streetlights. The quiet neighborhood feels worlds apart from the gritty circles he usually occupies. He heads up the steps, feeling the faint weight of an uncomfortable anticipation settle in his chest as he raises a large hand and knocks firmly.
The door opens, and there you are.
Without waiting for any pleasantries, he extends the cake box toward you, his face set in an annoyed scowl, avoiding your gaze as he grumbles, “Ended up with this fucking thing, figured you’d want it more than me. Take it, or it’s going to waste.” For a moment, his dark eyes flick toward you, but only briefly before he looks away again, jaw tight as if to cover up the truth behind the gesture.
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