Page 10 of Midnight Pleasure

The smirk on Ares’ face immediately fell. The air between them became unconsciously heavy, and both stayed quiet momentarily. Then, without further ado, there was a tremendous clatter in the kitchen, followed by the splintering sound of breaking glass.

Apollo leaped to his feet. “What was that?”

Ares winced. “I, uh. might have dropped a tray.”

“Dropped a tray?” Apollo repeated with exasperation.

“It got away from me,” Ares defended, guilty eyes huge. “I will mop it up.”

Apollo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I swear to all that is holy, you’re a walking disaster zone.”

“Hey, I’m trying here,” Ares snapped, voice going suddenly sharp. “It’s not like I asked for it to be this way.”

Apollo’s temper flared. “And I didn’t ask to be saddled with a spoiled brat who thinks the world owes him something.”

Ares’s face darkened, and raw emotion replaced the playful banter. “You don’t know anything about me,” he hissed.

“I know enough,” Apollo shot back. “I know you’ve been coasting on your name and money for so long that you can’t handle things when they don’t go your way.

Ares’s fists balled, his hands turning white at the knuckles. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. What I told you about who and where i came from is just the tip of the iceberg, on paper I sound rich, but I do not have anything in that world that matters, unless I want to sell my soul. Again.”

“Then tell me, let me in,” Apollo challenged, coming closer. “Because you keep pushing me away and your anger is eating you up.”

Ares’s breath caught, and for one familiar moment, Apollo thought that wall of ice would finally break. Instead, Ares spun on his heel and charged out of the kitchen, gone without another word. The door thudded shut behind him, echoing into the vast emptiness of the restaurant.

Apollo stood at the closed door, his heart pounding. He hadn’t meant to lash out, but he couldn’t help it. Ares got under his skin in ways he hadn’t foreseen, stirring up emotions that Apollo had long believed buried.

The next day was more challenging. The tension this time was almost unbearable. There was a shift, though, one that was slight, almost unnoticeable. Ares was quieter and more focused, his usual snark dulled, and Apollo couldn’t decide yet if that was a good thing or not.

The vaporous odour of wood shavings and wet splinters of freshly cut wood hung heavy in the evening studio air. Apollo remained by the door, his eyes never leaving Ares, who moved about the room, pausing near the sculptures. Overhead lamps outlined sharp lines of the jaw and subtle curves of lips as if they cast a soft light on his face.

As Ares approached the sculpture, his fingers strayed over all the details, the work carved into the wood. Apollo watched how Ares’s touch lingered long, reverent, and curious, as if he could read the soul of whatever piece he was looking at by the grain beneath his fingers.

That much more wealth poured into the summer-swamped tourist town. Those were quite the breed of people who came to this far-off town for its rustic charm and unspoiled wilderness, but brought their luxury cars and designer clothes with them. It wouldn’t be long before someone recognized Ares Sinclair, the infamous nepo baby of the Sinclair empire. Of course, Apollo had done his research. He knew who Ares was, even if he hadn’t offered that information himself. The tabloid favorite son of a billionaire, known for wild parties and scandalous behaviour, was in Apollo’s studio, a million miles away from his glittering world.

But most strange to Apollo was the lack of missing person reports on all accounts. With all the news and social media digging, Ares’s disappearance had yet to be reported. Nobody noticed his absence, or maybe no one even cared that he was gone. That bothered Apollo more than he wanted to realize.

What had brought Ares to this town on that rainy, fateful night? How had he shown up, totally wet, with clothes on his back and no explanations? Apollo wished fervently that Ares would open up and tell him what really happened, though to that day, all Apollo had was questions and a nagging feeling that Ares was running from something—or someone.

And then there was the matter of Ares’s car. After the storm, Apollo checked around the area, but the vehicle remained nonexistent. The mudslide had washed it, along with half the mountain.

The tumultuous storm in Apollo’s thoughts went unnoticed as his gaze lingered on Ares’s fingertips, tracing the smoothness of the wood. Ares’s voice cut through the silence, filled with uncertainty but equal parts newfound respect. “You’ve got a talent.”

Surprised by the compliment, Apollo felt his heart skip a beat. “What?”

“Your work,” Ares said, still not looking at him. “It’s… impressive.”

Apollo blinked, taken aback. He’d been bracing for another jab, not praise. “Thanks,” he said, the words coming out in a rasp far rougher than he’d meant. “It’s taken a lot of years to get here.”

Ares just nodded, gaze still on the bear sculpture. “I can see that.”.

The silence that followed was tense, but it was not boiling with animosity. It was something else simmering just below the surface. Apollo stepped forward slowly, heavily, toward him. Ares didn’t move, his gaze still on the sculpture. However, the posture of his shoulders and the way he held his breath told Apollo otherwise.

He closed the distance between them until his chest almost brushed Ares’s back. He could feel the heat coming off of Ares, the subtle up and down with each breath. Slowly, almost wavered by uncertainty, Apollo reached out, his hands hovering above Ares’s.

“Feel that?” Apollo whispered, lips inches, dangerously close to Ares’s ear. His voice was low, husky, filled with the intensity that matched the moment. “The way the wood yields to your touch? It’s not about being strong. It’s about control, patience… knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, where to guide it.”

His fingers trembled slightly, Apollo noticed as hands enveloped them, calming and guiding them along the smooth contours of the sculpture. The space between them buzzed with an intensity that blurred the lines between a simple lesson and something far more intimate with every passing moment.

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