WESLEY HUGHES

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"Are you okay?" Bridget asked when I showed up to work the next day. "You look...like you may be sick."

I snorted to myself because I knew exactly what she meant. In fact, Manolo had gone as far as to remind me I looked like shit this morning as if he wasn't one of the main causes of my problems.

I didn't understand how someone could be so...so...insufferably casual about everything. Manolo had waltzed into my life like a hurricane, flipped everything upside down, and then had the audacity to act like I was the unreasonable one for not rolling with it. The nerve of that man—no, that walking disaster—was unparalleled.

"I'm fine," I told Bridget, forcing a tight smile that probably did nothing to convince her. "Just didn't sleep well last night."

"Uh-huh," she said, not even trying to hide her skepticism. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and studied me like I was one of her patients. "Didn't sleep well, or didn't sleep at all? There's a difference, you know."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Both, maybe. I don't know."

Bridget raised an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have anything to do with why you were fifteen minutes late today, would it?"

My mouth opened, ready with a half-baked excuse, but nothing came out. I snapped it shut again, letting the silence answer for me.

She tilted her head, clearly intrigued now. "Spill it. What's going on? You never miss a shift or show up late."

Because I couldn't afford to, I wanted to say. I refused to give my bosses any reason to try and fire me because I knew the consequences of losing a job would be disastrous. Today was a rarity for me—one that couldn't happen again.

"It's complicated," I told Bridget after a moment of silence, hoping she would drop it.

"Too complicated to talk about?" She tilted her head. I remained silent and she blew a breath after a moment and nodded. "Alright, but you know you can talk to me if you want to."

"Thanks," I said, even though I knew I'd never take her up on that offer.

As much as I appreciated her concern, I didn't want to explain my bizarre situation—not because I didn't trust her, but because I didn't even know where to start. Oh, hey, yeah, some guy named Manolo broke into my house, bled on my couch, and is currently freeloading while acting like it's perfectly normal. That would go over great.

The morning dragged on, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Manolo. Every time I tried to focus, I found myself replaying snippets of our conversations, his smug grin, or the casual way he seemed to brush off everything as if none of it mattered. It was infuriating how he managed to get under my skin even when he wasn't physically present.

When lunch rolled around, I grabbed my sandwich and sat in the break room, hoping for a moment of peace. Instead, the moment was cruelly interrupted when the sound of the bell attached to the front door echoed through the shop and a familiar voice followed.

"Welcome to—"

"Is Wesley Hughes here?" I heard Boreal question, interrupting Bridget.

I didn't have to see Bridget's face to know what her expression would be: sharp, curious, slightly annoyed, and—most importantly—skeptical.

I left the break room just as Bridget started to speak. "Why are you looking for Wes—"

"Wesley!" Boreal greeted me with faux enthusiasm once he saw me. With little regard for rules, he pushed past Bridget and rounded the counter to pull me into what I was sure looked like a hug from the outside, but was more of a a firm, warning grip around my shoulders. Boreal leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear as he muttered, "We need to talk. Now."

I stiffened, forcing a weak smile for Bridget's benefit. "Hey, Boreal," I said through gritted teeth, trying to sound casual even though my heart was racing. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Bridget's eyes narrowed, her suspicion growing by the second. "Friend of yours?" she asked.

"We're like family," Boreal told her before I could respond, his eyes running over her figure as if committing her to his memory.

"Uh, yeah," I lied, stepping out of Boreal's hold and gesturing toward the door. "We'll just step outside for a minute. Be right back."

Before she could ask any more questions, I ushered Boreal out of the shop, the cold air biting at my skin as the door swung shut behind us. I turned to face him, crossing my arms in an attempt to mask my nerves.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "You can't just show up like this!"

His eyebrow twitched and he stared at me with his arms crossed over his chest. "Firstly, I can show up wherever the hell I want," he growled like a petulant toddler. "Secondly, plans changed. You're going to pay back the two hundred dollars by tomorrow."

"What?" I snapped, the word bursting out of me louder than I intended. I glanced back at the shop windows to make sure Bridget wasn't watching us, then lowered my voice. "That wasn't the deal, Boreal! You said I had until next week."

"Well, the week just got shorter," he said, smirking like he enjoyed watching me squirm.

I clenched my fists, my frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. "I don't have two hundred dollars right now. I barely have twenty! What do you expect me to do?"

Boreal shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not my problem, Hughes. Figure it out. Sell something. Borrow from someone. Hell, get that charming coworker of yours to spot you. But if you don't have the money by tomorrow, the people looking for you today won't be as nice as me."

"Nice?!" I hissed, incredulous. "You call this nice?"

"You haven't seen otherwise," he replied evenly, his eyes narrowing in warning. "Don't make me show you."

I wanted to argue, to push back, but the reality of my situation was already crushing enough without adding Boreal's ire to the mix.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I'll get the money. But don't expect miracles."

"Smart choice." He grinned, clapping me on the shoulder in a mockery of camaraderie. "See? You're good at this when you put your mind to it."

I glared at him, but he was already walking away, whistling like he didn't have a care in the world. Watching his retreating figure, I felt the heat of anger rising in my chest, threatening to boil over. Two hundred dollars by tomorrow? It might as well have been two million.

When I finally went back inside, Bridget was still at the counter, her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face. "Well?"

I forced a weak smile. "Just a little misunderstanding," I lied, hoping she couldn't see through me. "Nothing to worry about."

Bridget didn't look convinced, but she let it go for now. As I returned to the grind of work, my mind raced, trying to come up with a plan. Two hundred dollars. Twenty-four hours. And no safety net.

It was going to take a miracle. Or a disaster. And, unfortunately, I lived with one of those.

...

When I returned home, Manolo wasn't in the living room. I tossed my bag onto the kitchen counter and glanced around. No sarcastic remarks. No lazy sprawls on the couch. It was almost... unsettling.

"Manolo?" I called out, the sound of my voice oddly loud in the stillness. No answer.

Maybe he'd gone out, though the idea of Manolo being considerate enough to give me some space seemed laughable.

I headed to my room. All I wanted was a moment to myself, to think, to figure out how the hell I was going to get that money by tomorrow. But as I stepped into my room, my focus shifted to the adjoining bathroom.

The door was ajar, and steam wafted out, curling in the air.

"Manolo?" I said again, more hesitantly this time. Still no answer.

I needed to use the bathroom anyway, so I pushed the door open—

And immediately wished I hadn't.

Manolo stood there, dripping wet, a towel slung loosely around his hips and water sliding down the contours of his chest. His hair, usually a cascade of defined curls, clung damply to his forehead, framing his sharp features.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

My eyes trailed over his toned chest before snapping back to his face, my mind scrambling to process what I was seeing. My heartbeat quickened, a strange tension filling the air. His smug grin was already in place like he knew exactly what effect this would have on me.

"You're home early," Manolo said, his voice dripping with amusement.

I didn't respond immediately, struggling to find my voice. I was suddenly very aware of how close we were, the steam from the shower still circling him like some sort of absurdly attractive haze.

"You—" I swallowed, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. "What the hell are you doing?"

Manolo simply shrugged, as though this situation was perfectly normal. "What's it look like? Taking a shower." His grin widened as he leaned casually against the bathroom sink, making no effort to cover himself more.

I could feel the heat rising in my face, and I quickly averted my eyes. Focus, Wesley. This isn't—this isn't a big deal. But of course, it was. The sight of Manolo standing there, all dripping wet and casual about it, was enough to set my mind racing in a hundred different directions. The man had this ability to make everything feel... charged. As if every moment with him was a live wire, just waiting to snap.

"Yeah, no kidding," I muttered, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. I cleared my throat, trying to push past the sudden, unwelcome tension that had settled in my chest. He's just a guy. A very irritating guy. Nothing more. "Just... get dressed," I managed, turning my back to him before I could embarrass myself further.

I didn't bother asking where he'd gotten the clothing from, nor did I want to know.

"Whatever you say," he teased. I could hear the sound of rustling as he reapplied his bandages and started to pull on his clothes. When he was done, he said, "You can turn around now. I'm decent."

Slowly, almost skeptically, I did so and he stood in front of me, dressed in a tailored white shirt that clung to his chest in all the right ways, the cuffs rolled up casually but deliberately, paired with dark, slim-fit jeans. His shoes, polished to perfection, were the kind of luxury footwear that someone like me wouldn't even think to wear unless it was for a special occasion. It was the kind of "casual" that screamed wealth and taste as if everything about him was deliberately chosen to appear effortless but was clearly anything but.

"Happy now?" he asked.

"Yes," I muttered and before he could say anything else, I mentioned, "Boreal visited me today."

That seemed to catch his attention, but just as quickly as the curiosity occurred, it was gone. He turned to the mirror and started to mess with his hair. "What does that have to do with me? You rejected my offer, no?"

"I did...but let's say I agreed to it...what would I need to do?"

Every alarm went off in my head. Taking money from Manolo was one of the last things I wanted to resort to, but as much as I hated to admit it, the money was guaranteed if I agreed to help him.

The corners of his mouth raised. "I told you. I want information. Whatever he can give me."

"Information," I repeated, mulling over the word. "If I agree to help you—"

"Not so fast," he interrupted and turned to face me. "Who's to say I still want your help now? The fact that you're much more willing than before tells me something changed today. Spill it."

I opened my mouth, trying to find the words to explain without revealing too much. He already knew things weren't going well for me, but I couldn't risk telling him the full extent of my problems. The last thing I needed was for him to have even more leverage over me.

"Fine," I said after a pause, trying to act nonchalant. "Boreal wants the money I owe him sooner than expected. I have to come up with two hundred dollars by tomorrow. No excuses."

Manolo's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information, his posture shifting ever so slightly as if he were deciding something. "And you thought your best option was to come crawling to me for help?"

"Not crawling," I shot back, a bit too defensively. "Just... considering my options."

"I dislike being the second option," he briefly stated. "It's offensive, no?"

I didn't respond. Of course, he'd say something like that.

"Does that mean you won't help?"

He tilted his head and smiled. "I thought we were talking hypotheticals."

I stared at him, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but I held my tongue. He was so damn smug like he already knew the outcome of this conversation. He probably did.

"Manolo—"

"Wesley," he countered in an almost lazy manner. He pushed away from where he was previously leaning and hummed to himself before continuing. "I will help you with your mess under two conditions."

I swallowed the lump in the back of my throat and asked, "What are they?"

"When I tell you to do something, you do it. I don't have the patience for constant whining. And—" he moved forward, closing the gap between us. His dark eyes zeroed in on my lighter ones and my breath hitched. "I expect to be the first choice from now on."