Kai Lee

I used to bleed for a living. Now, I deliver boxes.

Life has a funny way of humbling you like that. The morning air in Brookhaven Heights was sharp, the kind of cold that didn't just sit on your skin but stung your lungs with every breath. I stepped out of the van, the gravel crunching under my boots, and tugged my jacket tighter. Winter hadn’t fully moved in yet, but it was lurking in the shadows of the concrete stairwells, waiting for the sun to slip behind the high-rises.

Apartment Complex C. Again.

I checked the handheld scanner, the screen flickering in the dim morning light. Unit 3B. Of course. Ten floors of gray brick and despair, and not a single functional elevator in the building. I balanced the package against my hip and slammed the van door shut with my foot, the metallic echo ringing through the alley. The box wasn't heavy, but the label seemed to glow with a neon intensity in my peripheral vision.

DISCREET SHIPPING — ADULT PRODUCT: 18+ ONLY

I raised an eyebrow, a dry huff of air escaping my lips. Another horny soul looking for a thrill in a cardboard box, I thought. I adjusted my grip, the cardboard scratching against my uniform.

“Handle with care, my ass,” I muttered.

The universe definitely had a twisted sense of humor. Five years ago, I was Kai “Iron Fist” Lee. I had leather gloves instead of barcode scanners. I had the roar of a crowd and the blinding heat of arena lights instead of the hum of off-key hallway bulbs. Twenty-three wins. Two losses. And then, one badly timed uppercut turned my world upside down. A torn rotator cuff and a hairline fracture in my collarbone were the official verdicts. The doctor’s voice had been too calm, too professional, when he told me the ring was no longer my home.

So I walked. I tried coaching, tried personal training, but seeing the sweat and the drive in others felt like staring into my own grave. When the bills piled up and the savings evaporated, a friend threw me a lifeline: a delivery route. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept me moving. And some days, moving was the only thing keeping me sane.

The stairwell smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and stale cigarette smoke. By the third floor, my knee—a souvenir from a fight in Vegas—started to throb.

Unit 3B was at the end of the hall, tucked away like a secret. I stopped, rolled my shoulders out of habit to shake off the tension, and knocked. Once. Twice.

“Coming—!” a voice called out.

The door creaked open, and just like that, my brain’s wiring short-circuited.

He wasn't just handsome; he was pretty. Soft, ethereal, like he’d been sketched into existence with a charcoal pencil. His dark hair was a messy nest around his nape, tipped with shocks of blonde that brushed against his cheeks. But it was his eyes, ocean blue and startlingly bright, that pinned me to the spot.

He was wearing an oversized white t-shirt. Just the shirt.

The hem barely brushed his mid-thigh. I told myself to look at his face, but my eyes betrayed me, catching the faint, blossoming red marks high on his legs and the light sheen of perspiration coating his collarbone. The fabric slipped off one shoulder, revealing skin that looked like polished porcelain.

“H-hi,” he murmured, his voice a soft, melodic thing that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Delivery?”

Don't get a hard-on. Do not get a hard-on in a hallway, I pleaded with myself. I cleared my throat, the sound rough and awkward.

“Uh, yeah. Package for... Min Jae?”

“That's me.” He smiled, a shy, fleeting thing that made his eyes sparkle.

He reached out to take the box. As our fingers brushed, a jolt of static electricity—or something much more dangerous—shot up my arm. I handed him the tablet, my pulse drumming in my ears.

“S-sign here, please.”

As he leaned forward to write, the shirt rode up. I saw the curve of his thigh, the vulnerability of his posture, and suddenly the small crack in the wallpaper next to his door became the most interesting thing in the world.

“All set,” Min Jae said, handing back the scanner.

“Right. Have a good day.”

“You too,” he whispered.

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the silent, smelling hallway. I stood there for a beat too long, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I made it back to the van, but the silence of the cabin was worse than the hallway. I sat behind the wheel, staring at the dashboard, but all I could see was the way that white cotton had draped over his hips.

I started the engine, shifting into gear, but the friction of my work pants suddenly felt unbearable. My mind kept looping back to those red marks on his thighs, the heat of his skin, and the way his name—Min Jae—tasted like a secret.

I pulled the van into the back of a quiet, sun-bleached alley a few blocks away and killed the engine. The silence rushed in. I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes, but the darkness only made the image of him sharper. I could almost feel the phantom touch of his fingers against mine.

My hand moved of its own accord, unzipping my fly, revealing my already hard shaft.

“Fuck,” I groaned, the sound muffled by the cramped space of the van.

I pictured him standing in that doorway again, but this time, I didn't just hand him a package. In my head, I stepped inside. I felt the softness of that oversized shirt under my calloused palms. I imagined those ocean-blue eyes clouding over with a different kind of heat as I pushed him back against the door.

My breath hitched as I increased the pace, my mind conjuring the scent of him—something like vanilla and warm skin. I could see the way his lips would part, the way he'd call out my name in that quiet, gentle voice. Every rhythmic slide of my hand was fueled by the memory of those pale thighs and the messy blonde-tipped hair.

The tension in my chest coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped. I buckled, a low growl tearing from my throat as I hit my limit, my forehead resting against the cool plastic of the steering wheel.

The silence that followed was deafening.

As the adrenaline ebbed away, it took the hazy, golden heat of the fantasy with it, leaving me shivering in the stale air of the driver’s seat. I stared at the dashboard, my eyes landing on a stray receipt and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade.

The reality of what I’d just done hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus—one I hadn't seen coming.

“Oh, god,” I whispered, the words sounding pathetic in the cramped cabin.

I slumped back, a hot wave of shame crawling up my neck and heating my ears until they felt like they were on fire. I was a thirty-year-old man. A former professional athlete. A guy who prided himself on discipline, focus, and a ‘stone-cold’ reputation in the ring.

And I had just... in a delivery van. Over a guy I’d spoken to for exactly ninety seconds.

I looked at the rearview mirror and immediately looked away. I looked like a wreck—eyes blown out, hair messy, face flushed. I looked like a guy who had completely lost his grip.

He was just a customer, Kai, I scolded myself, my hands trembling slightly as I fumbled with my seatbelt. A customer who was barely dressed. Who probably has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or just a very active social life that definitely doesn't involve the guy who brings him his Amazon hauls.

The ‘Discreet Shipping’ label flashed in my mind. My stomach did a nervous flip. He’d probably gone inside, opened his package, and was currently using whatever was in there, and here I was, parked in an alley like a creep, vibrating with a mix of leftover pleasure and soul-crushing embarrassment.

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, wishing I could punch my way out of my own skin. If my old coach could see me now, he wouldn’t call me “Iron Fist.” He’d call me a “Sad Sack.”

“Get it together,” I growled, slapping my cheeks lightly to snap out of it. “You have twelve more stops. Twelve people who don't want a delivery driver who looks like he just crawled out of a fever dream.”

I checked my reflection one more time, smoothing my hair and forcing my expression into something resembling professional neutrality. But as I shifted the van into drive and pulled back onto the main road, my eyes betrayed me, drifting toward the GPS.

Unit 3B was still there. And despite the crushing secondary embarrassment, despite the shame, a small, treacherous part of me was already counting down the hours until the next shift.