Chapter 71 71: Official Emails and Unofficial Hearts
The air in the room was so thick with unspoken truth that Baby felt like he was breathing underwater. Every time Saint moved, every time he breathed, he was broadcasting a silent, territorial frequency that only Baby could hear—and that Cam was dangerously close to tuning into.
Baby hesitated, his eyes darting toward Cam, whose thumb was hovering over Saint's phone screen. He could see the tension in Cam's jaw; his best friend was an elite athlete with a nose for "something being off," and Saint was practically shoving the truth in his face.
"Saint, we don't need a photo right now," Baby murmured, but his feet moved anyway, drawn back into the orbit of the man standing in the centre of the room.
Saint didn't answer with words. He simply reached out and caught Baby by the waist, pulling him flush against his side. It was a mirror of the gala pose, but without the suits, the heat of Saint's palm through Baby's thin white shirt felt like a brand.
"The THC wants 'authentic' morning shots, Cam," Saint said, his voice smooth and deceptively polite. "A glimpse into the life of the Unified Captains. Since you're the unofficial third roommate today, you're the perfect photographer."
Cam looked from the phone to the two men. His brow was still furrowed. "Authentic? Since when do you two do 'authentic'? You usually look like you're about to kill each other."
"Maybe we've reached an understanding," Saint said, his fingers tightening on Baby's hip. He leaned in slightly, his head tilting toward Baby's. "Ready, Captain?"
Baby swallowed hard, forcing his face into a mask of professional calm. "Ready."
Cam lifted the phone. "Alright, whatever. Lean in closer. You look like you're standing on opposite sides of a penalty box."
Saint didn't need a second invitation. He shifted his weight, his chest pressing into Baby's shoulder, and draped his other arm over Baby's neck. His fingers brushed against the very hickey he had claimed he would "conceal" earlier.
Click.
"Again," Cam muttered, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the screen. "Saint, your expression is... weird. You look like you just won the lottery."
"I'm just happy to be here, Cam," Saint replied, a dark, private smirk playing on his lips that was meant only for Baby.
Click.
Click.
"Wait," Cam lowered the phone, his face hardening. He stepped closer, staring at the screen of the photo he had just taken. He zoomed in, his thumb moving frantically. "What the hell is this?"
Baby's heart stopped. "What?"
Cam turned the phone around. The photo was high-resolution, capturing the morning light perfectly. It showed Saint looking down at Baby with a gaze so heavy with devotion it was undeniable. But that wasn't what Cam was looking at. He was looking at Saint's shoulder—where the black tank top had shifted, revealing three long, sharp red scratches running down his back.
"I thought you said you were in your room all night, Kross," Cam said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "And Baby, you said your 'conquest' didn't make breakfast. But these scratches... they look pretty fresh. And the way you two are standing..."
Cam looked at the scratches, then at the hickey on Baby's neck, then at the undeniable, electric tension vibrating between them. The "No more girls" promise Baby made earlier suddenly echoed in his head with a new, terrifying clarity.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Cam whispered, the phone nearly slipping from his hand. "The 'chick'... There was no girl, was there?"
Baby's blood went cold as the realisation hit Cam's face. The room, which had been sweltering with Saint's proximity, suddenly felt like an ice rink. He could see Cam's mind connecting the dots—the scratches, the hickey, the missed practice—and the image of the "Playboy" was shattering.
"Cam, stop," Baby snapped, his voice sharp and defensive. He stepped out of Saint's hold, the distance feeling like a physical tear. "I know where you're going with this, and it's insulting. You've known me for years. You know I'm not... that. I'm not gay, Cameron. For you to even suggest that because of some scratches and a weird vibe with him—it's out of line."
Baby's chest heaved. He felt a sickening surge of guilt as he watched Cam's eyes soften with doubt, but he couldn't stop. He had spent years building a wall of heterosexuality and "conquests" to survive his family and his career. He wasn't ready to watch it crumble because Saint Kross didn't know how to hide his scratches.
"I'm offended you'd even think I'd go there," Baby added, his voice dropping to a cold, hard whisper.
Saint stood perfectly still, his hand still frozen in mid-air where Baby's waist had been. The rejection hit him harder than any punch Oliver could have landed. He looked at Baby—the man who had begged him to be inside him only hours ago—and felt the "tamed" walls being rebuilt right in front of his eyes.
"Is that right?" Saint's voice was dangerously low, vibrating with a hurt that was quickly turning into reckless aggression. He stepped toward Cam, ignoring Baby's warning glance. "Why does it have to be an insult, Cam? Why is it so impossible?"
"Saint, don't," Baby hissed.
Saint ignored him, pinning Cam with a bold, defiant stare. "Tell me, Cameron. What would you do if I were fucking your best friend? What if every mark on his body came from me? Would you still be laughing about 'conquests' then?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Cam looked like he'd been struck. He looked between Saint's raw, wounded pride and Baby's shaking, pale form.
"I'm not going to answer that," Cam finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm as he set Saint's phone down on the dresser. "Because Baby already said what he isn't. And I trust my friend."
Cam turned to Baby, his expression unreadable. "I'll tell Shannon you'll have the project ready. Try to get some actual sleep, Danvers. You look... tired."
Cam didn't spare Saint another look as he walked out of the room. The sound of the front door closing felt like a gavel coming down.
Baby whirled on Saint the second they were alone, his face flushed with a mixture of rage and humiliation.
"How dare you?" Baby's voice was a jagged blade. "How fucking dare you speak about me like that to him? 'Fucking your best friend'? Is that all this is to you? A way to mark your territory and ruin the one person I actually trust?"
Saint flinched, his jaw tight. "I was defending us, Baby! I'm tired of the lies—"
"There is no us to defend if you destroy my life in the process!" Baby yelled, shoving Saint's chest. "You have your 'Perfect Kross' legacy to fall back on. I have nothing but my reputation. If you ever speak of me like that again—if you ever try to 'out' me to prove a point to your ego—we are done. Unified or not."
Baby turned his back on Saint, his heart aching with a bitterness that made the morning's golden light feel like a mockery. He had just protected the lie, but in doing so, he realised he might have just broken the man he was falling for.
Saint stepped forward, his hand reaching out to hold Baby but stopping in the last second.
"I need to go..." Saint murmured, his voice carrying his pain, "Get some sleep as Cam advised." His hand fell back to his side, heart aching hard.
It felt so wrong seeing Baby turn his back on him.
He didn't want the distance, but he also knew it was better not to push it at such a fragile moment.
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Baby behind with the invisible, shattered glass between them.
Baby's shoulder slumped as his door shut, his throat stinging with suppressed cry.
He was blinded by rage, a rage directed at everyone in his life.
He raised his hand and forcefully wiped a stray tear away from his eyes, sniffling.
He marched over to his bed and picked up his phone dialing his mother's number without thinking.
It's been years since he called, but he suddenly felt like letting her know that she and his father were responsible for the horrible life he was living at the moment.
He needed someone to take part of the blame for his complicated life.
"Hello, this is Mrs. Danvers. Leave your message or reach out through my official email, thank you." The automated voice was as cold and detached as the woman herself. It was the sound of a wall—the same wall Baby had been hitting his head against since he was a child.
Baby stared at the phone, the call having cut off with a sharp, digital beep. He felt the hysterical urge to laugh. He was ready to burn his world down, to scream at her that her son was falling in love with a man she hated, but he couldn't even get past a voicemail.
"Of course," he whispered to the empty room. "Always an official email."
He threw the phone onto the mattress and collapsed beside it. The anger that had fueled his outburst at Saint was curdling into a heavy, suffocating shame. He had just looked his best friend in the eye and called the idea of being with Saint an "insult." He had seen the way Saint's face had crumbled—the raw, bleeding hurt in those grey eyes—and he had kept twisting the knife anyway.
He was protecting himself, but at what cost?
—
Outside the door, Saint stood in the hallway, his forehead pressed against the cool wood of the wall. He had intended to leave, to give Baby the space he'd demanded, but his feet wouldn't move. He could hear the muffled sound of Baby's voice, the jagged sniffling, and the silence that followed.
His back still burned where Baby's nails had marked him. Only hours ago, they were "one." Now, they were on opposite sides of a door that felt miles thick.
Saint's hand curled into a fist against the wall. He wasn't just angry at Baby; he was angry at the world that made Baby so afraid. He was angry at the Danvers for making their son feel like he had to lie to be loved. But mostly, he was angry at himself for being so reckless with Cam, for letting his jealousy out of the cage before Baby was ready to hold it.
He took a shaky breath, the scent of the wine and the morning still clinging to him. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't fix the Consortium, and he couldn't fix Baby's parents, but he could stop being the "Perfect Kross" for five minutes.