1. Colt

1

COLT

I pull the rope taut, testing the tension of the main support line. Nash moves along the opposite beam, his movements fluid even when not performing.

"You're favoring your left side again." Nash doesn't look at me as he speaks, focused on securing his rigging.

"I am not." But I roll my shoulder, knowing he's right. The bastard notices everything.

“Ten years of spotting you, Colt. I know your tells." He swings down from his perch, landing silent as a cat beside me. "Let me see."

I grunt but turn to face him. His fingers find the knot in my muscles with practiced ease.

"You're going to injure yourself if you don't sort this out."

"Since when are you my mother?" I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

"Since you became a stubborn ass who won't admit when he's hurt." Nash's other hand braces against my back as he works out the tension. "There. Better?"

I rotate my arm, and the movement is smoother. "Lucky guess."

"Skill." He flashes that rare smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Though you're welcome to test it in practice later."

"Only if you promise not to show off with that new sequence you've been working on."

"Me? Show off?" Nash places a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I would never."

"Right, and I'm the King of England."

He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty tent. "Your Majesty." With a flourishing bow, he backs toward the rigging. "Now, stop stalling and help me with these lines. Tyson will have our asses if we're not ready for tonight."

I watch Nash climb back up the rigging, his muscles flexing with graceful precision. The way he moves has always fascinated me—it feels like gravity is optional, like physics bends to his will.

"You're staring." His voice carries down, tinged with amusement.

"Making sure you don't fall and crack that pretty skull of yours." I busy myself with coiling excess rope, ignoring the flutter in my chest.

"Pretty, am I?" He hangs upside down, face level with mine. "Careful there, Colt. People might get ideas."

My breath catches. We've danced this line for years, throwing comments that blur the boundary between joking and something else entirely. Something we never name.

"Let them." The words slip out before I can stop them, rougher than intended.

Nash's eyes darken, and the air between us crackles with tension. Then he swings away, graceful as ever, breaking the spell.

"Speaking of practice..." He rights himself on the platform. "That new sequence needs a spotter. You up for it?"

"Depends. Are you planning to listen if I tell you to slow down?"

"When have I ever not listened to you?"

I bark out a laugh. "You want the full list or just this week's highlights?"

"I resent that implication." He starts removing his shirt, muscles rippling beneath intricate tattoos. "I'm a perfect angel."

"Angel of chaos, maybe." My eyes trace the familiar patterns on his skin. I've memorized every line, every shadow. Not that I'd admit it.

"Takes one to know one." He chalks his hands. "Coming up, or am I practicing solo?"

I grab the chalk bag, ignoring how my skin heats when our fingers brush. "Can't let you have all the fun, can I?"

Nash wraps his hands in the chalky powder. I've watched this ritual a thousand times and memorized how his fingers flex. Every time, I have to force myself to look away.

It's not that I'm ashamed. I've known I was bi since military school, where stolen kisses behind the gym were as common as bloody noses from fighting. But here? In the carnival? Might as well paint a target on my back.

I watch Lars and Tyson by the entrance, their muscles bulging as they haul equipment. Everything about this place screams testosterone and masculinity. The guys here? They'd sooner break your jaw than look at you if they thought you swung that way.

"Earth to Colt." Nash's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You planning on joining me up here?"

And then there's Nash. Beautiful, straight-as-an-arrow Nash. The way he moves, all grace and power, it's like he's trying to kill me. But I've seen him with women, watched him charm them with that deadly smile. He's naturally fluid and comfortable in his skin in a way I never learned to be.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on." I chalk up my hands, hoping the routine will steady my nerves.

"Now, where's the fun in that?" He winks, and my heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing more often lately.

That's the worst part. The banter, the easy touches. To him, it's just how we are—best friends who've spent years learning to trust each other with our lives. To me? It's torture, sweet and slow.

"You're doing it again." Nash hangs upside down again, his face way too close to mine. "Getting lost in that head of yours."

I step back, maintaining the careful distance I always keep. "Just focused on the routine."

He rights himself with that impossible grace. "Sure you are. Come on, tough guy. Show me what you've got."

I follow Nash up the rigging, my muscles remembering every handhold. We've done this dance thousands of times, but my heart still races when he catches me mid-flip, his hands strong and sure against my skin.

"Good." His breath hits my neck as we transition into the next move. "Now the blind catch."

I release the bar, twisting my body in the air. For a split second, I'm flying—then his hands lock around my wrists. The momentum swings us in a wide arc.

"See?" Nash's eyes gleam with that wild joy he only gets up here. "Perfect trust."

And it is perfect. We move like one being, reading each other's bodies without words. If only he knew how much I notice—how his chest rises with each breath and his fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary when he steadies me.

We run through the sequence three more times. Each catch, each touch, adding another crack to my careful control. By the fourth run-through, I'm half-hard and grateful for the loose shorts I wear over my leotard.

"Last one," Nash calls out. He's sweating now, skin glistening under the tent lights. "Make it count."

We nail the routine. As we descend, his hand brushes my lower back—probably spotting me, making sure I'm steady. But my skin burns where he touched.

"Not bad." He grabs his water bottle and takes a long drink. A drop escapes, trailing down his neck. "Though you're still favoring that shoulder."

"Thought you weren't my mother?" I start packing the chalk, needing something to do with my hands.

"No." He laughs, and the sound hits me right in the gut. "Definitely not your mother."

I watch him gather his things, all fluid grace and natural beauty. My best friend. My torture. My secret.

If he notices my eyes on him, he doesn't show it. But then, that's our whole relationship—this careful dance of almost something, never quite crossing the line.