#heldstill

Coach wasn’t expecting anything when he spun the combination and pulled his locker open. Practice had run long. The facility was settling into its after-hours quiet, that familiar calm that came once discipline had been applied and released.

Then he saw them.

A dozen red roses, deep and precise, placed inside the locker with unmistakable intention. Not shoved. Not hidden. Stems aligned, blooms facing outward, as if they’d been waiting for the door to open.

Coach froze for a beat.

Roses didn’t belong here. Not in a space built for routine, sweat, and sharp edges. And yet the contrast made them impossible to ignore. His first instinct wasn’t surprise, it was recognition.

He reached in, fingers brushing the wrap. Beneath the ribbon, exactly where he knew it would be, was a card.

Plain. Heavy. No decoration.

He exhaled once and opened it.

For Coach, Some flames are meant to be revisited. Slow. Steady. Exactly where you left your mark. Thought you might enjoy another reminder that I remember how to hold still. —Gold

Coach’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

Gold.

Not Wells. Not a name for public use. The one Coach had given him, privately, deliberately. Seeing it there shifted something low in his chest. The message didn’t shout. It didn’t ask. It simply existed—confident in being understood.

The memory came back without effort.

Candlelight. Measured patience. Heat applied with purpose, not urgency.

It wasn’t about spectacle. It never had been. It was about control, consent, and the quiet intensity of staying exactly where instructed. The roses carried the same language. Red instead of gold, but no less disciplined. A reminder wrapped in restraint.

Coach glanced down the locker row. Empty. Silent.

Good.

He lifted the roses out, cradling them with care. Their scent cut cleanly through the lingering smell of disinfectant and effort, grounding him in the present while tugging insistently at the past. This wasn’t indulgence. This was Wells choosing to leave something behind, a mark that asked to be noticed, not answered immediately.

The card stayed in his hand as he closed the locker. He read it again, slower. How to hold still.

A corner of his mouth twitched.

Later, in his office, he set the roses in an old glass pitcher by the window. The fading light caught the petals, deepening their color until they almost glowed against the concrete and steel around them.

He slid the card beneath the glass, weighted and protected.

No reply yet. That wasn’t how they worked. Wells knew that. Gold always did.

When Coach locked up for the night, he paused by the flowers once more. His thumb brushed the edge of the card, the warmth of memory resurfacing, not rushing, not fading.

The message had been delivered.

And Coach would decide when and how to answer it.

Wells didn’t bother knocking twice.

Coach opened the loft door on the first sound, like he’d been standing just on the other side of it.

For a second they just looked at each other , familiar, easy, charged in a way that hadn’t existed a few months ago. Then Coach stepped back, holding the door open.

“Training run you into the ground?” he asked.

Wells stepped inside, gym bag slung over one shoulder, still warm from the pitch. “You watching again?”

Coach’s mouth edged upward. “Always.”

The loft smelled faintly of clean wood, leather, and something warm from the kitchen. Comfortable. Grounding. Wells dropped his bag near the entry and followed Coach toward the kitchen, boots quiet against the floor.

Coach moved with the same unhurried certainty he always did in his own space, barefoot, loose navy tank clinging lightly across his shoulders, shiny navy tights catching soft reflections from the overhead lights. Completely at ease. Completely in control.

He opened the fridge, pulled out two beers, and slid one across the granite island toward Wells.

“Hydrate properly,” he said.

Wells caught it, the cold glass grounding in his hand. “Yes, Coach.”

The word came out half-teasing, half-automatic. Not a joke anymore. Not really.

They settled into an easy stillness across the counter from each other — Wells in his fitted gold jersey and track pants, Coach leaning back against the island. Familiar. Domestic, almost. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who’d built something real.

Wells had just lifted the bottle for a second sip when the lights died.

Everything went dark.

The fridge hum cut. Overhead glow vanished. The loft dropped into shadow so complete it felt almost physical.

Wells stilled automatically.

Coach exhaled once, calm. “Stay there,” he said. “I’ve got candles.”

Wells leaned his hip lightly against the counter, listening to the quiet movements — drawer opening, the faint strike of a match.

Then: light.

A single candle bloomed to life at the center of the island, gold and steady. It threw soft shadows across dark cabinetry and stainless steel, caught along the line of Coach’s jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.

The mood shifted.

Not abruptly. Just… deeper.

Coach watched him over the flame for a long moment. Then, quietly: “You’ve been walking a line with me for weeks… since Toronto. Holding this side of yourself back. But also showing me it was there.”

Wells felt that land somewhere low and steady.

“And now?” he asked.

Coach didn’t answer immediately. He just moved, circling the island without hurry until he stood directly in front of Wells. Close enough that the candlelight warmed both of them.

“Now,” Coach said softly, “you’re done pretending I don’t see it.”

The words settled into the space between them.

Wells set his beer down. The bottle clicked softly against granite. He held Coach’s gaze, steady, open, then reached for the hem of his gold jersey and pulled it up and off, dropping it beside the bottle without ceremony.

Cool air met warm skin. Candlelight spread across his chest and shoulders.

He didn’t move after that.

Coach’s expression shifted, approval, unmistakable. “Good,” he murmured.

He lifted a spoon towards the candle from the counter, holding it between them, as he used the spoon and filled it with hot wax from the candle. The flame stayed steady, molten wax gathering slowly along its edge.

Wells’ pulse ticked once, hard , then settled as Coach stepped closer. Still no touch. Just presence. Control.

“Relax,” Coach said.

Wells exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. He stayed exactly where he was, open, grounded, trusting the space Coach held around him.

Coach tilted the spoon over Wells' chest. A line of warm wax touched his chest, controlled, deliberate. Heat, not pain, but almost pleasure. Awareness more than anything. Wells inhaled sharply, then steadied, eyes never leaving Coach’s.

“You’re doing well,” Coach said quietly.

The words landed deeper than the heat. Wells swallowed, breath evening out. “Yeah,” he answered softly. “I know.” as the warm wax cooled on his chest, a little pain and pleasure at the same time.

Coach lifted and tilted the candle. Another controlled drop of warmth. Nothing rushed. Nothing careless. Just the quiet, charged rhythm of trust and attention, pleasure and pain all at once.

Coach straightened the candle again, studying him for a long moment. Then he stepped in closer, close enough that Wells could feel the heat of him even before the contact came.

Coach’s free hand settled low and firm against Wells’ hip, grounding, claiming, steady.

Wells’ breath caught once, then deepened, leaning subtly into that touch without thinking.

Coach held him there a moment longer, thumb pressing calmly over the candle’s wick.

The flame died instantly.

Darkness folded around them.

A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward between their bodies, dissolving into shadow as the last glow vanished. The loft went quiet again, deeper this time, heavier with everything left unsaid.

Coach's hand settles somewhere firm and steady in the darkness, grounding, claiming, setting pace.

Wells doesn’t move.

“Don’t rush,” Coach says quietly. “I intend to enjoy this properly.”

The loft remains without power, the city outside still dark, the air warm with the lingering scent of extinguished flame and melted wax.

“Stay exactly where you are,” Coach murmurs.

Wells does.

His voice came from somewhere close, low enough that Wells felt it more than heard it.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now come here.”

Wells stepped forward into the dark.

And the night closed in around them.