Playing with Fire

RENZO POV

The morning tastes like stale bitterness and quiet rage.

Bram’s already awake, as always. I hear him in the kitchen—quiet movements, efficient. No wasted sound. Just the dull clink of a spoon in a mug and the low hum of the fridge closing.

He’s always up before me. Always dressed, always armed, always silent. Like he doesn’t sleep. Like he’s some kind of automaton built to ruin my goddamn sanity one blank stare at a time.

I roll to my feet and stretch, spine cracking.

He doesn’t look at me when I walk into the kitchen shirtless and barefoot, the morning light catching on the faint scars across my ribs. Old things. Razor-thin memories of old betrayals.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I mutter.

He sets a steaming mug down on the counter—his own—and sips. His eyes flick to me once, unreadable, before returning to whatever silent thought process is happening behind those eyes.

Not a single word.

“You’re really committing to this silent brute act, huh?” I say, leaning on the counter across from him. “Gotta say, it’s losing its novelty.”

No response. Not even a twitch of that rigid jaw.

God, he’s infuriating.

“You ever think about using your words, big guy? Or is all that muscle compensating for a lack of social skills?”

He finally looks at me. Just a look. Nothing behind it. Cold, calm, measured.

It makes me itch.

I step around the counter slowly, deliberately closing the distance between us. His gaze follows, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t warn me off. Just stands there in that tight black shirt, sleeves rolled up over forearms that look like they could snap bones like twigs. His gun is holstered, his stance relaxed—but there’s tension under the surface. A coiled readiness that screams: try me.

I stop two feet from him.

“You know,” I murmur, “most bodyguards at least try to make small talk. Build rapport. Maybe offer breakfast. You? You just stand there like a statue with a death wish.”

His phone buzzes in his hand. He taps something quickly, shows me the screen.

“You’re alive. That’s breakfast enough.”

My lip curls. “Wow. Poetry.”

I reach out and pluck the mug from his hand before he can stop me. He doesn’t stop me, which pisses me off more than if he had. I take a slow sip of his coffee, watching his face over the rim. It’s scalding hot—bitter and black, just like I imagined.

I hold his gaze and step closer.

“Is this what turns you on? Playing the brooding shadow in the corner while I lose my mind?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink.

I lean in until I’m close enough to smell him—clean soap, metal, something darker underneath. His hand doesn’t reach for a weapon. He just watches me, completely unshaken, like I’m a storm he already survived.

It’s infuriating.

“You don’t even flinch, do you?” I whisper, leaning my weight on one leg, cocking my head. “Not even when I do this?”

I reach out slowly and tug at the collar of his shirt, exposing the edge of a tattoo near his collarbone. My fingers trail down an inch, deliberately slow, testing.

His jaw tightens. Just a flicker. Barely noticeable.

But I see it.

“There it is,” I breathe. “A crack.”

I grin, triumphant.

And that’s when he moves.

One second I’m poking the bear, and the next, I’m spun around, my back slammed against the refrigerator door. His forearm pins me there, heavy across my chest, and his other hand presses to my throat—not choking, but firm. Controlling.

We’re close now. Too close.

His breath brushes my cheek. His silence roars.

I swallow. My heart kicks into gear.

“Well,” I rasp. “Guess I found your button.”

His eyes darken. That unreadable calm twists into something harder. His hand doesn’t move. He’s not letting go until he decides I’ve learned something. The problem is, I haven’t learned a damn thing except that I like the way this feels.

“I knew you’d break eventually,” I whisper. “Even statues crack if you press hard enough.”

He lowers his phone between us, types one-handed, and turns the screen so I can see.

“Keep pushing and I’ll fuck you untill you you forget how to talk”

I laugh.

It’s the wrong response, and I know it. But I can’t help myself.

“Promise?” I murmur.

He pulls back suddenly, releasing me. I stumble slightly—not because he pushed, but because the absence of him is a fucking drop in temperature.

He turns his back on me and walks away. Just like that.

Goddamn him.

I stare at his retreating back, breathing hard, chest still buzzing from the contact. My skin tingles like it remembers the weight of his arm. Like it misses it already.

He sits at the kitchen table, opens a laptop, and starts working like I didn’t just try to crawl down his throat.

Fine.

Two can play that game.

I go upstairs, shower, and deliberately come back down in a shirt that’s far too tight and shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. I make sure to stretch in front of the windows, knowing he can see me in the reflection. I eat cereal straight from the box, moaning exaggeratedly at every bite.

Still. Nothing.

No flicker. No reaction. No damn humanity.

Until I finally throw the cereal across the room and storm out to the back porch, slamming the door behind me.

Outside, the morning air is sharp. Cold enough to slap some sense into me.

I sit on the railing and pull my knees up to my chest.

I don’t know what I want from him. A fight. A reaction. A reason to feel something that isn’t hollow or twisted.

Because here’s the truth I won’t say out loud:

Bram’s silence makes me feel seen.

Not pitied. Not dismissed. Not coddled.

Seen.

And maybe that’s what scares me the most.

The door creaks open behind me a few minutes later. I don’t turn.

He steps onto the porch. Doesn’t say anything, of course. Just stands there.

Then his phone buzzes. A new message. I glance over as he holds the screen toward me again.

“Don’t play with fire unless you want to burn.”

I smirk without looking at him.

“I already live in the flames, sweetheart.”