Thepy `11

Chapter 11 

Chapter 11 

The next day was… 

: 

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Somewhere between boring as a dry salad and steamy like a K–drama shower scene. I couldn’t decide. Because surprise, surprise–Steven McLeon was still shirtless. 

Apparently, he had declared war on T–shirts. And the battlefield? My sanity. 

It was his new thing: rolling around the penthouse with that annoyingly smug expression and a torso that looked like it came with its own lighting crew. Meanwhile, I was just trying to get him to finish ten minutes of basic quad stretches without pretending to die. 

“Five more minutes on your left leg,” I said, pointing dramatically like a commander at war. 

He grumbled. “That leg has suffered enough.” 

“It hasn’t even started its journey yet, Simba. Push through.” 

He rolled his eyes and muttered something about torture. 

I ignored him like the professional goddess I am. 

And then–my phone vibrated. 

Now, normally, I wouldn’t care. Except this vibration came with a screen lighting up behind me and a big, juicy notification flashing across the counter. 

MAXXX CALLING… 

With a contact photo that–look, let me explain. 

It was Max. My best friend. And his contact photo was a very shirtless, oiled–up, thirst–trap selfie, complete with a pout, sunglasses, and a towel dangerously low on his hips. 

You know, just your average “hi mom don’t open Madison’s phone” level of trauma image. 

It was a joke. 

A dare. A thing. 

But now? Now it was vibrating in front of Steven McLeon, Abs Supreme and King of Petty Reactions. 

Of course he saw it. Of course he leaned forward. Of course he raised one godforsaken eyebrow like it had its own personality. 

“Oi?” he said slowly, like the villain in a telenovela. 

I snatched the phone like I was defusing a bomb. 

11:27 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 11 

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Now, Max–my very gay, very muscular, very deeply–closeted–to–his–conservative–parents best friend–was currently vibrating across my kitchen counter, full abs on display, with a devil emoji name and a wink. 

I froze. 

Steven did not. Because of course, he saw it. 

And because this man is part petty, part predator, part tabloid cover- 

He immediately raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?” 

I snatched the phone like I was defusing a nuclear bomb. “Mind your business, pecs.” 

He didn’t blink. “Pretty bold of Maxxx to FaceTime you mid–leg press. And… bold pic. Tasteful towel.” 

I gave him the flattest look known to mankind. “Don’t start.” 

He smirked. “Is that your boyfriend?” 

I snorted. “Please.” 

“Ex?” 

“Try again.” 

“Situationship with benefits?” 

“You wish.” 

Steven leaned back in his chair, flexing for no reason, his arms stretched behind his head like he was posing for thirst karma. “So what’s he doing calling you during our highly professional PT session?” 

I crossed my arms. “Checking if I’m still alive. He’s worried you’d kill me with your spoiled royal tantrums.” 

“Oh, and you don’t exaggerate?” 

“Steven, you literally fake–cried yesterday when I asked you to do squats.” 

“I was emotionally overwhelmed.” 

I rolled my eyes and picked up my phone, swiping Max’s call to voicemail with all the grace of someone totally unaffected by the fact that two shirtless men had now derailed her entire afternoon. 

Steven wasn’t done. 

“He seems… confident. Judging by the towel.” 

I smiled sweetly. “That towel could lift more weight than you.” 

He laughed. Like full–body, glorious laugh that made his stupid abs contract. The audacity. 

11:27 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 11 

“I like this Max,” he said. 

“You don’t even know him.” 

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“Well, if he’s going to flash his skin on your screen while I’m doing hamstring extensions, I feel like I deserve 

context.” 

“Oh, honey.” I leaned in slightly. “If you want to compete, you better take off the rest of your clothes and hold a fan.” 

He choked on air. 

Point: Madison. 

He blinked. “You’re dangerous.” 

“You’ve seen nothing yet. Try skipping another PT set.” 

He stared at me, then muttered under his breath, “So aggressive… and mildly hot.” 

“Mildly? Wow. Bold of you to say, shirtless, single, and currently failing leg lifts.” 

I turned away, tossing my towel over my shoulder, and smirked at the oven clock. 

Max’s call had gone to voicemail. 

Steven was flustered. And me? I was back in control. Because let’s get one thing clear: 

Max may have had the towel pic, but I had the power. 

And Steven McLeon? 

He had no idea that this wasn’t even my final form. 

But of course, Max called again and this time I answered. Because why not? 

“Did you survive the McLeon Curse today or nah?” Max’s voice sang through the speaker. “Did his abs finally hypnotize you into kissing him mid–leg stretch?” 

Steven perked up. “Excuse me?!” 

I slapped the phone face–down. 

Fuck! Okay, Max could wait. 

Steven narrowed his eyes. “So…. do you and your shirtless friend talk about kissing me?” 

I gave him a deadpan stare. “Don’t flatter yourself. We talk about your emotional constipation more than your 

abs.” 

He flexed a little. “So you do talk about my abs.” 

Chapter 11 

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“The kind that makes grown billionaires remember that sass queens like me don’t beg–we brunch.” 

He chuckled, low and amused, while I whisked with violent grace. 

“Is this some kind of revenge for Max’s towel pic?” he asked. 

“No,” I said, flipping a waffle. “This is my origin story.” 

Fifteen minutes later, I placed a plate in front of him. 

Perfect golden waffles, topped with caramelized bananas, a swirl of whipped cream, and a honey drizzle that probably made angels weep. 

He stared down at it like I just proposed marriage. 

“Oi! Madison…” 

“Don’t speak. Just chew.” 

He picked up his fork slowly. Took a bite. 

And paused. 

Closed his eyes. 

Exhaled. 

“Okay,” he muttered. “That’s… actually offensive.” 

I leaned over the counter, chin resting on my palm. “Good offensive or ‘I’m calling my lawyer‘ offensive?” 

He glared at the plate like it betrayed him. “I’m mad. Why do these taste like childhood hugs and excellent life choices?” 

I smirked. “Because I’m magic.” 

He shook his head. “You’re something.” 

“Something expensive, apparently,” I said, pointing at my brand–new Louis Vuitton slippers courtesy of his mother’s unlimited shopping spree. “Do they squeak when I walk? No. Because they don’t know poverty like I do.” 

Steven laughed again, real and unfiltered, and for the first time that morning, he looked… 

Relaxed. 

Maybe it was the waffles. Maybe it was Maxxx. Maybe it was me. 

But something shifted. 

And I felt it too. 

11:27 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 11 

“I like this Max,” he said. 

“You don’t even know him.” 

71 

55 vouchers 

“Well, if he’s going to flash his skin on your screen while I’m doing hamstring extensions, I feel like I deserve 

context.” 

“Oh, honey.” I leaned in slightly. “If you want to compete, you better take off the rest of your clothes and hold a fan.” 

He choked on air. 

Point: Madison. 

He blinked. “You’re dangerous.” 

“You’ve seen nothing yet. Try skipping another PT set.” 

He stared at me, then muttered under his breath, “So aggressive…. and mildly hot.” 

“Mildly? Wow. Bold of you to say, shirtless, single, and currently failing leg lifts.” 

I turned away, tossing my towel over my shoulder, and smirked at the oven clock. Max’s call had gone to voicemail. 

Steven was flustered. And me? I was back in control. Because let’s get one thing clear: 

Max 

may 

have had the towel pic, but I had the power. 

And Steven McLeon? 

He had no idea that this wasn’t even my final form. 

But of course, Max called again and this time I answered. Because why not? 

“Did you survive the McLeon Curse today or nah?” Max’s voice sang through the speaker. “Did his abs finally hypnotize you into kissing him mid–leg stretch?” 

Steven perked up. “Excuse me?!” 

I slapped the phone face–down. 

Fuck! Okay. Max could wait. 

Steven narrowed his eyes. “So… do you and your shirtless friend talk about kissing me?” 

I gave him a deadpan stare. “Don’t flatter yourself. We talk about your emotional constipation more than your abs.” 

He flexed a little. “So you do talk about my abs.” 

11:28 Thu, Sep 18 

Chapter 11 

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There was something about feeding a shirtless billionaire while dressed in fluffy socks and a borrowed Dior hoodie that made you feel like you were either in a fever dream or five episodes deep into a K–drama you never auditioned for. 

But whatever this was? It was starting to feel good. Not just the sass. Not just the games. But this. 

Him. Me. Waffles. And a little heat that had nothing to do with the stove. 

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