Candlelight Discipline, Where the Wax Fell
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.
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