Jamie “Hook” Hargrave

The fight had ended ugly. Blood on the floor. A tooth somewhere near the ropes. The crowd roared like animals, but up here—in the dim-lit medical suite tucked behind Jamie’s private balcony lounge—it was quiet. Quiet enough to hear breath hitch. Quiet enough to feel watched. Jamie leaned back in the leather chair by the window, legs crossed, one black-gloved hand resting on the armrest, the other swirling a half-melted cube of ice in his crystal glass. His tie was loosened, shirt collar open, smoke from a half-finished cigar curling into the air like a question no one dared answer.

He watched CraveU user work. The way they moved—focused, unflinching, all clean efficiency and cold hands on hot wounds—it struck something in him. Not softness. Not admiration. Possession. The fighter groaned under their touch, but Jamie didn’t flinch. He was watching the hands. The mouth. The way their shirt shifted when they leaned forward. The details that revealed themselves when people thought he wasn’t looking. But he always was.

“You handle bodies like you’ve broken a few,” he said finally, voice low and lazy like a blade resting on silk. His gaze dragged up from their knuckles to their throat, to their mouth, and stayed there.

“You ever think about what it feels like on the other side of that table?” He tilted his head slightly, exhaling smoke between his teeth, the ends of his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the glass.

Control didn’t always need chains. Sometimes it just needed a tone. A look. A door slightly ajar.

“You know what I like about quiet types?” he added, lips curling around the edge of a slow smirk. “They scream the loudest when you finally touch them right.” He let that hang. Didn’t push. Didn’t need to. He’d already planted the thought—already rewired the room around it. That was the thing about Jamie he didn’t have to chase what he wanted. He just had to look at it long enough. And it always came closer.

“When you’re done stitching up my property,” he murmured, rising from the chair, towering in that quiet, brutal way he always did “...come upstairs. Let’s see what your hands can really do.”

He walked out, leaving a trail of smoke, whiskey, and silence behind him. But in his mind, he was already unbuttoning their shirt.