"The Shed"
Nick adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, a casual elegance to every gesture, as he paced the front of the classroom. His presence was magnetic, youthful for his age, his lean frame taut beneath a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing a beautifully inked forearm. His voice, when he spoke, had that rare texture: a blend of theater and restraint, rich with a passion that never tipped into performance.
"Cheating," he said, letting the word hang like a dropped match. "The oldest sin in literature, the most enduring. We began with Adam and Eve, and we haven't stopped betraying each other since."
A few students laughed. Others leaned in.
"Why do we care so much when fictional characters cheat?" he asked, gaze sweeping the room. "Why do we judge them? Why do we need to judge them?"
A hand rose, Jordan, always eager, always thoughtful. "Because it feels personal. Like a promise was broken. We read these stories to believe in something. Cheating pulls the rug out."
Nick nodded, eyes glittering. "Good. Very good. The breach of trust isn't just between characters, it's between the author and the reader. Tolstoy gave us Anna Karenina, a woman starving for love in a world that punishes her for it. Do we hate her for her betrayal? Or do we mourn her for needing to?"
"She chose it," another student offered. "She left her kid. She knew the cost."
"Ah," Nick said, stopping mid-pace, pointing with his coffee cup. "Choice. The illusion that passion can be managed like a budget. But what about Emma Bovary? Did she choose to suffocate in a life that bored her to death? Or did she simply grasp at the nearest flame before darkness swallowed her whole?"
He let the silence settle, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable, but rather thoughtful.
"Flaubert didn't condemn her," Nick added softly. "He dissected her. Gently. Tragically."
A ripple of shifting bodies, a few scribbled notes.
"What about the modern takes?" he continued, stepping back to the whiteboard. "L. J. Shen, love or hate her, dares you to sympathize with the cheater. She makes you want it. Makes you root for the destruction. Why?"
A girl at the back smirked. "Because she writes hot assholes."
Laughter. Nick smiled, not denying it.
"Yes," he said, "...but also because she reveals something uncomfortable: that sometimes the heart doesn't break, it wanders. And when it wanders, it doesn't always return. At least not to the place where it originally was."
He paused, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes, something too quick for most of them to catch.
"But let's flip the lens," he said. "What if the betrayed one isn't innocent? What if their neglect is the original sin? Do we still feel righteous rage on their behalf, or do we begin to see the cracks in their martyrdom?"
A hush. The room, hooked.
Nick placed his coffee cup on the desk. He rested his palms on the edge, leaned forward slightly, and smiled.
"Literature doesn't give us easy answers," he said. "It gives us mirrors. Sometimes warped. Sometimes brutal. Sometimes..." he paused. "...achingly honest."
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Books closed. But many lingered. Nick's students often did. They weren't just learning plot and character, they were unraveling themselves.
As they filed out, one by one, a student lingered. A quiet boy named Caleb, tall and lean, eyes emerald green, glinting with a thousand unspoken thoughts.
"Professor Morrisey," he said softly. "So...do you think people always cheat because something's missing? Or…can it happen even when everything's perfect?"
Nick's smile faltered for a heartbeat. Just a heartbeat.
"Nothing," he said, "is ever perfect."
*
(Five years later)
The sea was still hours away, but its scent already lived in the air, faint brine, sun-warmed salt, and the imagined hush of waves. The black SUV glided down the highway, silent as a thought. Trees whipped by, blurring into long streaks of green and gold, while sunlight filtered through the windshield and played across Adrian's sharp jaw and the expensive watch gleaming on his wrist.
Nick sat in the passenger seat, one leg drawn up beneath him. Barefoot, as usual. A well-worn paperback lay forgotten in his lap, its spine bent from years of rereads. He watched his husband instead, watched the lines that deepened near his eyes when he was concentrating, watching the road, or maybe the numbers still running somewhere in the back of his mind.
"You're doing that thing again," Nick said softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the road.
Adrian blinked, and for a moment, there was a crack in his armor. He glanced over, mouth curving into something not quite a smile.
"I'm driving."
"You're crunching numbers," Nick murmured. "Probably the number of emails piling up, the stock reports you'll have to skim later, or who's bleeding venture capital this week."
Adrian exhaled, not quite a sigh. "You know me too well."
"I married you, didn't I?"
"And you haven't fled yet," Adrian quipped, a little more brittle than he intended. He reached for Nick's hand, resting it briefly on his thigh. "Which I'm endlessly grateful for."
Nick looked at their hands, his smaller, ink-stained fingers wrapped in Adrian's broader grip. There was so much love there, beneath the wear and calluses. But love, he learned, did not always mean ease.
"Fuck, I love the beach house so much," Nick said after a pause. "It feels like we can be ourselves there. Not Adrian Parker, CEO of god-knows-what, and Nick something-or-other, token humanities professor. Just…us. Two guys in linen shirts."
Adrian's mouth softened. "I like that."
"You could try to be that. At least for the weekend." Nick's eyes held him, unwavering. "Don't check your phone every ten minutes. Don't bring your laptop down to the dock."
"I'll try," Adrian murmured.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward, but it wasn't quite comfortable either. It held too much weight. The kind of silence that lives in long marriages, the ones that have weathered storms but still carry scars beneath the surface.
Nick turned his head toward the window, where the sunlight painted the glass in gold. "Bobby's still coming, I suppose?"
Adrian nodded, lips tightening almost imperceptibly. "Yeah."
"You told him I'd be there?"
"Yes."
"And how did he respond?"
Adrian hesitated. "With silence."
Nick nodded slowly, swallowing whatever bitter thought had risen. "He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you," Adrian said quickly, too quickly. "He's twenty-one, Nick. That's a complicated age."
"I was twenty-one when we met," Nick said, almost wistfully.
"You're different," Adrian said.
Nick looked at him again, studied his profile. The proud nose. The jaw that clenched too often. The eyes that only softened when they were alone in bed, and the world shrank down to skin and sweat and sighs.
"I won't fight for your son's love," Nick said gently. "But I won't disappear, either."
"I don't want you to," Adrian said.
Nick smiled then, but it was sad at the edges. "Let's just, you know...try to get through this. We haven't seen him in a while. Hopefully he'll be...calmer."
Adrian reached for his hand again, this time not letting go. Their fingers tangled, warm and familiar.
Less than an hour later, the beach house stood just beyond the dunes, half-wrapped in ivy and sea grass, whitewashed walls glowing warm against the soft mauve of twilight. It was the kind of house that belonged to dreamers, wooden, weather-worn, but strong. A wide porch stretched across the front like open arms.
Adrian stepped out of the car first, rolling his shoulders, the soft stretch of his cashmere shirt pulling tight across the defined lines of his chest. He was a man carved in quiet intensity, six feet tall, broad shoulders, lean in the waist, his body honed from early morning runs and the constant tension of ambition. His dark hair, just starting to silver at the temples, was pushed back with careless elegance. He looked like power dressed in linen, every move purposeful, every glance measured. And yet now, standing in the fading sun with the ocean scent in his lungs, there was something gentler in him. Something almost boyish.
Nick emerged slowly, barefoot again, because he always was by the sea. He wore soft, pale chinos rolled at the ankle and a loose linen shirt. His body was slimmer, sculpted in a way that spoke of quiet discipline, morning yoga, and swimming in cold water. His skin held the sun like a memory, golden and freckled, a subtle contrast to Adrian's darker tone. His hair was thick, sandy brown with streaks of sun-bleached blonde, curling at the nape of his neck. And his eyes, wide, watchful, full of quiet fire, were fixed on Adrian with a gaze that had never quite stopped aching for him.
The house exhaled as they stepped inside, cool and familiar. Polished wooden floors were worn soft with age. The tall and open windows let in the sound of the sea and the scent of lavender from the back garden. Everything inside was clean and straightforward: white linens, sun-faded blue cushions, ceramic bowls filled with shells and smooth stones. It was the kind of space that cradled silence, welcomed skin, and remembered every bare-footed night they'd spent wrapped in each other.
Nick wandered in first, running his fingers over the back of the couch and then trailing them down the glass doors leading to the wide deck. Beyond it, the beach unfurled in pale gold, the waves kissing the sand in long, languorous strokes.
"God," he murmured.
Adrian came up behind him, close enough that Nick could feel his heat. A warm and sure hand slid around his waist, pressing against the slope of his belly.
"I've missed you," Adrian said into his ear, low and gravel-smooth.
Nick leaned back into him. "Yeah? Then show me."
Adrian turned him slowly, looking at him as if trying to memorize him. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of Nick's shirt, brushing skin. "Babe," Nick mumbled.
"What?" Adrian replied, his massive bulge already brushing against Nick's, who knew the power tool his husband hid inside those awfully stretched fabric.
"Nothing..." Nick muttered, his voice slowly surrendering.
The kiss came softly at first, a press of lips that tasted of longing, then deepened into something hungrier. Adrian's hands moved up Nick's back, crumpling the linen between his fingers, as Nick sighed into him, body molding against muscle and heat. They kissed like the house knew them, like it remembered every moan and every gasp echoing off its walls. The kind of kiss that began at the mouth but ended in the spine, drawing every nerve awake.
But something was missing.
Nick felt it in the way Adrian's hands wandered, in the way his mouth kissed but didn't linger, didn't ask. His touch was practiced, almost automatic, like muscle memory rather than devotion. And Nick, ever attuned, ever aching, sensed the hollowness almost immediately.
He pulled back, lips parted, searching Adrian's eyes in the dim.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, softly but not gently.
Adrian hesitated. "Fucking you."
"No." Nick's voice thinned, sharp at the edges. "No, you're not."
Adrian pulled back slightly, his expression shadowed. "What now?"
Nick pushed to the side, hands straightening his shirt, his chest rising fast. "I feel like I'm making love to a ghost."
Adrian looked away, jaw working, silence like a tide rising between them.
Nick turned his eyes to the glass door. "Do you even want this anymore?"
Adrian flinched. "Nick..."
"Answer the fucking question?" Nick drilled, taking one step forward.
Adrian stepped forward then, too, his voice rough, defensive. "Every fucking time...Jesus Christ," he groaned. "For fuck sake, Nick. I've brought you here..."
"You brought yourself here," Nick interrupted, turning, eyes glinting. "And I tagged along because I'm still stupid enough to hope. I'm not reaching for the fucking stars, Adrian. It's the bare minimum. Engaging when you're trying to fuck your husband," he stated.
"That's not fair," Adrian said again, softer now. "I'm tired. But I'm trying."
Nick's laugh was brittle. "Trying isn't enough when you have your tongue shoved in my mouth and I feel nothing."
The room fell into a long, painful stillness.
Then Nick turned, barefoot and shirt half-buttoned, and walked out.
Adrian didn't stop him.
Nick walked down the narrow path between the grasses until the house was behind him and the sea stretched before him like a mirror of everything he couldn't say. He walked to the edge, letting the cold foam curl around his ankles, grounding him in sensation when his heart felt untethered.
He folded his arms around himself and stared out at the horizon, trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted, not just loved out of obligation, but desired.
Nick stood still, toes half-buried in the cool sand, the waves hushing against the shore in a slow, rhythmic lullaby. The ocean stretched before him like something ancient, unknowable, and patient, holding secrets in its depths the way hearts do. The wind tugged at his shirt, plastering it to his skin, and the salt air wrapped around him like a hand that wanted to soothe but didn't know how.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered Adrian's laugh, the real one, before the pressure of boardrooms and acquisitions had sculpted him into a quieter, harder man. He remembered warm nights in Adrian's old loft in the city, both younger, poorer, drunk on red wine and the novelty of each other. There had been nights when they'd made love on the floor, under half-assembled bookshelves and windows that leaked rain, whispering poetry and absurdities between gasps. Back when desire and intimacy were effortless, when they didn't have to schedule connections between meetings and disappointments.
He had held on to that version of Adrian for years. But now, sometimes, he wondered if it had all been a mirage, a moment caught in the soft light of early love, now gone, and he was too stubborn to admit it.
A soft shuffle in the sand broke the spiral of his thoughts.
He turned and saw a man approaching, tall, silver-haired, tanned. He was moving at a relaxed pace, with a leash in one hand and a large golden retriever padding beside him. The dog loped forward with easy joy, tongue lolling, tail swaying. The man gave Nick a gentle smile as he drew near.
"Evening," the stranger said, stopping a few feet away. "Didn't mean to intrude. Looked like you were having a moment out here."
Nick managed a small, polite smile. "I guess I was."
The man tilted his head, eyes calm and kind. "You okay?"
Nick paused, then nodded. "Yes. No. I don't know."
The stranger chuckled, not unkindly. "Well, that covers most of us on any given day."
The dog nosed up to Nick, pressing a wet muzzle into his hand. He let it happen, fingers tangling instinctively in the dog's soft fur.
"He's sweet," Nick murmured.
"Name's August. Rescued him a few years ago. I think he rescued me right back." The man paused. "I'm Richard, by the way. Live in the blue house just next door."
"Nick," he replied. "We're in the white one."
"Ah," Richard said, nodding. "You and your partner?"
Nick hesitated. "Yes. My husband. Adrian."
"Nice to see more couples around here these days." He glanced toward the horizon, where the sun was finishing its descent in a wash of rose and violet. "It's a good place to get away. Or try to."
Nick let out a soft, tired breath. "We rarely come here," he muttered, unable to avoid noticing Richard squinting slightly as if he wanted to say something but was struggling whether or not to. "We came here to reconnect. I don't know if it's working."
Richard was silent for a moment. "Yeah...the thing about relationships...and I've had my share, lost a few, held on tight to one, is that it changes shape. What starts out as fire might end up as embers. That's not always a bad thing, but sometimes…sometimes the fire just goes out. Or you get too cold waiting for someone else to warm up."
Nick swallowed, the weight of the words sinking like stones in his chest.
"I still love him," he said quietly. "But I feel like...I don't know," Nick stumbled, his eyes darting around as if the beach or the ocean might throw the answer back at him.
Richard's voice came swiftly and calmly. "Sometimes you have to ask yourself if you're in love with the person in front of you or the memory of who that person used to be."
The dog nudged Nick's leg again, then flopped down in the sand beside him with a deep, contented sigh. Nick looked at Richard, truly looked. The lines around his eyes, the silver at his temples, the quiet wisdom earned not from books but from what seemed like years of living, losing, and trying again.
"Thank you," he said, barely above the breeze.
Richard gave a soft smile. "Any time. And if you ever need to borrow a dog, August is a very good listener."
With that, he tugged gently on the leash, and the dog rose.
A few slow breaths later, Nick turned. His path back to the house was now lined with moonlight, the grass silver-tipped, shadows long and fluid. He sauntered, hands in his pockets, the thick salt air in his lungs. The ocean hummed behind him, steady and relentless, like the ache in his chest.
Through the wide windows of the beach house, he could see Adrian moving about the kitchen. The lights were warm, golden, and made the place look almost like a painting. Adrian stood at the counter, pouring a drink, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, shirt untucked. He looked handsome. So goddamn handsome it hurt.
And yet.
Nick stepped inside. The floor creaked softly beneath his feet. Adrian glanced up but didn't come to meet him.
"Hey," he said, his voice careful. "I was starting to wonder if I should come looking."
Nick shrugged out of his shirt and draped it over a chair. "Just needed some air."
Adrian nodded, turning back to his glass. Bourbon. Predictable. A comfort more loyal than most people.
"I met a neighbor," Nick said after a pause, moving to the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. "Richard. Lives in the blue house next door. He was walking his dog."
Adrian hummed, not quite a word. "Never met him."
Nick studied him. "He was kind. Offered me some advice."
Adrian raised an eyebrow faintly, still not looking at him. "Did he now?"
"Yeah. Something about fire turning into embers. About choosing someone every day, even when it's hard."
Adrian let out a low sound that might've been a scoff or just breath catching in his throat. "A poet."
Nick blinked, stunned for a moment. "God, you're such a cynic."
Adrian finally looked up at him, but his gaze was tired, slightly teasing but not cutting. "I'm kidding. I'm glad you...had your little moment of 'stranger's wisdom'."
The silence that followed wasn't sharp, just worn thin. Like the spaces between them had been stretched too far for too long.
Adrian set down his glass, leaning against the counter now, arms crossed. "I didn't mean to..."
"You never do lately."
Nick said it without malice, but its weight hung in the room. Adrian didn't respond. Just stared at the counter, jaw tense. Eventually, his lips parted as if he meant to say something, but just then, the sound of a car engine rolled up the long drive, and headlights spilled across the porch.
They both turned.
Nick's voice dropped. "That'll be Bobby."
The name settled between them like a stone in water.
Adrian looked at Nick, a strange mixture of dread and resolve in his expression. "You okay?"
"No," Nick said, not unkindly.
Adrian held his gaze for a beat longer. Then, slowly, he nodded.
The car door slammed shut outside.
Nick and Adrian stood side by side, frozen in the kitchen's golden hush, watching Bobby emerge from dusk.
He moved through the blue cast of evening like a figure carved from marble and sin. The porch light caught him mid-step, tousled bronze hair, cheekbones sculpted sharp as broken glass, skin kissed by sun and privilege. Tall and lean, his body carried the casual perfection of youth: broad shoulders wrapped in a thin white T-shirt, worn jeans hanging low on narrow hips, sneakers scuffed from careless indifference.
He was the kind of beautiful that made people turn and look twice, not just because of the symmetry of his features, but because of something more dangerous. There was a fire in him that refused to be tamed, an insolence that gleamed in the arch of his brow and the curl of his lip.
Nick felt it first, the cold ripple that rolled off Bobby's arrival. The door swung open before he could knock.
Adrian stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "Hey."
Bobby didn't answer at first. He stood in the doorway, eyes moving past his father like he was something forgettable. He stepped inside, dragging a duffel bag behind him.
"Can I go to my room?" he asked, voice smooth and low, like smoke curling from a slow-burning flame.
"You can," Adrian said, carefully.
Bobby's eyes flicked around the house, landing on the vases of sea grass that Nick had placed near the entrance. They weren't there the last time. A sneer ghosted across his mouth. He looked at Nick then. Just a glance, cool and flat.
Nick managed a nod. "Hi, Bobby."
The way Bobby looked at him was always slightly off and deliberate, like an actor moving through the stage of a play he loathed. There was no warmth, only a disdain that dripped like venom disguised as courtesy.
Adrian stepped in again. "We were just about to eat."
"Not really hungry," Bobby replied, walking past them into the living room, his gaze raking across the space. "Thanks, though. I'm sure whatever you made is very...homey."
Nick bristled, but said nothing.
Bobby dropped his bag onto the floor beside the stairs and turned toward the windows, hands in his back pockets, staring at the darkening beach.
"So you two are still doing this," he said after a moment. "Tell me...does pretending still work, or is it just habit now?"
Adrian's mouth opened, but Bobby didn't wait for a reply. He turned and started up the stairs, voice drifting back over his shoulder.
"I'm going to shower. Try not to argue too loudly. The walls are thinner than you think."
His footsteps faded overhead. The bathroom door shut. Water began to run.
Nick exhaled, steadying himself against the edge of the counter. "Charming as ever."
Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's tired. He just drove all day."
"Sure," Nick said quietly. "Tired."
Adrian didn't rise to the bait. He just stood there, jaw tight, eyes on the stairs.
Nick turned away, but not before whispering, "Yep. He hates me."
*
The sound of the shower upstairs was muffled but persistent, a soft hiss behind the ceiling, like static bleeding through the seams of their fragile calm. Nick leaned against the edge of the sink, arms crossed, staring out the window at the sea now cloaked in navy and ink. Adrian stood across the room, unmoving, as if afraid that the slightest shift would break the silence irreparably.
It was Nick who spoke first.
"Do you ever…defend me when I'm not around?"
Adrian blinked, the question cutting through the quiet like a needle. "What?"
Nick turned, slowly, his gaze steady. "When he talks shit about me?"
Adrian's face darkened with guilt, though he tried to hide it behind measured words. "It's complicated. He's my son."
"I know that," Nick said, not raising his voice. "I've never tried to come between you. Never asked you to choose. But when he treats me like something he scraped off his shoe, and you say nothing...what am I supposed to think?"
Adrian exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. He still looked like the man Nick had fallen in love with, but tonight, he seemed more like a portrait of that man. The real Adrian was buried somewhere beneath layers of tension, time, and wear.
"I try to keep the peace," Adrian said, finally. "I try to keep you both from tearing each other apart."
"But you're not keeping the peace," Nick said softly. "You're just standing in the middle while we bleed."
Adrian's jaw flexed. He reached for the bottle and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer one to Nick.
"You know how hard this has been for him," Adrian said. "I left. I broke his childhood in half. Then I married someone..." He stopped himself.
"Say it," Nick said. "Someone like me?"
Adrian looked up sharply, glass poised just below his mouth. His voice dropped. "Someone he couldn't understand."
Nick nodded slowly, lips pressed tight. "Well, maybe you should've explained it to him. Maybe you should've let him see that it wasn't about me. It was about you. About who you are."
Adrian swallowed, the bourbon burning down his throat. "I tried."
Nick stepped away from the counter, his movements graceful but sharp, like a dancer mid-pirouette on broken glass.
"Obviously, you didn't try hard enough," he said, voice trembling now. "Because if you had, I wouldn't feel like something you hide when your past shows up at the door."
Adrian crossed the room then, closing the space between them in three swift strides. He stood in front of Nick, close enough to touch, but his hands remained at his sides.
"I don't hide you," he said. "You're the best part of my life, you fucking idiot."
Nick's eyes glittered. "Then why don't I feel like it...?"
That landed like a blow. Adrian stepped back.
The silence that followed was not peaceful, it throbbed with years of subtle disappointments and unspoken needs. The sound of the shower upstairs ceased.
Nick turned away, walking toward the living room, toward the wide glass doors that opened onto the patio. Adrian didn't try to stop him. He just watched, the bourbon glass forgotten in his hand, as Nick stepped barefoot onto the deck.
Outside, the night had deepened, pulling a velvet shawl across the sky. Stars winked faintly above the black silhouette of the dunes. The beach house stood quiet, lit from within like a ship at sea, warm against the cool press of wind.
Nick moved around the back of the house toward a large shed tucked near a thicket of wind-bent pines, half-buried in shadows. He leaned against its salt-warped wood, closing his eyes momentarily, letting the dark hold him.
From his back pocket, he drew out a thin joint, rolled earlier in quiet expectation of a moment like this. His fingers worked automatically, match struck, the flame flaring, the scent of pine and paper singed into the breeze. He took the first drag deep, the smoke unfurling through him like a sigh. It didn't fix anything, but it softened the edges. He exhaled slowly, watching the plume curl upward into nothing.
Then, movement.
From the corner of his eye, a flicker of motion in one of the second-floor windows. Nick's gaze drifted upward, casual at first. And then it caught, held, and stilled.
Bobby.
The curtains in the bedroom were drawn halfway, a careless mistake or a deliberate defiance, it was hard to tell. But the light inside was soft, golden. And Bobby, freshly showered, stood in the center like something out of a fever dream.
Completely naked.
Unashamedly, beautifully so.
The young man moved with an unthinking grace, drying his tousled hair with a towel, his body lithe and sun-burnished. The line of his back was a sculpture in motion, shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle moving beneath his skin like liquid fire. And the most beautiful ass cheeks, a smooth peach one could dream of sinking his face into. And between his legs, dangling from the softest bush, thr most perfect, soft, uncut cock. He stretched, oblivious, one arm reaching above his head, the other pulling the towel across his neck.
Nick froze.
It wasn't lust. Not exactly. It was something stranger, something caught between reverence and confusion, a flicker of heat in the hollow of his chest that made his breath hitch and the joint tremble in his fingers. The kid was at ease. Confident in his skin. Blissfully unaware of just how captivating he was, yet eerily attuned to the power of his own presence.
Nick should have looked away. But he didn't. He felt compelled to linger. As if Bobby's every movement was like words forming, slowly assimilating into a breathtaking literary passage. Unlike any Nick had ever stumbled upon, even through the countless books his eyes had skimmed through his entire life.
Bobby moved to the bed, retrieved a pair of briefs from a small open suitcase, then walked back toward the mirror, unhurried, unabashed. There was a rawness to his beauty, something wild and careless, and it struck Nick in a way he hadn't expected. Maybe it was the weed, the exhaustion, the emotional wreckage of the evening. Perhaps it was the weight of desire he hadn't let himself feel in weeks. Or maybe it was simply the shock of being caught off guard.
Then, Bobby turned. Their eyes locked through the half-open window. Nick's breath faltered. The joint hung between his fingers, forgotten. For one terrible heartbeat, neither of them moved. Nick, mortified, raised a hand in a small, uncertain wave. As if that could erase what had just happened. As if politeness could undo the gaze he hadn't meant to hold.
Bobby stared, unreadable. His face was blank, his lips parted, and his damp hair curled around his temple. Then, slowly, deliberately, Bobby walked to the window and shut the blinds with a single, quiet motion.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Nick stood there, paralyzed, the night suddenly too loud, too sharp. His cheeks flushed hot, his stomach twisting into a knot. He took a final drag of the joint, then dropped it into the sand, grinding it out with his heel. A wave crashed somewhere in the dark, loud and sudden.
Nick pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the now-dark window. "What the fuck was that…" he whispered to no one before shaking his head and walking back inside.
The sliding glass door whispered shut behind him as he stepped back into the house. The faint hum of music drifted from the kitchen, slow and sultry, like an after-hours confession. Adrian was at the stove, shirt sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet with the kind of focused intensity that betrayed his discomfort.
Nick hovered in the doorway a moment, watching.
There was something vulnerable about Adrian when he cooked, a man who controlled teams of hundreds with a flick of his voice, now fumbling with olive oil and torn basil like he was trying to remember how to be ordinary.
Nick crossed the room quietly. "You're burning the garlic."
Adrian startled, then glanced down at the pan. "Shit." He grabbed the wooden spoon and scraped at the edges.
Nick stepped in beside him, gently nudging him aside. "Let me."
For a moment, Adrian hesitated. Then he exhaled and let the spoon go.
Nick took over, adding a splash of wine to the pan to loosen the browned bits. "Never add the garlic first," he said, almost teasing. You wait until the onions are halfway done."
Adrian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I knew that."
"Right," Nick murmured.
Adrian didn't answer, but the way his shoulders sagged said enough.
Nick stirred the sauce, and the scent of wine and tomato bloomed between them. "You know...You don't have to fix everything all the time. You can delegate," he said before their eyes met. Something passed between them—tentative, tender. A thread tying them back together, however loosely. "I'm good at fixing things, too. Remember?"
Adrian's voice dropped. "I miss you."
Nick looked at him then, truly looked at the man he'd fallen in love with. Not the mogul, not the father, not the one who came home late with tired eyes and distracted hands. But the Adrian he'd met all those years ago, standing barefoot in the rain with a bottle of wine and a heart cracked open.
"I miss you, too," Nick said quietly.
Adrian stepped closer, his fingers brushing Nick's waist, a ghost of a touch. They stood like that for a moment, bathed in warm light and soft jazz, the sauce beginning to simmer, something close to peace blooming between them.
And then, footsteps on the stairs.
In seconds, the spell broke.
Bobby appeared at the edge of the kitchen, now dressed in a black, loose tank top and gray lounge pants, damp hair curling at his nape. His entrance wasn't loud, but it landed like thunder. The shift was immediate. Adrian straightened, stepping back. Nick's hands faltered slightly on the spoon. The music kept playing, but it sounded suddenly too intimate, too revealing.
Bobby's eyes moved from one man to the other, lingering long enough on Nick to suggest he hadn't forgotten what he'd seen outside. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Wow," he said, voice lazy. "Look at you two."
Nick forced a smile. "Dinner's almost ready."
Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Great. Smells...edible."
Adrian tried to intercept the tension, voice too light. "We're making pasta. Like old times."
Bobby snorted. "Yeah. Except Mom's not crying in the guest room this time."
Adrian flinched. The silence that followed was sharp as broken glass. The music ended, the last note hanging like a question no one dared to answer.
Nick stepped away from the stove, turning off the burner. "I'll set the table."
Adrian moved to say something, anything, but the words died on his tongue. And Bobby, beautiful and venomous, smiled like he'd won something, even if he didn't know what.
The table was set with quiet care.
Nick had laid out the plates and polished silverware, folding linen napkins into soft triangles the way he always did when company came over. The pasta, penne tossed in a sauce of crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil, and a hint of wine, sat steaming in the center, glistening in the candlelight.
It could have been a lovely meal.
They sat in silence at first, the kind that made every scrape of the fork against porcelain sound like a question. Bobby twirled pasta onto his fork like it offended him to touch it. Nick tried not to stare too long, to not remember the window or the strange, fleeting moment that had left his pulse stuttering.
Adrian poured wine for himself and Nick, then offered Bobby the same.
"I'm good," Bobby said curtly, reaching for his water instead.
"Suit yourself," Adrian muttered.
Nick took a slow sip, wishing the alcohol would dull the air between them.
"So," Adrian tried, "how was the drive down? That old Jeep still holding up?"
Bobby shrugged. "She rattles like hell, but yeah. She's fine."
"Still going to classes?" Adrian asked, more gently this time.
"Yep."
Nick glanced up. "What are you studying this semester?"
Bobby looked at him like he'd asked how to spell his own name. "Media theory."
Nick nodded, trying to bridge the gap. "That was one of my favorites when I got my master's. McLuhan, Hall, Benjamin...”
Bobby laughed, short and cold. "Wow. Didn't think I was still in class."
Nick stiffened.
Adrian put down his fork. "He was just being nice."
"Right," Bobby said, reaching for the bread. "Nick's always so nice."
"You could try being civil," Adrian added, a sharper edge slipping into his voice.
"I'm eating the fucking pasta, aren't I?"
"Bobby."
The name landed like a slammed door.
"I'm just saying," the young man continued, not bothering to hide the disdain curling in his lips, "it's a little forced, right? The house. The wine. The perfect table. The matching napkins."
Nick exhaled slowly. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"I mean..." Bobby looked at him, eyes glinting. "This perfect little coastal three-way? It's kinda bullshit."
Adrian stood abruptly, chair scraping hard against the floor. "That's enough."
Bobby blinked. "What, now you're mad?"
"Apologize," Adrian growled.
"Da'fuck I will," Bobby groaned back, slamming his back against his chair.
"You've been antagonizing and condescending since you walked through that door. You don't have to like my choices, or the life I lead, or Nick, but you will respect us in this house."
Bobby pushed his chair back, standing slowly. "You? Lecturing people about respect?"
Adrian's voice dropped, low and thunderous. "You watch your fucking mouth, young man."
Bobby met his father's fury with something colder, ancient, and tight-lipped. "You know what, maybe he's not the problem," he said, his eyes darting over to Nick before locking back on his father. "Maybe you're the bad seed. You fucking reek of lies..." he spewed, words slurred and insidious. "The stench is so bad I might vomit over this badly cooked pasta, and..." he pressed before Adrian's voice broke across the table.
"OUT," he yelled.
Silence.
"What?"
"Get the fuck out," Adrian repeated, voice like a blade. "Now."
Bobby stared at him, stunned, but only for a second. Then he laughed, bitter and breathless. "Fine?"
He turned, storming to the front hall, grabbing his coat from the hook.
Nick moved as if to follow, but Adrian caught his arm. "Let him go," he said, voice quieter now, but shaking.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the wine glasses. And then they were alone again. The candles still flickered. Adrian sank into his chair like a man deflated, burying his face in his hands.
Nick moved first. He turned off the burner, slid the heavy pot of untouched pasta to a cool burner, and stepped over the shards of the evening, careful not to disturb Adrian, who sat at the head of the table like a statue crumbling in slow motion. His hands were cupped over his face, elbows braced on the table's edge, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
Nick knelt beside him, touching nothing at first. Just being there.
"I'm sorry," Adrian whispered, his voice gravel-rough and thick.
Nick let the words sit for a moment before speaking. "He pushed you," he said softly. "He was cruel."
"I'm supposed to love him anyway."
"Babe," Nick said. "I don't think that's how it works..."
Adrian sat back, his chair creaking beneath him. "You don't understand," he said. "Bobby's..." he tried to explain before Nick's voice cut through.
"He's twenty-one," Nick quickly interjected, playfully echoing Adrian's previous words. "Let him be mad. Let him hate me, if it helps him make sense of things." Adrian turned his face away, but Nick reached up gently, cupping his jaw with steady fingers. "Hey. Look at me." Their eyes met, weary. "You are a good man," Nick said.
Adrian nodded slowly and leaned into the touch, then closed his eyes. Outside, the wind shifted. The night darkened into stillness. And for the first time in days, something fragile and necessary settled between them, not resolution, not quite forgiveness, but presence.
Several minutes later, the kitchen was a slow, muted symphony of dishes clinking, water running, and footsteps shifting over the tiled floor. Neither of them spoke. There was a peace to it, the way they moved in tandem, Adrian rinsing plates, Nick drying them with a soft cotton cloth. The house had returned to silence, but it was no longer sharp with anger. It was heavy. Still.
Nick wiped down the counter, then leaned into Adrian's side, resting his chin lightly on the man's shoulder.
"That pasta deserved better," he murmured.
They stood like that for a beat longer before Nick pulled away and turned off the last light. The kitchen glowed faintly from the moonlight streaming through the window. They walked together through the quiet house, passing the shadowy outlines of furniture, until they reached the master bedroom.
Adrian closed the door behind them and shrugged off his shirt. His bare, massive chest was golden in the low light, skin taut over firm muscle. He moved through the room with a kind of practiced exhaustion, born from boardrooms and burnout in equal measure.
Nick watched him for a moment, watched the way the man he loved pulled himself out of his clothes like they were a burden. Nick followed suit, undressing slowly, folding his shirt and pants neatly at the foot of the bed. The covers were cool and smelled faintly of the lavender softener Nick always bought.
Adrian slid beneath the sheets first, lying on his back, one arm resting over his eyes.
Nick climbed in beside him, hesitant at first, then curling in closer, letting his hand find the plane of Adrian's abdomen. His touch was soft. Seeking. Adrian didn't move away, but he didn't lean in, either.
Nick's lips found his shoulder. "You're warm."
"I'm tired," Adrian whispered, almost apologetically.
Nick drew back an inch. "I know. I just…"
Adrian turned to face him then. "Not tonight."
Something brittle cracked faintly inside Nick. He pulled his hand back slowly, nodding. "Okay," he said, and though the word was simple, it was filled with restrained ache. They lay there in the silence, the hum of the ceiling fan a soft whisper overhead. Nick turned onto his back, staring up. "Do you think Bobby's okay?"
Adrian sighed. "He's fine."
Nick turned his head. "How do you know?"
Adrian pointed his chin toward the window. "His car's still in the driveway. He didn't leave."
Nick stared at the ceiling again. The moonlight streaked across it in pale silver lines. "My chest feels tight again," he confessed.
Adrian sat up, walked to the nightstand, and opened the drawer. He took out a small amber pill bottle, twisted off the lid, and shook one into his palm.
"Take this," he said. "It'll help." Nick hesitated. "It's the same kind I gave you last time," Adrian added. "Just helps you turn your brain off. You need sleep."
There was something gentle, almost insistent, in the way he held out the pill.
Nick took it and rolled it between his fingers. When Adrian turned and disappeared into the bathroom, Nick sat up, his hand reaching for the glass of water on his side of the bed. He was about to chug the pill into his mouth when he paused. His hand came down, his fingers sliding his bedside drawer open and tossing the pill inside it.
He lay back down, drawing the covers up, listening to the distant sound of water running and Adrian's toothbrush tapping against porcelain.
By the time Adrian returned, face washed and expression guarded, Nick was still. Pretending sleep he hadn't yet reached. Adrian slid into bed beside him, turning away to face the wall.
In the silence, Nick stared at the ceiling again, the exhaustion dragging at the edges of his mind, softening thought, dulling the tension like an eraser on skin. And yet, just before sleep took him, his last thought was not of Adrian or Bobby, but of the ocean outside, breathing in and out, relentless, aching.
*
Nick stirred, his body heavy, sweat clinging to his skin in a fine sheen. The sheets felt too warm. His limbs, slow and leaden. But something had pierced the haze, a whisper in the dark, the echo of voices not meant to be heard.
He blinked, the bedroom awash in a faint silver from the moon slanting through the blinds. Adrian wasn't beside him. The space next to him was cold.
"Adrian?" he called, voice a dry whisper.
No answer.
He swung his legs over the bed, the floor cool against his feet. Every step toward the door felt half-dreamed, as though reality shifted beneath him. The hallway was dim, and the house itself seemed asleep.
But then, voices.
Low. Muffled. From outside.
Nick descended the stairs slowly. The conversation sound was clearer now, leaking through the thick glass doors leading to the backyard. He paused before the curtains and parted them just enough to see.
In the ghostly light of the moon and porch lamps stood Adrian and Bobby, silhouetted by the half-moon. The scene was off. Not just strange, but wrong. They stood too close. Not physically, but emotionally, tethered by something crackling and charged.
Nick leaned closer, pressing his shoulder to the glass. The voices were faint, but words began to reach him in patches.
"... I've told you to tone it down when he's around," Adrian whispered. His tone wasn't angry, it was tired. Defeated.
Nick's breath hitched.
Bobby stepped forward. "Jesus Christ, what is he doing to you? You're turning soft."
Adrian exhaled, long and slow, rubbing his hands over his face. "Maybe I want soft. Maybe I need it."
"Are you sure about that?" Bobby said, stepping closer, his eyes traveling along his father's body and landing on his crotch. Nick's eyes squinted tighter. "I can be soft too. Is that what you want?"
Silence.
Then Adrian whispered, "Maybe," before his voice trailed, his breath recovering. "No," he added, his tone shifting.
It felt like a slap, even from behind glass. Nick's fingers dug into the curtain. The world was blurring now, not from the haze, but the sting behind his eyes. The breathlessness of betrayal.
Then, suddenly, Bobby shoved Adrian.
Not hard. Not violent. A push born of emotion, of a storm that had nowhere to go. They lingered there before he pushed Adrian, this time harder.
Yet, his father's body barely moved. Then he grabbed Bobby, not in anger, but in something more profound. Desperate. Grasping.
"I'm sorry," Adrian muttered, and before Nick could process it, he pulled Bobby into a hug.
It was shocking. Gentle.
Bobby resisted only a moment before collapsing into it, burying his face into Adrian's chest. These moans erupted from his chest. His body shook. Was it rage? Grief? Nick couldn't tell.
Then, without warning, Adrian released the hug, took Bobby's arm, and pulled him toward the shed. It wasn't violent or clear, but it looked and felt urgent. The door creaked open before the structure swallowed them whole.
Nick stood motionless. Heart thudding like a drumbeat underwater. Everything felt surreal, every instinct told him to step back, pretend he hadn't seen. But something darker urged him forward. He reached for the door handle. Cold metal in his palm. He pushed it open. The wind off the ocean hit him like a shiver. And he stepped outside.
Toward the shed.
It loomed, half-cast in the moon's sickle light. Its door was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden warmth slicing the dark. From within came the sound of voices, hushed and urgent.
He crept closer. Step by step. The world narrowed.
Then, finally, through the crack in the door, he saw them.
Adrian stood shirtless, the muscles of his back taut with tension. Facing him was Bobby. Tall, lean, and beautiful in the unearthly way that statues were. The kind of beauty that devoured attention. And for one breathless second, Nick's mind refused to connect the dots.
Bobby.
It hit him like a blow.
Nick's hand flew to his mouth, not from fear but sheer disbelief. His heart was suddenly a storm, too big, too loud, too much for his ribcage.
Bobby stepped into his father's space, possessive, assured. His hand slid along Adrian's jaw, tilting it up, forcing their eyes to meet.
Adrian didn't flinch. He didn't move away. He let it happen.
And then, he kissed him.
The kiss was slow, long, and strangely reverent. It was not the violent desperation of a mistake but something far more dangerous: intimacy, recognition, and familiarity.
They had done it before.
Nick felt something tear open in his chest. He couldn't move, speak, or blink. His feet had grown roots in the earth, and his breath suspended like an unfinished sentence. As one might watch a car crash, he watched, horrified but unable to turn away.
Hands wandered. Shirts were lifted. Before their mouths locked again. And that's when every sound became painfully clear. The moaning into each other's mouths. The heavy breathing. The urgency. The desire.
Adrian's bulky arms circled Bobby's waist and yanked the young man up, carrying him over to a tool table and slamming his body on it.
"Fuck, I missed you, you little shit..." Adrian managed to groan out as Bobby's tongue drilled into his mouth. The boy's lips circled Adrian's like a snake, choking his predator.
Meanwhile, Adrian's fingers were already sliding inside Bobby's waistband, pulling down his son's pants in one violent jerk, yanking them off his feet and tossing them to the ground. Bobby's legs swathed around Adrian's waist like scissors in seconds, the young man's arms wrapped around his father's neck, and his fingers dug into his thick hair. Bobby's moan broke from under their locked mouths then, high-pitched and strangely submissive.
"Keep it down..." Adrian groaned.
"Why?" Bobby questioned, pulling his tongue out of his father's mouth, his plump lips and mouth red and slightly bloated. "I thought you knocked him out," he added.
Nick's eyes flared, shivering slightly as his pupils dilated in disbelief.
"Still..." Adrian replied. As he did, Bobby started flicking his tongue over his father's mouth like a cat. Everything about the young man's physicality contradicted what Nick knew about him. About them.
This wasn't hate.
This was reverence. Obsession. Lust.
"Just stick it in," Bobby pleaded, his husky, usually condescending voice completely shifting in tone. "I want you inside me," he continued, his face rubbing against his father's as his mouth glided along his face, searching for Adrian's ear. "I was about to lose my fucking mind...locked inside that house with her," he groaned.
"She's your mother," Adrian groaned back, the sound of his belt coming undone echoing inside the small space. Bobby's hand slid inside his pants in seconds.
"She's a bitch," the young man whispered, his lips ripping into a deviant smile. "And you know it," he continued, stroking his father's concealed cock, his elbow moving up and down. Nick could see Adrian's head falling back, his breath getting deeper. Deeper than it ever was with him. "Fuck, your leaking like crazy," Bobby stated with an almost proud tone. "Were you saving this all for me?" he asked.
And that's when Adrian's hand came up. He grasped his son's hair and pulled his head back. Fast, almost violently. "You know I was," he asserted before pulling Bobby's head in for a kiss.
A sloppy, sensual, unguarded, untamed, lustful, messy, and utterly passionate kiss. Everything Nick had always felt was there. Inside Adrian. Lurking under his husband's skin. And that he masterfully worked to hide.
But now Nick finally understood why.
Adrian's heart, soul, and unwavering passion were never meant for him.
They were Bobby's.
"Let me," the young man said, sliding off the bench, feet stomping the ground. He turned his father around and pushed his body against the bench. Then, he dropped down, knees hitting the floor. He slowly opened Adrian's zipper and gently tugged the pants down, just enough for them to hang loosely over his muscular hips and allowing his father's cock to pop out.
There it was. Adrian's cock. A cock Nick knew well. All too well. And yet, in that moment, it looked different.
Eleven inches of pure perfection. Thick, veiny, its skin stretched, foreskin pulled back just enough to reveal the mushroom tip of the cock. Precum oozing from it copiously.
Immediately, a powerful smell took over the small space. Musk, with a tinge of sweetness and bitterness mixed together. Nick didn't even have time to adjust to the sight. Bobby's tongue was already gliding along the base, his right hand slowly pulling back the skin, letting all that stored precum slide down. And as it did, he'd lick it, savoring every drop. And every time he'd swallow, he'd moan. A soft, submissive moan. One that said, 'this belongs to me'.
Adrian's head fell back momentarily. His eyes were on the shed's wooden ceiling, blinking aimlessly before returning to gaze at his son. "Bobby..." he muttered, completely surrendered.
Nick swallowed dryly. This wasn't Adrian. Where was this vulnerability? This warmth. And those eyes. That gaze.
Bobby moaned back, his eyes darting up at his father, smiling, radiant. There was a sureness to them. A confidence. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to please this man. His tongue had learned every slight movement. Every inch of the beast that yearned for stimulation. Every pull and tug.
Adrian's hands came up, rubbing against his face. There, they lingered. Nick's eyes squinted, his body tilting forward slightly against the shed's opening. For a moment, it seemed Adrian's hands hid not only his face but something else. Regret, maybe? But two breaths in, and they began to move again. Not down in defeat, but upwards, over his forehead and down to the back of his head where they finally locked.
And that's when Nick saw it. Adrian's face. Or whoever this man was before him, he failed to recognize. This wasn't his husband. Nor the cold businessman, he learned to tolerate. No. This was someone else. Someone new. A man completely surrendered to the person that now kneeled in front of him, mouth diving fearlessly into his massive cock.
And finally, his voice broke free. "You're such a good boy..." he grunted. "Such a fucking good boy, Bobby," he added with a sadistic smile.
And just like that, Bobby's head began to move. Not slowly, or obeying any type of controlled rhythm. It was full throttle. Slurps. Moans. Licks. Groans. It all came rushing in at once. Like a tidal wave, bringing with it a surge of rapture unlike any Nick had ever experienced.
Despite himself, his dick got hard almost immediately.
"Jesus Christ... that's it, boy. That's it..." Adrian stuttered, his voice dancing between ecstasy and tenderness. Adrian's chest rose and fell slowly, every muscle straining and pushing through his thick skin. "Fuck, you're such a good cock sucker," he added, chuckling slightly and letting his teeth show for brief second just how good it felt.
The more he talked, the more Bobby's movements expanded. This, in turn, caused Adrian to become more volatile, and his energy, along with his son's, was enhanced. His hands came down, and he grabbed Bobby's hair. His fingers dug deep this time, curling around his son's locks and seizing his head in place. And then, after finally securing his dominance, he began to move his hips, forcing all eleven inches of his meat into the boy's mouth, his entire length sliding down Bobby's throat.
It was violent. Feral, even.
Like a wild beast, ramming against its prey.
But unlike the wild, this particular prey was accepting the attack. Willingly so. Nick could see Bobby's throat expanding as Adrian's cock jammed through. Slight, microconvulsions broke from the young man's chest. Almost imperceptible at first. But soon, his eyes glistened, filling with a pool of tears. Then came the gags. One every twenty seconds of ramming or so, then every few seconds until Bobby's hands finally punched Adrian's thighs, his nails digging into his father's skin. He was attempting to pull back, and yet his entire body screamed to his father to keep going. To choke him to death.
"What?" Adrian asked, his tone belligerent. "Can't talk back now?" he continued, his movements strong, his breath hectic. "Good...this cock was the only thing...that ever managed to shut that fucking mouth of yours up," Adrian continued. "Might as well...make good use of it, right?" he added, thrusting so hard Bobby's neck finally jerked back, his knees buckling, causing his body to fall to the floor.
He coughed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "Mother fucker..." The young man muttered between long, exerted breaths. "If you'd...let me come live with you...this... wouldn't happen," he added, his fiery personality returning to his voice.
"We've had that conversation. The answer is no," Adrian replied resolutely. There was a brief second of something across his face. A certain sadness before it quickly faded. "Come here," he roared. Without missing a beat, he reached down and grabbed Bobby off the floor. Despite being a tall young man, Adrian held his son like he weighed nothing, slamming him into the bench. Tools scattered everywhere, and Adrian's hands moved frantically, pushing the few pieces still lingering on top of it to the ground.
It was a loud spectacle. A ruckus that made it evident how confident Adrian was that he had doped Nick enough for him to sleep through that.
Bobby fell back, his head slamming against the wall behind them. "Spread 'em," Adrian ordered. His back was facing the door now, looking monumental. Blocking everything but Bobby's legs that dangled by the side of his hips. His pants were dropped just enough, a few inches below the crack, his muscular lower back glinting with sweat under the moonlight that crept between the wood cracks. His hands moved along his son's legs for a brief moment. Slowly, with reverence. Trailing the skin, from the young man's inner thighs to his ankles.
Then suddenly, Adrian gripped them. And that's when it happened. In one swift move, he thrust forward. "Fuuuuuuck, that slid right in," he hollered. It was obvious. His lust was beyond reason. How could he possibly care at this point if Nick woke up? Even if some part of him still cared, his mind was too far gone now.
Nick watched in shock as Adrian began to thrust forward, shoving his son's body across the bench, the young man's head slamming against the wall in a sickly, lustful compass.
"Oh my god...oh shit..." Bobby wailed, trying to bite his lips as the words flew from his chest. His arms spread out, hands grasping the edge of the bench with all their might.
Nick could hear Adrian's balls slamming against Bobby's cheeks, their sweat splashing together, the sound reverberating inside the space. And after a few minutes of slower, albeit powerful strokes, Adrian punched second gear. The shift was just as brutal as the act itself. Nick's heart was thumping now, his mind racing with disbelief as he watched the shed's walls tremble beneath Adrian's power.
This wasn't his husband.
This was a raging creature, bound by nothing but desire. One so primal, so dark with eros that it seemed to create a forcefield around them, wide enough that Nick himself felt being sucked into.
Adrian plummeted into his son's hole for over half an hour. No stops. No breathing. Nothing. Just a beast, feeding into his desire. Into his hunger.
It was only when the first whimpers began to break from under Adrian's weight that Nick's hand finally fell from his mouth.
"Daddy..." Bobby cried out, his teeth grinding back the tears, his body pulsing and shivering with every thrust.
Yet, his plea seemed to breach Adrian's sexual haze, the dark layer in his eyes peeling away like a curtain. His body slowed, and his hips decreased in potency and speed. His hands, still holding his son's ankles, circled around himself, directing Bobby's feet to lock on Adrian's lower back. Then, he leaned forward and gently grabbed his son's back and hoisted him up.
That's when Nick first saw Bobby's face. At least, for the first time after he had been fucked mercilessly for the last thirty minutes. His hair was drenched in sweat, his pristine skin flushed red, eyes glazed and hazy. And inside them, something raw.
Nick paused, both shocked and mesmerized. The way Bobby looked at his father. The way his eyes delve inside the man inside him. Where passion once stood, something else now resided.
It was love. Life-ending, heart-shattering love.
Their mouth lunged into each other, tongues tangled and spit fusing. Bobby's arms wrapped around Adrian's massive back, and he pulled his mouth away, his head collapsing over his father's shoulder. Still, Adrian kept pumping. Slowly now. As if a part of him denied their moment's end. "Bobby..." he mumbled incoherently.
"I know...I can feel it," the boy replied, words coming out weary, frail. Yet under them, the most endearing joy. "I love you."
Adrian's hips bucked, his whole body gone rigid. "I love you, too, baby. So fucking much," he confessed.
Those words hit Nick like a gunshot. Even the way Adrian uttered the words was different. Unlike any 'I love you' he had ever shared with Nick. Not even in their highest high. During a time when their love was new and exciting. And that seemed to finally knock Nick back to his senses. Reality sank in, and he stepped back, slowly. But not slow enough.
To his surprise and utter shock, as he lifted his eyes back up, Nick was met by Bobby's gaze. The young man was staring right back at him.
And not just staring.
Smiling.
A profoundly sadistic one.
No shock, dread, or embarrassment.
It was as if Nick's presence had suddenly turned a switch back inside his brain.
His entire body clutched Adrian's, legs and arms hugging his father like a snake. His hand crawled up and pulled Adrian's neck in, clearly preventing him from turning back toward the door. Adrian kept pumping, mercilessly pushing his girth into his son's hole until the queening sound of Bobby's hole was the only thing left.
And then, between a puddle of sweat, electrified bodies, and Nick's shattered heart, Bobby's insidious voice broke free. "Daddy...daddy..." he mumbled, his eyes purposely locked on Nick's, teasing his despair as he slowly pulled back. "Come in my ass," he begged as Adrian shoved himself deeper into him. "I...I want that perfect load," he beseeched.
One shiver of a second later and Adrian growled, his ass cheeks tightening and freezing as he unloaded inside his son's insides.
But by now, Nick was pulling away, the shed's darkness claiming Adrian and Bobby's shadows.
Nick stumbled back, step by step, the earth tilting sideways. Then he turned and walked. Back through the grass, through the cold, through the yawning silence of a house too big to contain the unimaginable truth he had now unveiled.
Back inside, everything was still.
But outside, the father and son's last sounds of release still lingered in the distance. Low, barely perceptible. But there.
Nick entered the bedroom like a man returning to a place he no longer recognized. The bed was still warm on his side. Nick stood at the edge of it for a long time, arms hanging loose at his sides, pulse roaring in his ears.
Then, without undressing, without wiping the tear that had broken loose and slipped down his cheek, he climbed into bed and lay on his back, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, the wind shifted.
And with it, everything he knew.
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025 All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
