"Liars, Cheaters and Traitors, Oh My!"
(Five years earlier)
Nick stood at the head of the class, coffee cup in hand, sleeves rolled up, his eyes scanning the room with that particular gleam that made him both loved and a little feared. He exuded something magnetic, not just charm, but a cultivated mystery, like a character from a novel you couldn't quite pin down. His black shirt fit perfectly, and something in the room shifted when he smiled. Even the most disinterested students lifted their eyes from their phones.
He spoke, and voices fell to silence.
"I'm not asking you to like her," Nick said, pacing slowly before the chalkboard. "Constance Chatterley is not designed to be liked. That's the genius of Lawrence. He doesn't ask us to approve of her actions. He asks us to understand them."
A few students shifted in their seats, bristling beneath the weight of implication.
"She's married," said Erica, a sharp girl with platinum curls and a blazer three sizes too big. "Her husband is injured, not cruel. She could've left him, but instead she cheated. Isn't that just...cowardice dressed up as rebellion?"
"Isn't all rebellion a little cowardly?" Nick countered, tilting his head. "Or do we just call it that when it makes us uncomfortable?"
Laughter rippled through the class.
Caleb leaned forward. He always sat near the window, as though part of him was always ready to escape. His green, emerald eyes were clear, direct, and challenging. "But what makes Lady Chatterley's Lover different," he said, "is how much Lawrence lets desire justify betrayal."
Nick paused, his gaze slowly jumping across the room. Over to that captivating young man by the window. One of his favorites. "Continue..." Nick pushed.
"I mean... It's like he's saying passion is its own morality," Caleb added, his voice lagging slightly in thought.
Nick smiled, his expression sharp with delight.
"Yes. Exactly." He moved to the edge of the desk, sitting casually in the corner. "The book we know today is but the third version of this story. The original was banned for a reason...and it wasn't just the sex. It was the idea that sex could be sacred. That it could transcend class, duty, even marriage. That was the real obscenity to Edwardian sensibilities."
"But shouldn't loyalty matter more than lust?" asked James, a freshman with the moral rigidity of a young priest.
"Define loyalty," Nick said. "Is it showing up every day? Saying the right words? Sleeping in the same bed? Or is it being seen, truly seen, and choosing that person, over and over again?"
The room quieted.
Nick stood again, the mood shifting as he strolled across the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"Let me ask you this," he said softly. "Is it worse to betray someone with your body or indifference? To physically stray, or emotionally disappear? Which wound cuts deeper?"
No one answered immediately.
Caleb raised his hand. "What if both wounds come from the same absence? What if cheating isn't about sex at all, but about hunger?"
Nick stopped. Turned.
"Hunger," he echoed, tasting the word. "Yes."
He walked to the board and wrote it in big, looping letters: HUNGER.
"This is what Lawrence gives us. Not a love story. Not even a scandal. But a study in lack. And every act of cheating, whether in literature or life, stems from that same gnawing void. The question isn't why people cheat, it's what they're starving for."
Eyes met his. A few widened. A couple dropped away.
Nick's voice dropped lower, more intimate.
"Sometimes people cheat because they want to feel beautiful again. Or desired. Or alive. Sometimes, it's revenge. Sometimes, it's loneliness. But almost always, it's not about the other person. It's about the self. The part that feels forgotten."
He turned to look out the window, just for a moment, and a shadow passed behind his eyes. The students couldn't place it, not really, but something in the air changed.
Then he turned back to them, his smile returning, worn like a mask that fit too well.
"Next week," he said briskly, "we'll look at The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. Read it. And prepare to be uncomfortable."
The bell rang.
Students gathered their things in murmuring clusters, but many lingered, Caleb among them. He paused as he passed Nick, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
"Great lecture, Professor Morrisey," he said, voice low. "You make betrayal sound almost…beautiful."
Nick held his gaze a moment longer than necessary and offered a quiet, enigmatic smile.
"That's because, sometimes, it is."
*
(Present time)
The world was ink-dark and still when Nick opened his eyes.
He hadn't slept. Not really. He'd spent the long hours of the night tracing cracks in the ceiling and counting each breath as if trying to measure the weight of his own silence. Adrian had come in sometime after three, quietly, almost too quietly, his presence diffused like fog through the open doorway. He hadn't said a word. He had just showered, long enough to wash off all the sweat, dried himself with meticulous detachment, and slipped beneath the sheets beside Nick's rigid body.
Nick had feigned sleep. Not to punish, but to preserve something brittle and breakable, his own dignity. He listened to Adrian's breathing even out, soft and untroubled, and wondered how betrayal could wear such a calm face. Now, at the cusp of dawn, the light was beginning to bruise the sky, lavender folding into coral, streaks of gold rising like whispers from the edge of the sea line.
Nick slipped from bed in silence. His bare feet barely kissed the wood as he moved through the bedroom, grabbing only a hoodie and stepping outside into the salt-tinged morning air. The house still slumbered behind him, an empty temple of modern design and hollow warmth.
He walked down the sandy path behind the house. The beach stretched beyond him, vast and hushed, the tide rolling in slow, thoughtful breaths. The sea was a living thing this early, neither welcoming nor cruel, but open, vast, infinite.
Without ceremony, he pulled the hoodie over his head and dropped it on the sand. The rest followed: briefs, thoughts, hesitation. Naked, he stepped into the surf, his skin awakening to each cold kiss of water. The tide crept up his legs, his hips, his chest. And then he dove. The chill cut through him like glass, clean and merciless. He surfaced once, then floated, arms splayed, face turned to the slowly waking sky. The sea cradled him, salt and shadow wrapping around his limbs. The sun, a burning eye on the horizon, began to rise.
This is what dying might feel like, Nick thought. Not violence, not desperation. Just stillness. Peace. Release. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
For a moment, he let himself sink. Not out of drama, not even despair. It wasn't a scream, it was silence. He drifted downward, water closing over his face like a soft hand. Eyes open. Mind quiet. And in that long breath beneath the surface, Nick considered letting go, not just of Adrian, or the hurt, but of himself. The man he had built. The man he had tried to become. The loyal one. The loving one. The one who waited. But something stirred inside him, small, unbroken. Not rage. Not hope. Something more primal. A reluctant, stubborn flicker.
Life.
He kicked gently and rose again. When he broke the surface, the wind greeted him. The world was still quiet, but not empty. And then he saw the shadow.
On the sand, barefoot and motionless, stood Bobby.
Nick froze in the water, droplets trickling down his temples. The young man stood as if sculpted from marble and breath, arms folded, gaze unreadable. There was no smirk, no glare, just a heavy stillness between them. They stared at one another across the yawning mouth of the beach, Nick half-submerged in the sea, Bobby standing above him like some mythic watcher.
Seconds passed. Maybe minutes.
Then Bobby turned and walked back up the dunes, vanishing behind the sea grass, his silhouette swallowed by morning light.
*
The sun had cleared by the time Nick returned, several minutes later. The sea peeled away behind him in sighing breaths. He had dried only enough to pull on the hoodie, still damp and clinging to his chest like a second skin. His bare feet left ghost prints across the bleached wood of the deck.
And there, waiting, sat Bobby.
He lounged on one of the low-slung teak chairs near the glass doors, shirtless in grey cotton pants, a coffee cup steaming in his hand. His legs were stretched out, the lean lines of his body sculpted with casual arrogance. His hair was still tousled from sleep or something else, and the sunlight played on his skin like it had chosen him.
Nick froze for a beat. He hadn't expected him to be there. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, for solitude. But Bobby was always where he wasn't supposed to be.
"I made you coffee," Bobby said, voice smooth as the tide. "But then I figured you might not want any." He lifted the mug and took a sip, watching Nick over the rim. His eyes, clear, feline, unblinking, locked onto Nick with the same quiet, devastating precision they always had.
Nick said nothing. He walked past him, dripping water and restraint, intending to reach the door. But Bobby's voice floated after him. "You saw it."
Nick paused. A gust of wind stirred the hem of his hoodie. He turned slightly, enough to meet the boy's gaze.
Bobby's smile was slight. Not cruel. Not triumphant. Just inevitable. "Last night." Nick didn't speak. His silence, in its own way, was a form of battle armor. "I wondered if you'd say something," Bobby mused, setting the mug down on the railing. "Or just storm in. But I guess you're not the confrontational type. You'd rather drown quietly than disturb the waves."
He tilted his head. "Very noble of you, Professor."
The word hung between them, glinting with irony. Nick's jaw tightened. His fingers flexed once, then stilled.
"You're good at that, aren't you?" Bobby continued, rising now, slow and elegant. "Standing still while the house burns around you. I used to wonder why he loved you. I think I get it now."
Nick's brows lifted, barely.
"You're so…safe. Polished. Educated. The kind people admire from afar." Bobby moved closer, his bare feet silent against the deck. Nick could feel the young man's intoxicating scent circling him slowly, insidiously. "But he doesn't need any of that. He needs hunger. Chaos. The dark. He always has."
Nick's lips parted as if to speak, but no words emerged. Only a breath. A blade held back.
"I'm the dark. I'm what he won't admit he wants." Bobby said, stopping a few steps away.
Nick looked at him then, truly looked. Past the beauty, past the bravado. The young man's chest rose and fell, steady but tight. Beneath the cunning, there was something else: a hollow, perhaps. A need deeper than seduction. And that's when Nick saw it. A flicker passing through Bobby's eyes, like a curtain drawn too quickly. Nick stepped toward the door.
But Bobby's final words stopped him cold. "Don't blame him for it, Nick. He's just doing what is natural to him."
Nick turned his head slightly, as if weighing something too heavy to hold. Then he opened the door and walked inside. The kitchen was awash in pale light, the kind that made everything look softer than it was. Nick moved with precise calm, opening a cabinet, retrieving a mug. His hands shook only slightly as he poured himself some coffee. The warmth of it bit into his palms, grounding him.
He didn't look toward the glass doors when they opened behind him. He didn't have to. The shift in air told him enough, the subtle scent of something younger and more dangerous stepping into his quiet.
Bobby. Again.
Nick sipped, and for a moment, he imagined he was alone. That the sea hadn't shown him what it had. That the young man behind him hadn't just delivered poison wrapped in silk. When Nick finally turned, Bobby was there, leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his bare chest, shirtless and barefoot, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. Nick could see the faint trail of hair leading down Bobby's belly button into his groin. A halo of sea-damp hair framed his sharp face like something from a tragic painting. The entire thing made Nick's dick hard.
He slowly and gently set the mug down. "What do you want?"
Bobby smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You think I'm doing this to hurt you," Bobby said, circling slightly, like a young predator testing the strength of a tether.
Nick said nothing.
"God... you're so fucking annoying," the young man continued. "The way you...silently parade your suffering. Is that part of your charm?" Bobby's fingers brushed the edge of the counter as he passed it. "Does it make you feel noble?" Their eyes locked. "I wonder sometimes," Bobby said softly, "if you love who he is, or who he was when you thought you could change him."
He stepped closer.
Nick didn't move.
"You're not the first guy who thought he could anchor him." Bobby's voice turned low, intimate. "But he was never meant for harbors. He's meant for shipwrecks."
"Like you?" Nick asked quietly.
Bobby smiled again. There was blood behind it. "I'm neither, man. I'm the fucking storm."
He was close now. Too close. Nick could feel the heat coming off his skin. Bobby's gaze slid over him, not like someone seducing, but someone dissecting. Looking for cracks. Weakness.
"You know... you're handsome up close," Bobby whispered, his breath a thread between them. "I bet you were a knockout at my age."
Nick's jaw twitched. He said nothing.
"And if things were…different," Bobby mused, lifting a hand, daring to brush a single knuckle along the hem of Nick's hoodie, just a whisper of contact, just enough to be noticed, "maybe I'd even let you fuck me."
Nick stepped back. The distance was small, but it was enough. Bobby watched him with an expression that was neither surprise nor disappointment. Just observation.
Nick turned away. "You should go get dressed."
Bobby lingered a moment longer, then chuckled, a gust of condescending air spewing from his nose before finally walking out, his bare feet stomping the deck silently.
Nick climbed the stairs slowly, every step echoing up the hollowed spine of the house. Morning had bloomed fully now, sunlight flooding through the windows with golden boldness, as if it too was unaware of the fracture lines running beneath the quiet. When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, breathing in once, long and shallow, like a diver just before the descent.
Inside, Adrian was waking. The sheets twisted around his torso, bare shoulders golden in the light, his dark hair tousled, his stubble catching soft shadows as he yawned and shifted onto his back. He looked younger like this. Innocent. Almost untouched.
Nick stepped inside.
Adrian cracked one eye open. "Hey, you're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Nick replied. Smooth. Measured. He reached for the towel draped over the chair and wiped the seawater from his neck, careful not to meet Adrian's gaze too long.
Adrian groaned and stretched like a cat, muscles rippling beneath the skin of his chest. "I feel like I got hit by a truck."
"Staying up to late will do that to you," Nick commented as he moved to the dresser, pretending to search for clothes.
"Maybe," Adrian muttered. "You passed out so fast, I didn't want to wake you."
Nick smiled faintly to himself. So you think.
Out loud, he said, "Yeah. The pill helped."
Adrian missed the nuance. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, then watching Nick's back as he pulled on a fresh t-shirt. "Swim this morning?"
Nick nodded, facing the mirror so Adrian couldn't read his expression. "Needed the salt."
There was a beat of silence. Comfortable, from Adrian's end. Coiled, from Nick's.
"Did Bobby come back?" Nick asked casually.
Adrian's voice didn't even hitch. "Yeah. Late. That kid's a storm."
Nick turned, leaning back against the dresser, arms folded. "Right."
Adrian pushed the sheets down and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body was still fit and beautiful in that mature, hard-earned way, built like a man who remembered he once had to fight for what he had. "We've had our ups and downs."
"Do you ever feel blind when it comes to him?" Nick's tone was easy, but his eyes watched with forensic stillness.
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I'm just...wondering," Nick said, half a shrug. "Half the time he treats you like shit and still, you seem to bend over backward for him. Like you're afraid of pushing him."
Adrian chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's my son, Nick. That doesn't mean I don't see his flaws. He's young. He lashes out."
"Sure," Nick said softly. "Youth excuses a lot."
Another silence. This one edged with something unspoken.
Adrian stood and stretched, crossing to the window. "I think he's starting to come around, though. Last night felt…better."
Nick's fingers tightened against his elbow. "Did it, now?"
Adrian didn't turn. "Yeah. Like we found some kind of understanding again."
A perfect lie. Wrapped in calm and framed by the morning sun.
Nick nodded slowly, his throat tightening. "That's good. I know how important that is to you."
Adrian turned then, smiling, genuine, maybe. Or maybe not. "I'm glad you get that. I know he hasn't made things easy on you."
Nick stepped forward, closing the space between them. "You've always been the better liar."
Adrian laughed, not catching the gravity under Nick's words. "Comes with the job."
Nick reached out, brushing a piece of lint from Adrian's shoulder. Their eyes met, and for one breathless second, Adrian leaned in as if for a kiss. But Nick turned away, heading for the bedroom door.
"I'll be downstairs," he said, voice steady.
And just like that, the conversation ended.
*
Nick stood at the kitchen counter, his hands wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee he had yet to taste. The ceramic was warm, but his hands felt cold and numb.
The house was unnervingly quiet.
He heard footsteps before he saw either of them. They descended separately: Adrian first, in his casual softness, gray joggers, a T-shirt stretched gently across his chest, hair still damp from the shower he'd taken in the fog of dawn. Bobby followed a beat later, silent as a cat, a smirk already blooming like a bruise on his lips. Nick didn't flinch. He merely sipped the coffee and turned toward them.
"Mornin'," Bobby said with a lazy drawl, like he was chewing on it just for taste.
"Morning," Nick answered, his tone even, pleasant. "You sleep okay?"
Adrian met his eyes briefly. But Nick's gaze was set on Bobby, who nodded slowly, trying to keep his tongue in check. "You?" he pushed back.
Nick smiled faintly. "Like a rock."
Bobby snorted. He moved toward the table and dropped into a chair with a grace too deliberate to be casual. "Liar," he murmured under his breath, but loud enough. Nick raised a brow. Bobby tilted his head, feigning innocence. Adrian looked up from pouring juice, tension briefly glancing through his brow.
But Nick chuckled softly, setting his cup down. "It's alright. He's probably right." Bobby gave him a long, curious glance, like one might give a painting that had unexpectedly moved. Nick leaned against the counter, arms folded. "You know, I was just thinking about Bobby's comments yesterday."
Adrian glanced at him. "What comments?"
Nick looked at Bobby, ignoring the other man. "About being honest." Bobby didn't flinch. Didn't even budge. Nick smiled coolly. "I found them quite insightful."
Adrian's posture shifted, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he tried to understand where Nick was going. Bobby, however, looked thrilled. There was something devilish in the sparkle of his gaze, like he'd just been invited to a game he didn't know he'd been craving.
"Thanks, man," Bobby said slowly, watching Nick with sharpened delight. "But you know...I wouldn't take my own word for it. I change my mind all the time. Especially about people."
"Oh, don't we all?" Nick said, sipping his coffee again. "It's strange, though. Some people seem so certain of who they are in private. But put them under a little light..." he gestured to the kitchen, awash in golden sun. "Suddenly, it's all shadows and performance."
Adrian blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and a low ember of anxiety. "Nick, is something wrong?"
Nick shook his head. "No. Just...thinking out loud." There was a silence that filled the room like a slow exhale.
Adrian cleared his throat, trying to reclaim the room, the tempo. "Can we not do this? It's too early for whatever…this is."
But neither Nick nor Bobby looked at him. They were studying each other like chess masters. Two people who knew the other had cards to play, but also knew those cards might burn.
Nick finally pulled back. He rinsed his mug, dried it, and placed it in the cupboard. A little too neatly. "I'm going for a walk," he said.
"I'll join you," Adrian offered, maybe too quickly.
Nick's eyes flicked to him. "That's okay. It's just a short one."
A thick and stifling stillness settled over the kitchen as the door clicked shut behind Nick. Adrian turned slowly. His eyes, usually tempered by warmth or distraction, now gleamed with something colder. Sharper.
"What the fuck was that?" he asked.
Bobby was still at the table, legs crossed, the picture of indolent ease. He plucked a grape from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. "You'll have to be more specific."
Adrian took a step forward. "Stop fucking around, you little shit."
"I'm not," Bobby said, licking juice from his thumb. "I just...thinking your husband might be more interesting than we gave him credit for."
Adrian's jaw twitched. "What did you say to him?"
Bobby tilted his head, looking genuinely amused. "Nothing."
"I doubt that," Adrian snapped, voice lowering. "Something's off. What the fuck is going on?"
"Oh, now you care?" Bobby stood slowly, his voice silk over steel. "You didn't seem to mind when you were shoving your cock inside me last night. But now that Nick's going all Sherlock Holmes on you, suddenly you're this 'concerned husband'?"
Adrian flinched, visibly shaken by the shift in tone. He closed the distance between them. "You think this is a game?"
Bobby's smile was venomous. "C'mon, old man...since when are you afraid of burning the board? I thought you liked this."
Adrian's hand slammed against the counter. "I fucking warned you, boy!" his voice threatened with an almost caged roar. "Nick's off limits."
Bobby blinked, mock-innocent. "Oops."
Adrian stared at him, seething. "You're enjoying this?"
Bobby stepped forward until their bodies almost touched. Then he grabbed his father's hand and guided it to his crotch, where his 7-inch hard cock was waiting. Pulsing. "You know I am."
For a moment, the room tightened, an electric field of dangerous chemistry. But then Adrian pulled away, running the same hand through his hair.
"I need to change," he muttered, backing toward the stairs.
Bobby followed him like a shadow, a serpent with a slow, graceful coil. "I'll come with you."
"No," Adrian said firmly. He turned, his voice pitched low but urgent. "He'll be back soon."
Bobby stopped mid-step. The rejection, mild as it was, hit him like a slap. His face darkened. "Jesus Christ, he barely stepped out the door," he said. "Relax," he continued, referring back to his laid-back attitude. "Now be a good sport and let me enjoy my morning protein shake," he added, his hand going for Adrian's massive bulge.
Adrian shoved his son's hand away and met his eyes, his finger pointed at Bobby's face. "Tone it down or I'll punch your fucking face."
Bobby's expression flickered, but only for a second. He pushed past his father's warning with a sneer. "You can't have it both ways. You can't be the good man, the respectable husband and still have your dick inside my mouth," he uttered.
Adrian's body tensed, his fingers curling as he stepped forward. He seemed as if he might hit Bobby. But then he stopped, pulled back, turned away, and climbed the stairs two at a time, vanishing down the hall. Bobby stood in the middle of the kitchen, alone now, the mask slipping just a fraction.
For all his bravado, his eyes shimmered, not with tears, but something far more dangerous: obsession. For the first time, the game was slipping out of his control. And Bobby didn't like it. Not one bit.
*
The sky had softened into a pale expanse of morning silver, and the tide rolled in with lazy determination, licking at the damp sand. Nick walked barefoot, the cold water biting at his ankles, but he didn't mind. The sensation grounded him, pulling him out of the sleepless haze that clung to his skin like smoke. Behind him, the house was barely visible over the dunes, sun-warmed and innocent, as if its white walls hadn't absorbed the sounds of betrayal echoing within.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sea breeze move through him, carrying the images of Adrian fucking Bobby inside that shed away, even if just for a moment.
A bark broke the silence.
Nick opened his eyes to find the shaggy outline of a golden retriever bounding toward him across the wet sand, ears flopping like flags. The dog stopped just before reaching him and gave a happy yelp, tail whipping the air.
"August," came the familiar voice, gravelled with age and kindness. "Stop terrorizing the neighbors."
Nick turned to see the man from the day before, tall, lean, sunworn. His gray beard was trimmed, and his eyes, deep-set and amber, carried the softness of someone who'd spent years watching and listening before speaking.
Nick smiled despite himself. "I don't mind. He seems friendlier than most humans I know these days."
Richard laughed as he approached. "That's because he has excellent taste in people."
Nick crouched to scratch August behind the ears. "I never had a dog."
"Pity," Richard said. "They teach you things. Like how to stay in the moment. How to forgive."
Nick looked up. "Do they teach you how to forget?"
"No," Richard replied. "But they teach you how to live with memory."
There was something disarming in the way Richard spoke. There was no prying, no affectation, just a slow, patient unfolding, like a well-worn page turning under a reader's hand. They walked in tandem for a while, August weaving around them.
"Retired?" Nick finally asked, glancing at him.
"Professor," Richard said. "Comparative literature. Taught at Amherst for over thirty years. Moved here a decade ago when my husband died. Thought I'd hate the quiet. Turns out, I needed it."
Nick's brows rose. "Literature, huh? That explains your knack for poetic aphorisms."
Richard chuckled. "Guilty. And you?"
"Teaching. Literature too. College."
"Well then," Richard said, his smile widening. "A fellow worshiper of the written word."
Nick gave a low laugh. "Feels like it's the only thing that makes sense to me."
They walked in silence for a few beats, the tide chasing their toes.
"Let me guess," Richard said, glancing at him. "You're an Eliot man. Quietly cynical, masking the ache of romanticism under all that modernist despair."
Nick smirked. "Close. I prefer Chekhov. The quiet tension. The things left unsaid."
"Ah," Richard nodded. "The sacred art of restraint."
Nick looked out over the water. "You ever read something that made you feel...seen? Like someone had reached into your chest and named the feeling before you even knew it existed?"
Richard nodded gently. "That's how I met my husband. We argued over Anna Karenina in a faculty lounge. He said Anna was foolish. I said she was the only honest one in the book. We didn't stop arguing for twenty-six years."
Nick smiled, truly smiled this time. "Sounds like love."
"It was," Richard said. "In all its messy, holy imperfection."
They stopped walking. August had plopped into the sand, paws covered in grit, tongue out in pleasure.
Richard placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. It wasn't heavy. It didn't claim. It simply rested there, solid and warm.
"Young man, whatever you're holding," he said, "don't let it make you forget who you are. That's the danger of betrayal. Not the act itself, but the way it rewrites your reflection."
Nick met his gaze and nodded. His voice, when it came, was softer than the tide. "I'll try."
"Come by for coffee sometime," Richard said, already turning. "We can argue over Tolstoy. I make terrible biscotti."
Nick laughed, the sound startling in its warmth. "I might take you up on that."
As Richard and August disappeared up the path, Nick stood alone again. But something had shifted, subtle and intangible. Like the moment before a wave breaks. Like the moment before a man decides whether to stay silent or finally speak.
*
By the time Nick reached the edge of the deck, the sky had warmed to a pale gold, the kind of soft light that filtered through dreams. The house stood silently behind him, too pristine to betray the rot curling behind its doors.
Adrian was stretched out on a teak sunbed, chest bare, sculpted and golden from the sun, a pair of charcoal swim shorts clinging to his hips. His skin was a perfect palette of warmth and shadow, the taut curve of his abdomen rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One arm was lazily flung over his eyes, the other resting across his toned stomach. Nick stopped for a moment, the breath catching faintly in his throat.
Even now, even after all of it, he loved him.
There was no escaping the truth of it. Love wasn't something you chose. It clung to the ribs and wove into the space between thought and desire. Nick could hate what Adrian had done, hate the yawning silence between them, the weight of every lie piled high like bricks in their marital bed, but he could not stop the ache of wanting him.
Adrian lifted his arm and blinked at him with a slow smile. "There you are."
"Hey," Nick replied, voice even.
Adrian sat up slightly, pushing his aviators to the bridge of his nose. "Come lie down. The sun's perfect right now."
Nick hesitated a beat, then reached for the hem of his shirt. With slow, practiced ease, he stripped. He peeled off his trunks, revealing his body's lean, defined planes, less golden than Adrian's, more olive-toned and marked with faint lines of age, of life. Like his mind, his body bore the discipline of someone who held himself in check.
He walked barefoot across the heated boards, heading toward the sunbed beside Adrian's. Just as he reached it, movement blurred in his periphery.
Bobby.
He appeared like a spark thrown from flint, shirtless and golden like his father, his swim trunks slung low on his hips. His chest was sculpted, his beauty almost surreal, like a statue come to life, adolescent arrogance tempered by an uncanny, predator-like grace. Without a word, he threw himself onto the sunbed Nick was about to take, his arms spread wide, his limbs loose with the smug energy of youth.
"Perfect timing," Bobby said, stretching like a cat in heat, eyes half-lidded behind dark lashes. "Didn't want to miss out."
Nick stood frozen for a breath, the corner of his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. Adrian let out a low chuckle, unaware of the glint beneath his son's performance.
"There's more sunbeds," Adrian offered, gesturing toward the side of the deck.
Nick didn't move immediately. He looked at Bobby, at the way the young man's gaze met his without shame or apology. If anything, there was an invitation there. A dare.
And that's when Nick saw Bobby, maybe for the first time. Until now, his attention had always focused on what went behind the young man's eyes, always searching for what went on beneath the surface. But as he stood there, Nick's gaze finally swam up, covering the shallows of Bobby's body.
He lay like something the gods might have sculpted in defiance of modesty, carelessly perfect, achingly alive. The sun touched him with reverence, gilding the contours of his body with a soft, golden sheen. His skin, kissed by salt and sun, held the warm tone of bronze deepened by summer. It was smooth and unblemished, except for a faint freckle just below the nape of his neck, like a flaw left there on purpose to prove he was real.
His back stretched in a lazy arc, shoulders tapering into a lean waist. The muscle beneath his skin was subtle but sharp, like lines etched into soft marble. Each breath shifted him slightly, an undulation that suggested rest but held the quiet, coiled energy of something more dangerous.
His legs, long and effortless, sprawled without shame. The fabric of his swim trunks clung to him lightly, carelessly, revealing more than it concealed, riding the low edge of his hips where shadow and light flirted with impunity. A fine shimmer of sweat clung to him, catching the light like a dusting of crushed glass, outlining his ribs, the curve of his side, the dip of his spine.
His hair, curled at the edges, some strands drying into gentle waves across his temple. And his face, half hidden by his folded arms, was a cruel symphony of youth and symmetry. High cheekbones, a mouth too full for innocence, and those eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, watching the world through a veil of amused detachment.
There was no kindness in the way he occupied his body. Only confidence. Only control. Bobby wasn't trying to be beautiful. He simply was. And for Nick, that felt like the most dangerous thing of all.
Finally, Nick turned and walked to the edge of the deck. He unfolded another sunbed slowly, methodically, each motion a choice. But just as he began to settle onto the spare sunbed, Adrian rose to his feet with a stretch, the sun catching on the golden hairs of his forearms. He ran a hand over his stomach, wiping away a sheen of sweat.
"I'm grabbing something from the kitchen," Adrian said over his shoulder. "Anyone want anything?"
"Nope," Bobby called, flipping onto his stomach. "I'm good."
Nick didn't answer. Adrian vanished through the glass, the screen door whispering shut behind him. Nick reached for his sunglasses, but before he could slip them on, he heard the shift of movement beside him, the scuff of bare feet on teak, the rustle of skin against canvas.
"Hey, Nick."
Nick turned his head slowly.
Bobby had flipped onto his stomach. His arms were folded beneath his chin, his body stretched out like a sun god in repose. The line of his spine curved with precision, and every vertebra was a note on a taut string. His swim trunks rode low, exposing the small, deliberate indent at the base of his back. His hair, still damp from an earlier shower, clung in strands around his face. He looked over at Nick through the sweep of his lashes, green eyes sharp with mischief.
"Would you mind?" he asked, holding the bottle of sunscreen in one hand and letting it dangle carelessly in the air between them. "My back's burning."
Nick's hand closed around the bottle slowly. His fingers brushed Bobby's.
There was nothing overt in the gesture, no sin spelled out in words, but the silence was charged, electric in its implications. The air had shifted, growing heavier, thicker, the sun suddenly too bright, the heat clinging to the skin like sweat after a fever.
Nick hesitated. His heart thumped louder in his chest. And yet, he moved.
He stood, crossed between them, and knelt beside Bobby's sunbed. His fingers unscrewed the cap with a calm he didn't feel. The scent of coconut and something faintly chemical rose. He poured a small amount into his hand.
His palm hovered for a second over Bobby's skin. And then he touched him.
Bobby's back was warm and flawless. Smooth skin stretched over lean, honed muscle, like something carved rather than born. Nick's hand swept down, slowly, deliberately, spreading the lotion across Bobby's shoulders. He worked in long strokes, careful not to linger or betray the knots of discomfort tightening inside him.
The boy didn't flinch. If anything, he exhaled softly, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
"You're good," Bobby murmured, chin resting on his folded arms. "Did he teach you?"
Nick didn't answer. He moved lower, his fingers gliding between Bobby's shoulder blades, careful, clinical. But the air was different now. Heavy. Laden. There was a rhythm to this. A slow, silent waltz where no one led and no one followed, just two bodies negotiating a border. His hand passed the small of Bobby's back. He stopped before the curve of his trunks. Nick's fingers paused, trembling slightly.
And that's when Bobby's husky voice broke the air.
"I can feel you thinking about it," he whispered. "About sliding one finger inside, maybe two. Push them into me," he continued. Nick's eyes blinked, his head hazy. It was almost as if Bobby's voice was booming now. But not around them. It was roaring inside Nick's head. "Then taking them out and sniffing them before putting them into your mouth. Trust me, professor. Whatever you think I taste like. It's even better," he teased, lifting his head slightly to peek inside the house. Adrian still paced in the back, his head moving around behind the counter. "He's distracted now if you wanna give it a shot," he suggested with a smirk, clutching his glutes teasingly.
Nick's cock twitched, before he swallowed dry. "That's enough," he said quietly.
Bobby smiled, dropping his head. "Suit yourself."
Nick rose and stepped back. He could feel his pulse in his throat.
The bottle of sunscreen remained in his hand, and as he recapped it, he caught his reflection faintly in the glass door, his own face, tight-lipped and unreadable. But his eyes, they betrayed him. Just for a second.
He looked back once. Bobby's head was turned slightly, one eye half-open, watching. And then the screen door opened again. Adrian stepped out with two glasses of something cold, dripping with condensation.
"Everything okay out here?" he asked, squinting at the sun.
"Perfect," Bobby purred.
Nick looked up. And smiled.
It wasn't a real smile, it was something practiced, something meant to deflect. "Yeah," Nick said. He stood, brushing a bit of sand from his thigh. "Actually, I was thinking... I'll cook dinner tonight."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
Nick nodded, already stepping toward the door. "Positive. It's been a while."
He didn't wait for a reply. He walked past Adrian, brushing close enough that their arms nearly touched. But he didn't stop. Didn't pause to kiss his shoulder or smile up into his face like he used to. He walked straight inside, the screen door snapping shut behind him.
Adrian watched him go. Then turned. And found Bobby watching him, eyes like pale fire under the sun, half-lidded, lazy, and impossibly amused.
"What now?" he asked, frowning faintly.
Bobby didn't answer. He only yawned, the stretch of his body deliberate, the way a cat might yawn before shredding something with its claws. He rolled onto his back again, arm draped dramatically over his eyes.
"Nothing," he murmured. "Just glad I'm not the only one feeling the heat," Bobby added as he smiled into the sun.
Still as gold.
Still as fire.
Still winning.
Meanwhile, inside, Nick moved through the space like a man well acquainted with its rhythm, pulling open drawers, unsealing jars, collecting herbs in a small porcelain bowl. He didn't rush, didn't pause. His bare feet moved soundlessly across the slate floor.
Nick had a plan.
The fridge opened. He retrieved a cluster of heirloom tomatoes, two pale zucchini, and a bunch of basil bound with twine. On the cutting board, the knife glinted once before falling into rhythm, slicing clean, precise, unhurried. The tomato flesh yielded easily, seeds spilling like secrets onto the board.
A pot filled with water. Salt, coarse and crystalline, scattered onto the surface like falling snow. Flame whispered to life beneath it. A pan next, he drizzled olive oil with the practiced tilt of the wrist, waiting until it shimmered before adding garlic. The scent bloomed at once, sharp and warm. He stirred it slowly with a wooden spoon, careful not to let it brown.
The air thickened with rosemary, thyme, and a single cracked chili.
He poured red wine, dry, and set the glass aside untouched. Steam curled from the pot. Pasta dropped in with a soft, muffled splash. He stirred once or twice, then left it alone.
Every motion was intentional. The kind of grace one only sees in those who cook alone, who know no one's watching. No music played. No voice broke the stillness. Only the occasional sizzle, the gentle clink of metal, the low gurgle of simmering sauce.
Nick had a plan.
At the sink, he washed the knife and wiped the counter clean. The rag moved in slow circles, wiping away traces of juice, oil, and something unspoken. He reached up, opened a cabinet, and pulled down three plates. They were clean, white, and unblemished. He set them down in a row on the counter. Then he stood there a moment. Still. The water boiled. The flame licked the pan. Nick reached for the spoon again and kept going.
Nick had a plan.
*
(Hours later)
In the dining room, the table was laid with quiet elegance, linen napkins folded precisely, wine glasses catching the glow of candlelight, and a spread of food that looked lifted from the pages of a Tuscan cookbook.
Adrian paused as he stepped down into the room, Bobby trailing behind him. His brows lifted slightly.
"Jesus Christ," Adrian murmured. "Nick, this looks amazing."
Nick, already seated, glanced up with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I thought we could use a proper meal."
Adrian stepped forward and leaned to kiss the top of Nick's head. Meanwhile, Bobby remained a few paces behind, eyeing the display with an expression caught between disdain and amusement.
"Damn, professor," Bobby said as he sat down, plucking a slice of bread from the basket. "Did you poison this? Or is this a new form of psychological warfare?" Adrian turned sharply, a warning in his eyes. "What?" Bobby feigned innocence, tearing the bread in half. "I'm just saying. You know how tech moguls get when their boyfriends become domestic. One second it's burrata, next it's sleeping with one eye open."
Nick said nothing. His face remained calm, unreadable. He served himself slowly, methodically, and then poured a glass of wine for Adrian and Bobby. When he finally sat back, he didn't eat.
Bobby took a bite and theatrically chewed. "Huh. Not bad, actually. You do this when your husband's out late fucking shareholders?"
"Bobby." Adrian's voice was firm, but Bobby only grinned and sipped his wine.
"C'mon," he said again, smirking in Nick's direction. "I'm complimenting him."
"I don't need your compliments," Nick said, voice quiet but steady.
Adrian looked between them, unsettled. A silence fell. A thick one. It wasn't the kind that grows comfortable with time, it pulsed, strained, taut like the skin over a bruise.
Nick reclined in his chair, resting back with his arms loose at his sides, the flicker of the candles throwing half his face into shadow. He didn't speak, but his eyes remained fixed on the two of them. Watching. Measuring.
Adrian shifted uncomfortably, running his tongue over his bottom lip. "You didn't eat, Nick."
"I'm not hungry."
"But you made all this..."
Nick smiled faintly. "I know."
Another silence. This one deeper.
Bobby tapped his fork on his plate in rhythm, as if trying to puncture the quiet. "So...? Are we supposed to eat in silence while you perform your silent martyrdom in candlelight?"
Adrian slammed his palm down on the table. Not loud, but sharp. Final. "Enough."
Bobby's eyes sparkled. "Finally," he said under his breath, a slow grin forming. "Was starting to think dinner was going to end in Gregorian chants."
Nick stood, slowly, and began collecting plates. Adrian made a move to help, but Nick raised a hand gently. "I've got it."
He turned, carrying the dishes into the kitchen without another word. After a breath of a moment, Nick came back. He sat back down, slowly claiming his place back at the table. And then he stopped.
His eyes stared both men dead in the face.
Nick took a deep breath. Long, profound.
And then, he spoke.
"Last night, despite how tired I felt, I decided to skip the pill you so kindly provided," he said, glancing at Adrian. "I ended up taking a quiet stroll around the house in the middle of the night. I felt restless, so I decided to enjoy the evening air," he said.
Adrian's eyes froze, shivering slightly.
"Of course...this means I accidentally stumbled on you and your son's little private party inside the shed," he added, sipping his wine. "It was...surprising, to say the least."
Unlike Adrian, Bobby's eyes lit up, a joyful yet incredibly destructive fire inside them.
"Nick..." Adrian stuttered before his words were cut short.
And that's when Nick rose from his chair, planting his hands firmly on the table and leaning forward, his steady, eerily controlled voice swallowing Adrian's.
"My question is...shall we address it now, or wait for dessert?"
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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