A Two-Man Job

Chapter 1: Good Bones

I didn’t need to wait for Dan to let me in. My thumb moved automatically to the keypad on the side door, punching in the code I hadn’t used in two years. 2-0-2-0. The year they were married.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The heavy mechanical bolt disengaged with a groan. KA-CHUNK.

I stepped inside. The silence hit me harder than the heat.

It was weird. I’d spent holidays here, birthdays, awkward Sunday dinners where I watched my sister shrink to fit into Dan’s life. Now, without the furniture to dampen the sound, my boots echoed on the hardwood.

I set down the plastic crate of "lifestyle" props I’d hauled in from the truck—wax lemons, display books, and neutral-toned throws.

I didn't build houses or sell them. I was a Stager.

I dragged furniture that had never been lived in, and curated decor items—throw pillows, unread books, wine glasses that would never hold a drop—into empty shells and arranged vignettes to make potential buyers see the life they could live there.

My job was to sell the illusion—to create an aspirational vision of how much better your life would be if this house were your home. Clean and aesthetically pleasing, but entirely devoid of the mess of real life.

I dropped my kit bag in the center of the foyer. It hit the floor with a metallic thunk. It was packed with the tools of my trade: laser levels, command strips—and a bottle of water-based lube tucked into the side pocket.

That last item wasn't for squeaky hinges.

Because the job kept me on the road, I lived in the "in-between," bouncing between consults in high-rent districts in and around Seattle: photography sessions on Mercer Island and final walkthroughs in Queen Anne. My schedule was a series of holes. A two-hour gap might mean a nap in my truck, or it might mean a quick hookup at a condo three blocks over.

In the privacy of my thoughts I preferred the term assignations—a more elegant choice of word, somewhere between an assignment and an assassination. Done professionally, cleanly. And when it was done, gone without a trace.

The lube was just part of the kit, tucked in my bag next to the measuring tape. Ready for work and ready for play.

I wandered into the empty living room. The house was mostly stripped, leaving me little to work with. I liked a clean slate, but this job was anything but that. Where I might normally see only the pale rectangles on the beige walls, here I saw the wedding photos that used to hang there. Next to them, a brighter square where my nephew Leo’s kindergarten portrait had been—the one where he was missing a front tooth.

I was only doing it because my sister Nadia had begged me. “He’s stuck, Rami. Just help him flip the house so he can move on. Please.”

Even divorced, he occupied her thoughts.

So here I was, the good brother.

I checked my messages. No text. Typical.

It was 12:15 PM on a Tuesday. He was probably holding court in the dealer breakroom, laughing that booming laugh at a joke he’d already told three times, completely forgetting that I was here burning billable hours to save his ass.

My thumb drifted down the home screen to the yellow icon in the corner. The grid populated instantly. I was fresh meat in this suburb, and the messages started rolling in before the thumbnails even loaded.

“Damn. Thick.” “Into short guys. U host?” “Pocket Rocket.”

The instant attention felt good.

I’m compact—five-seven, dense, and visibly strong. At that height, muscle packs on differently; there's nowhere for it to hide. That specific geometry—my age, and my smooth, gym-built torso—acted like a magnet, at least in the apps.

I flipped through them with the same cool efficiency I applied to assessing a property: A headless set of abs; a grainy bathroom selfie; a guy three streets over who was clearly bored while his kids were at school.

I could have had someone at the back door in fifteen minutes if I wanted to kill the time.

Dan still wasn’t there.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, closing the app with my thumb, pushing my phone into my pocket.

I walked deeper into the house, into the den. With the house unoccupied the AC had been turned off, and the air was stale, oppressive in the summer heat.

I ran a hand along a dusty built-in shelf. Most of the books and keepsakes were gone, boxed up for Nadia’s place or whatever sad bachelor apartment Dan was renting. But a few things had been left behind: A chipped mug with the logo of the WSU Cougars. A stray golf tee. A tarnished gold trophy that read All-State Linebacker 2004, guarding a heavy, blue-and-gold High School Yearbook.

I pulled it out, flipped it open, the spine cracking. I found the page easily.

Daniel O’Malley. Senior Year.

I had never seen this Dan. By the time Nadia brought him home, Dan was already in his thirties, but seemed so much older to eighteen-year-old me. He was already divorced from Jill—his high school sweetheart—and had two kids who were closer to my age than I was to his.

He was already selling cars and wore shapeless, beige clothes that strained over a thick gut. He sported a heavy, dated mustache—pure Magnum PI—that anchored his whole face into jowly middle age.

But the boy in the photo? He was a tank. Thick linebacker neck, an architectural jaw, and a cocky grin that looked like he owned the future.

The caption underneath read: Most Likely to Succeed.

I traced the edge of the photo. I’d never considered Dan attractive—far from it. To me, he was just the relic who married my sister.

It took some squinting to connect the two, but looking at this, I saw the Irish brown-and-gold head of hair, the smirk at the corner of his lips. I saw the structure that I’d only known buried under twenty years of quotas and carbs.

The "Most Likely to Succeed" linebacker seemed a long way from the man I met at the introduction dinner.

That night had been pathetic. My mother—a woman who was divorced by my white father ten years earlier and had spent every day since preaching the cautionary gospel of independence—had collapsed the moment Dan walked through the door.

She had made Kibbeh Nayyeh—raw lamb, beautiful and fresh—to honor the guest. It was a dish that called for respect. But when Dan arrived, still in his work clothes, loud and sweating and taking up the entire dining room with his Sales Manager energy, respect was the last thing on the menu.

He sat at the dinner table that had always been big enough for the three of us. But when Dan sat with us, his knees bumped mine. He looked massive and out of place, in a way that made me squirm, uncomfortable in my own home.

He didn't ask a single question about the food, or my mother, or how she raised two kids alone. When the Kibbeh came out, he didn't ask what it was. He didn't ask how to eat it. He just looked at it, grinned, and asked my mother if she had any ketchup.

I waited for my mother to cut him down. To defend the dish, to defend her heritage.

Instead, she laughed—a high-pitched, trilling sound I had never heard from her before. She got up and fetched the Heinz.

And Nadia? Nadia laughed right along with her.

I sat there, watching him drown the delicate lamb in bright red sugar. He ate, and laughed that big, booming laugh, and filled the room with his own voice. He held court about his dealership, while my sister and even my mother giggled on cue at every laugh line.

Honestly, I was more appalled by them than him.

I watched the two strongest women I knew wipe away their entire identity just to make this big, incurious white man feel comfortable. Like they had learned nothing.

They made themselves small so he could stay big. It was left to me to uphold the family dignity, and I swore I would never repeat their mistake.

But looking at the yearbook now, Dan seemed more pathetic than malicious that night. He came from a time when being a big, strong—passably attractive—white guy was enough to get you through life without ever having to ask a question. He floated on a confidence the world had promised him.

The world had moved on, and the linebacker hadn't. I didn’t think about the cocky kid in the photo. I thought of the man who was late to clean up the wreckage of his second marriage.

"Most Likely to Succeed," I whispered, shaking my head.

I snapped the book shut and grabbed a small cardboard box the movers had left in the corner. I tossed in the deflated football and the chipped mug, then the trophy, and laid the yearbook on top. I set the box on the shelf, to give Dan later.

If he ever showed up.

I walked further into the first floor. The "bones" of the house were good—my sister was right about that. But bones didn't sell. Flesh sold. Warmth sold. And right now, this place was a skeleton.

I’d pulled strings at my firm to borrow the inventory for my now ex-brother-in-law. I could get the bed, the sofa, and the rest for free. I could give my own time, but I couldn't get the moving crew I usually worked with.

It wouldn’t be a full-on staging, but I could hit the vanity spots—the master suite, the dining room, the kitchen. Even so, the job ought to take a week for a crew. A day to move the furniture in, three days of set up and cleaning. I had three days and no help.

That meant it was a two-man job. Me, and whatever I could get out of Dan.

He needed a miracle. I needed muscle.

Under the circumstances, I had to admit it—I was going to need him just as much as he needed me.

I was just turning back to the front door to start hauling the first load myself when I heard it. The heavy, throaty rumble of a large engine pulling into the driveway.

I didn't need to look out the window to know it was a demo car from the lot. And I didn't need to check my watch to know Dan was late to his own disaster.

---

Chapter 2: The Upsell

The engine cut, followed by the muffled slam of a solid door.

I stayed where I was in the center of the living room, impatiently waiting. I heard the footfall of boots on the slate walkway—not the tentative steps of a guest, but the heavy-footed march of a man who owned the mortgage but hated the address.

The mechanical lock engaged, and the front door opened, pushing a wedge of summer light into the foyer.

Dan filled the frame.

That was always the first thing I registered about my ex-brother-in-law: the sheer displacement of air. The guy was six-three and built like a dockworker, but he moved with a sort of lumbering grace, like he was supposed to be wherever he was.

It was part of the whole Sales Manager thing. He made a living selling luxury SUVs to twenty-five-year-old tech bros who wore fleece quarter-zips to board meetings. I supposed the mass gave him authority. That, and his big, practiced smile, and the way he held your gaze a second too long—like he knew a secret code you didn't. It was the confidence of a man who knew the invoice price while you were still staring at the sticker.

"Rami," he said. The greeting dropped like a sandbag. He stepped inside, casually kicking the door shut with his heel. "Door code still works?"

"Evidently."

As he came closer, I realized he looked different. I hadn't seen him in six months—not since before the divorce was finalized.

Honestly, I expected to see a wreck. I expected the soft, doughy bloat of a man living on takeout and self-pity. Instead, he’d lost weight, but not mass.

The softness around his jaw had melted away, revealing the heavy bone structure underneath the five-o’clock-shadow and the thick mustache. His shoulders squared off the fabric of his shirt—extra large I guessed—where it used to droop. And his gut wasn't the beer belly it used to be. It was rounded, but firm now—a solid wall that held his belt line in place.

He looked like a bear that had spent the winter hungry and doing pushups.

And it was his clothes too. His earlier shapeless wardrobe had shifted to chinos that hugged his thick thighs, and a cream-colored button-down tucked in tight. The sleeves were already unbuttoned, rolled halfway up his forearms. 

His tie was a textured knit in navy blue—but the knot had been pulled down an inch. He wore a pair of dark leather soft-toe service boots—nice enough for a showroom floor, but heavy enough to kick a tire.

He dropped his keys on the built-in entry table—a metallic clatter that broke the spell.

“You're late," I said, keeping my voice flat.

"Customer issue. Some tech kid wanted to trade in his lease three months early just to get the newer model. Took an hour to talk him through the financing."

He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. "Honestly, I'm just exhausted. The drive in from Renton this morning was a parking lot. Stopped dead at the S-Curves. I feel like I've been in the car for twelve hours."

"Renton? Why are you living way down there? The dealership is five miles away."

"My folks," Dan said, not meeting my eyes. "I'm staying there."

I raised an eyebrow, reflexively. "You're living with your parents?"

"It's free rent, Rami. I'm not signing a lease until this place sells. I want a clean break. I don't want to carry two households."

"Right," I said. It made sense financially, but the image of the Sales Manager who used to hold court at Thanksgiving sleeping in his childhood bedroom was jarring. It was a crack in the façade I hadn't expected.

"Well, you're here now,” I said. I didn’t know the details of his life.

He gestured toward the window with his chin. "I saw the truck out front. Is that all of it?"

"That's the inventory," I said. "I got it on a waiver, but I couldn't get a crew."

"So I'm the crew," Dan said, resigning himself.

"You and me," I corrected. Even then, he thought it was all about him. "I’m squeezing this job in between three paying clients," I reminded him. "So you're paying in sweat equity."

He didn't argue. He’d been the one in a rush to list the house next weekend, to do it on the cheap.

He looked at his watch—a heavy diver’s piece that looked small on his thick wrist. "I have to be back at the dealership by 5:30 to close the deal. We have five hours."

"Then we better move fast," I said. "The photographer is booked for Thursday. The listing hits the MLS on Friday. The clock is ticking.”

The crate of lifestyle props I’d left by the door caught his eye.

"The hell is this?" he asked, nudging the crate with the toe of his boot. "Lemons?"

"Wax,” I said, walking over. “But color.”

I stopped a few feet away, crossing my arms over my chest. I knew the contrast we struck: He was towering, I was tight—compact. "The kitchen is white on white on beige. It looks like a hospital. You need to break the visual field."

He snorted. "It's fake fruit, Rami. People know nobody lives here. They know it's a staged house in Bellevue. Is this really necessary? The market is hot. Someone will buy it for the lot value alone."

"Of course someone will buy it for the lot value," I agreed, dropping my voice to the professional tone I used with reluctant clients. "And you’ll leave six figures on the table."

I stepped closer, engaging the Sales Manager directly. "Staged homes in this zip code sell for ten percent more than vacant ones. On a house this size? That’s eighty thousand dollars easy, Dan. And three times faster.”

That got his attention.

“That’s a very nice down payment on whatever bachelor pad you’re eyeing."

He stared at me. The math seemed to hit his brain harder than the aesthetics.

"Think about your dealership," I continued. "When a guy walks onto your showroom floor, you don't just sell him the car he needs. That’s lot value. That’s the base model with the cloth seats."

I jerked my chin to the empty kitchen. "You upsell him. You put him in the one with the roof rack and the sport package. You stop talking about the transmission and start talking about taking the boys to Stevens Pass for a ski weekend."

I held his gaze. "You don't sell him the car, Dan. You sell him the life he thinks he wants. That is literally your job."

It gave me no pleasure to point out how similar we were.

He looked back at the crate of lemons, his expression souring. "I just feel stupid. Pretending. It feels like... lying."

"Don't be bitter, Dan."

His head snapped up.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't be bitter," I repeated, stepping into his space. I saw his eyes flicker down, registering the movement. "I know this place is a wreck for you. I know you see the arguments in every corner. But my job is to make sure the buyer doesn't."

I gestured to the empty, echoing room. "That’s the gig. I'm bringing this stuff in so the next couple who walks through that door doesn't see a divorce. They see kids like Leo doing homework at the island. They see dinner parties. Growing old together."

I held his gaze, refusing to back down. "I'm not selling a house, Dan. I'm selling the fairy tale. The happily ever after. You can call it lying if you want, but I call it closing."

The words hung there.

Dan looked at me then—really looked at me. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning my face, then dropping to the spread of my shoulders and the way I held my ground.

When he met me, I was eighteen. I was a high school senior worried about finals, looking at the floor—looking anywhere other than in his eyes. For the seven years he was in our lives, I was just the kid. The Little Brother.

But I wasn't eighteen anymore. I was twenty-five. I’d filled out. I had a career. And I wasn't looking at the floor anymore.

"Jesus," he said softly, a strange look crossing his face. "When did you get so..."

"Cynical?" I offered.

"Grown up," he corrected. He shook his head, as if clearing a memory. "You used to not look me in the eye."

"I did grow up, Dan," I said. "While you were busy arguing about alimony."

He let out a short, dry laugh. Then, the humor vanished, replaced by a flash of honesty.

"Three times faster?" he asked, his voice low. "I can't keep driving three hours a day. I need to close this chapter, Rami. I need to be done with it so I can stop feeling like a failure every time I pay the mortgage. And I need the money. So: lemons.”

He gestured toward the front door and the waiting truck. "Alright. Where do we start?"

"The headboard," I said. "It's first off the truck. And it's gonna be a motherfucker."

He looked at the stairs, then back at me. He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to deflate his shoulders just a fraction.

He reached up and yanked the knot of his knit tie down another three inches, letting it hang loose against his chest. Then he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, revealing dense forearms, covered with downy brown hair.

"Yeah," he said, his voice resigning itself to the labor. "Yeah, alright. Let's get the damn thing."

---

Chapter 3: The Pivot

The headboard was a beast. It weighed easily two hundred pounds. But more critically, it was six feet wide, framed in hand-carved oak that enclosed a panel of charcoal suede.

"Ready?" Dan gripped the bottom edge, testing the heft. He didn't look worried—he looked like he was about to rack a set of plates for a warm-up.

"On three," I said. "Lift with your legs."

"Yeah, I know."

"Three."

HUP.

The headboard came up smoothly. It was heavy, but we had the horsepower. I’d skipped my usual 6:00 AM lift at Equinox for this, and honestly, this was better.

For the first twenty feet—the straight shot up the driveway and into the foyer—it was easy work. Dan moved with a steady rhythm. Once he got that big frame moving, he was an unstoppable force.

The staircase was the bottleneck. It was a narrow, winding chute that trapped the heat rising between floors. By the time we hit the first landing, the air was heavier than the oak.

Dan paused.

"Hold up," he said.

I froze, balancing the top-heavy corner against the banister. "You slipping?"

"No," he said. "It's a sauna in here. Hang on."

He set his end of the headboard down on the landing with a controlled thud. He stood up, grimacing as he pulled his collar away from his neck. Damp spots were already forming at his pits.

"I have that closing at 5:30," he said, looking down at himself. "I can't show up in a wet shirt. Give me a second."

He pulled the knot of his knit tie loose, sliding the loop over his head. He draped it over the banister. Then he went for the buttons.

I stood on the third step, catching my breath and watching.

He worked his way down the front of his shirt, his thick fingers fumbling slightly with the small buttons. He shrugged the cotton off his shoulders, peeling the fabric away from his skin. He folded it inside out and draped it over the banister next to the tie.

Then he turned back to the stairs.

I went still.

In seven years, I’d never actually seen him like this. Maybe a glimpse at a Fourth of July barbecue across the yard, but never this close. Never exposed.

He wasn't a bodybuilder. He wasn't cut. But he looked more solid than I would have guessed. Dense.

His chest was covered in brown-and-gold hair that spread over rounded shoulders—a layer of softness that smoothed out the muscle underneath. The hair swirled around his flat, pink nipples, and narrowed into a dark line down a gut that looked firm—no sag to it.

On the pale skin of his inner biceps, I saw the faint, silvery tracks of old stretch marks—evidence of the weight he’d gained and lost since high school.

When he bent to grab the rail, I saw a dusting of soft, downy hair across his broad back. It made him look less like a salesman and more like… a bear.

Not the classification on the apps, but the species. The thing with the heavy pelt and the hibernation weight that looks slow until it decides to charge—even if it was currently just moving furniture.

It was funny. Stripped of the shirt, the Sales Manager, the suburban dad was just a man standing in an empty room—like any of the dozens of assignations I’d known in houses exactly like this one. But he wasn't like them at all.

“Okay,” he said, rolling his neck.

There—resting just below his collarbone, was a thin gold chain, catching the light in the tangle of chest hair.

It was dated. It was tacky. 

I forced myself to look away—snapping my focus back to the heavy oak frame between us.

“Let's get this bastard up there,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

He squatted down, grabbing the bottom rail. His pecs bunched as he took the weight.

"On three," he said.

We lifted.

We hit the turn of the stairs. "Pivot right," I said. "Hard right."

"I got it," he grunted. He dug his boots in and pushed.

Every time he exhaled, that heavy, solid gut pushed out against his belt, acting as a counterweight.

"One more step," I said. "Watch the wall."

"I'm clear. Pull."

I pulled. Dan surged upward, his boots thudding heavily on the carpet of the master bedroom. We cleared the landing, turned into the room, and let the headboard rest against the wall.

THUD.

Dan straightened up, exhaling a long breath. He arched his back, one hand scratching absently at the faint hair on his delts.

"God," he said, shifting side to side on his improbably slim hips. "What’s this thing made of? Lead?"

"Solid oak," I said, leaning against the wall. "Restoration Hardware. Item number 402. Retails for three grand."

Dan whistled. "Nadia and I had a solid cherry sleigh bed from Crate & Barrel. I thought that was heavy."

“Subtlety doesn't show up in Zillow photos," I said.

Dan looked at the headboard, then looked at me.

"Right" he muttered.

I checked the time. "We have about four hours. And the truck is full.”

"Let's go," he said, pushing off the wall.

We moved the white linen sectional into the living room, maneuvering the L-shape through the narrow hallway. 

It was a lot more heavy lifting than I was used to on the job. My biceps were pumped, and I could feel the sweat running down my back.

I expected Dan to flag first. He was used to the air-conditioned showroom, not manual labor. But he worked with a surprising, silent efficiency. The All-State Linebacker was still in there, buried under the years and the gut, knowing exactly how to move an object that didn't want to be moved.

He shouldered the brunt of the weight on the heaviest pieces, taking the strain off my side. At one point, watching him hoist the slab of the teak dining table, I half thought he could have lifted me right along with it.

I never would have made it on my own.

Usually, I had a crew of two guys for this. Today, Dan was the crew. And I had to admit, he was carrying the load of both of them.

I knew men’s bodies. Or thought I did. I curated my hookups like I curated my inventory: guys between twenty and thirty, fit, in shape. Manscaped. Like me.

Dan was something else. Hairy, thick-bellied. I watched the way the hair on his stomach compressed against his belt buckle when he bent over. I watched the way his heavy, round shoulders rolled when he adjusted his grip.

"That’s almost all of it," I said, trying not to stare. I dropped the box of kitchen props on the island. "Just the dresser left, and small things I can manage."

Dan grabbed my water bottle off the granite and drained half of it in one go.

I watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched his lips on the rim where mine had been just minutes before.

"Good," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious to the intimacy of it. "Because I have to be at the dealership in twenty minutes. But... the bed? We should assemble it while I'm here."

"No," I said, my voice tight. "Leave it."

He frowned, looking back toward the stairs. "It's a two-man job to line up those rails, isn't it?"

"The lifting’s a two-man job," I corrected. "The assembly is just turning screws. I can handle that tonight after you leave. Right now, I need your back to get the dresser upstairs before you go."

He checked his watch. "Right."

"Then let's go," I said. "The dresser. Pivot on the landing."

He grinned. The easy, practiced smile of the Sales Manager, but with a hint of the smirk from the yearbook—the Linebacker.

"I know how to pivot, Rami."

---

Chapter 4: The Olive Branch

THUD.

The massive chest hit the carpet in the master suite, positioned perfectly against the far wall where the afternoon light would catch the grain. I planned to add a vase of fresh eucalyptus later, setting the scene.

But for now, the room was just heavy breathing.

I walked over to the window sill where I’d stashed a spare water bottle earlier. I cracked the seal, lifted it to my mouth, but stopped.

Dan looked like he needed it more than I did. The sweat was running down his sides, darkening the waistband of his chinos. It matted his chest hair, making his nipples more pronounced.

"Dan,” I said. “Catch."

He spun to face me and I lobbed the plastic bottle across the room.

He didn't fumble. His hand snatched the bottle out of the air, catching it with a casual, confident thwack against his palm. The linebacker reflex hadn't faded, even if the abs had..

He tipped his head back, and I watched his throat work as he downed half the bottle in three heavy gulps. 

He lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He set it down on the top of the dresser and turned to assess the room.

I was assessing him.

"You look different," I said. The words slipped out before I could check them.

He blinked. "Older?"

"Bigger," I said, mimicking an overhead press. "Stronger."

I thought I saw an involuntary flex in his chest as he scratched the damp hair there.

"Yeah… well,” he snorted, self-deprecation kicking in instantly. “Between living in my parents' guest room, the hours at the dealership, and driving back and forth to see the kids... the gym is the only place nobody asks me for anything."

He glanced through the blinds to the street outside.

"Plus, Nadia keeps telling me I have to get back on the market. Like anyone’s looking for a forty-year-old with two alimonies and a gut."

He rubbed a hand over his stomach. It was there—rounded, undeniable—but balanced by the heft of his shoulders and narrow hips. There was a definite V-shape—just not the sharp, cut aesthetic I was used to.

The linebacker from the yearbook was in there, somewhere. Buried under twenty years of gravity and domestic life, but the foundation was still the same.

"You look good, Dan," I said. I made sure my voice was level, professional. "Really. Put yourself on the market."

I immediately regretted the suggestion.

What business was it of mine? I barely tolerated the guy. It shouldn't matter to me what he did with his weekends or who he took to dinner.

Still, it was probably the most real thing I’d said to him in seven years.

He stopped and looked at me, the surprise at my sincerity evident. For a second, the jocular Sales Manager mask slipped.

"Thanks, Rami," he said quietly, with a small, awkward shrug. "I'm trying."

"I know."

The air in the room suddenly felt a little too thick.

"I better go," he said.

We descended the stairs. The air grew cooler as we hit the ground floor, but the tension followed us down.

Dan picked up his shirt from the banister. He slid one arm into the cotton, obscuring the shoulder, then the other. The show was over.

"Hey, hold on a sec," I said.

I ducked into the den and grabbed the small cardboard box I’d stashed in the corner.

When I came back out, Dan was buttoning the bottom buttons. He left the top open, airing out, and grabbed his tie. He looped it around his neck, leaving it hanging loose over his exposed chest.

The bear was contained. Mostly.

"Here," I said, holding out the box. "Found this in the den. Yearbook, old football trophy, and some other stuff the movers missed. Didn't want it cluttering the shelves."

He took the box, tucking it under his arm like a football. He glanced down at the blue spine of the yearbook but didn't open it.

"Right. Clutter."

He turned to the door, shirt half-unbuttoned, tails hanging out. He stopped to look at the crate by the entrance—the one with the wax lemons he’d mocked earlier.

"You were right," he said, nodding toward them. "The place needs the color."

"I'm usually right," I said.

He turned back to me.

"Don't get cocky." He grinned—a real one this time—a flash of white teeth showing beneath the mustache. "You're still the little brother."

"I prefer 'compact'," I shot back, crossing my arms. "Hey... I'm going to be here tomorrow. Paint day. I have to hit the trim in the dining room and touch up the baseboards."

He stopped, hand on the latch. "All day?"

"Most of it," I said. "So if you want to stop by... I could use the tall genes. For the crown molding."

It was an olive branch. And I really did need the help.

Dan looked at me, the grin widening. "You just want free labor."

"Sweat equity, remember?"

"Yeah," he said. "I can get away for a few hours. I'll bring sandwiches."

"Turkey," I said immediately. "Nine-grain bread, if they have it."

"Snob."

He opened the door and walked out into the heat of the afternoon.

I heard the heavy door of his truck slam, the solid thunk of the locks, and then the deep, throaty roar of the engine starting up.

I was alone in the house again. The silence rushed back in, filling the space where Dan had been.

I walked back upstairs to the master bedroom. It was quiet, but it felt different now. It wasn't a dead zone anymore. It smelled like sweat and Old Spice. Like someone had been there.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—the double-vibration snapping me to attention.

It had been vibrating against my thigh for the last few hours—the Fresh Meat signal.

I’d ignored it while Dan was there, but I pulled it out now. The yellow icon had a badge on it. Seven new messages.

“Still looking?” “Nice stats.” “Travel to me?”

I looked at the thumbnails—the smooth, faceless torsos signifying efficient hookups. Then I looked at the water bottle sitting on the dresser where Dan had left it.

I swiped the app closed.

No time for it today.

I pocketed the phone and walked over to the dresser. I picked up the plastic bottle. 

I hesitated for a second, looking at the plastic rim that had been between his lips.

I thought of backwash.

It’s just Dan, I told myself.

I raised it to my lips and took a drink, tasting the warm, flat water. And him.

I set it down and turned to face the empty master bedroom. The rails were stacked on the floor. I knelt down on the carpet and grabbed my drill.

I had a bed to assemble for a couple who were so perfect they couldn’t exist.

---

Chapter 5: Paint Day

Wednesday was even hotter than Tuesday.

The heatwave had parked itself over Bellevue, turning the cul-de-sac into a convection oven. The air inside the house was heavy and still, and by noon, smelling sharply of wet latex.

I was in the dining room, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood, cutting in the baseboards with a steady hand.

I knew I was doing this backward—painting after moving the furniture in was amateur hour. But when the distribution center lets you borrow a ten-thousand-dollar sectional and the rest as a favor, you take the furniture on their timetable and work around it later.

My shirt was gone, tucked into the rear of my shorts an hour ago. There were canvas drop cloths draped over the teak legs of the dining table I was protecting with my life.

"You missed a spot." 

I looked up. Dan was standing on a stepladder, touching up the crown molding.

He’d kept his word. He’d shown up at 11:30, straight from the dealership, with two sandwiches—turkey on none-grain for me—and a six-pack of Diet Cokes.

We inhaled them standing at the kitchen island. 

Afterward, he unbuckled his belt to loosen the waist, stripped off his shirt and tie, and picked up a brush.

So there he was: shirtless, belt loose in just his snug-assed chinos and those leather boots.

"I didn't miss anything," I said. "I'm pacing myself. Unlike you. You're painting that molding like you're in a race."

Dan laughed—low and chesty—but he slowed his stroke, feathering the paint out.

I let my eyes stray while he focused on the task. 

There was a faint white scar above his elbow from god-knows-what, and silvery stretch marks fading on his hips where the skin had learned to accommodate him over the years. The dusting of soft, golden-brown hair across his shoulder blades that caught the light.

I curated my physique the way I staged a house—hitting the vanity muscles: biceps, delts, the V-taper. Smooth, hairless, and impersonal. Designed for the widest possible audience.

Dan was a more specialized taste. Definitely not mine—though his midlife crisis exercise habit was inching him closer.

"Actually," he said, "this is kind of fun. It reminds me of doing projects with my dad. He used to make us re-stain the deck every other summer. 'Builds character,' he’d say. Just the guys, working with our hands."

He looked down at me, grinning. "You ever do that? Saturday projects with your old man?"

I paused, my brush hovering over the baseboard. I thought about the empty seat at the dinner table. I thought about the time my mother had me climb a ladder in the pouring rain to clear the overflowing gutters because my father was already three states away with his new family.

I could still feel the cold water running down my back as my thighs pressed against the top of the ladder, my hands in the slop of wet leaves.

"No," I said, keeping my voice light. "He checked out when I was six. I learned this on the job."

Dan’s grin faded instantly.. "Right," he said softly. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Don't worry about it," I said, focusing on the white line of paint so I didn't have to look at his pity. "It made me resourceful. I fix my own leaks."

"Yeah," Dan said, watching me for a second longer than necessary. "I guess you do."

He climbed down from the stepladder, the wood creaking under his weight. He grabbed a rag and wiped his face, then ran it into his armpits.

He walked over to where I was kneeling and leaned against the wall, looking down at me.

"Hey," he said. The tone was different. Serious.

I stopped painting, resting my wrist on my knee. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for this. I know you're busy. I know you could be billing three grand for a consult in Kirkland right now. You didn't have to do the 'sweat equity' thing."

"Nadia asked," I said, shrugging.

"You didn't have to say yes," Dan said. "Especially... considering."

I cocked my head. "Considering what?"

He gave a dry, self-deprecating smirk. "Considering you never really liked me."

It wasn't an accusation; it was just a fact he was finally putting on the table.

I hesitated. I could have lied. I could have given him the polite brother-in-law speech. But we were half-naked, sweating in an empty house, and the polite thing felt small.

"I didn't hate you, Dan," I said. "I just thought you were so..." I searched for the word. "So straight."

Dan blinked, surprised. Then he laughed—a genuine, confused bark of amusement. "Straight? You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not bad," I said, dipping my brush again. "Just... overwhelming. So straight it hurt. You walked into a room and took up all the oxygen because you assumed the air was there for you."

I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "Nadia stopped having opinions. My mother started buying ketchup. You were just... the default setting. And everyone else adjusted their settings to match you."

Dan stopped smiling, but he didn't get defensive. His chin bunched as he processed the critique.

"I thought that was the job," he said, after a minute. "Be the man. Make the decisions. I thought I was... taking the weight off them."

"You were taking the space from them," I corrected, as gently as I could while holding my ground.

He looked down at me. The bravado was gone.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess maybe. I had the script, Rami. The job, the wife, the kid, the house. I followed the steps. I thought I was supposed to."

He looked at the opposite wall, his shoulder heavy against the plaster.

"And look where it got me," he said. "Forty years old, sleeping in my childhood bedroom, painting a house I can't keep because my wife finally got tired of holding her breath."

He blew out a long breath. "Maybe I should have looked outside the lane lines."

I cleared my throat.

"Finish the molding, Dan," I said, my voice dropping. "You missed a spot in the corner."

He didn't move for a second. Then a small smile appeared.

"Slave driver," he murmured.

He rolled back against the wall and pushed off.

"Whoa!" I barked.

Dan froze mid-step.

"Fuck," he hissed, twisting to try to look over his own shoulder. "Did I hit it? Tell me I didn't just ruin the trim."

"Stay still," I said, rising quickly from the floor.

I stepped behind him to check. The wall was clear, but he was inches away.

"You're clear," I said.

My hand hovered over his back. I should have stepped away. But I saw—or told myself I saw—a smudge of white near his spine.

"Wait," I said. "You got some on you."

I reached out. I let my palm rest on the broad expanse of his back, right between the shoulder blades.

His skin was hot. 

I ran my thumb down the deep furrow of his spine, wiping at the invisible paint. The hair there was soft, downy, contrasting with the slick sweat on his skin. I could feel the tensing of the underlying muscle as he held his breath under my hand.

I stopped just above his waistband. My hand lingered there a second too long.

"Got it," I whispered.

He turned to face me.

I was acutely aware of how close we were. I was acutely aware of the uncomfortable pressure in my shorts.

I’d gone too many days without, was all. That was all. Because this was Dan. A middle-aged car salesman with a mustache, a gut, and two alimonies. A guy with a tacky gold chain at the hollow of his throat. The kind of guy I wouldn’t look at twice on the apps.

Dan licked his lips and swallowed. I saw his throat work against the gold links.

"Good," he croaked.

He took a half-step back, finally breaking the field. He cleared his throat, loud and awkward, and turned away to grab his water bottle from the windowsill.

"It's hot in here," he said, taking a long drink. "We should probably open another window."

"Yeah," I said, my own voice sounding thin and unfamiliar. "Good idea."

I knelt back down to the baseboards, gripping my brush handle tight.

Ugh, Dan, I thought. Get it together, Rami.

"We have to finish the trim," I said, forcing my voice back to professional mode. "Photographer’s booked for tomorrow and there’s still a lot to do."

"Right," Dan said from the other side of the room. "Let's get it done."

We worked for another hour. We finished the trim. But we didn't talk about the past anymore.

And we were very, very careful not to touch.

---

Chapter 6: Curb Appeal

Thursday was the finish line.

I’d stayed late the night before and come in early, doing the work of a three-man crew. I’d shoved every piece of furniture into its final, precise position. I hung the art and steamed enough linen to shroud a cathedral.

By noon, the interior was locked in. Given the turnaround and the mishmash of inventory, it was a masterpiece of curated silence—warm enough to be inviting, cool enough to let a buyer see himself fold into it. A future state of prosperity, conflict-free.

Steve, the photographer the agent had booked, arrived at 12:00.

He was long, limber, and Pilates-lean, with the kind of wiry definition that looked good in slim-fit denim. We greeted each other with a quick, professional hug, though I was mindful of the dampness on my back under the thin cotton T-shirt.

We’d hooked up once, about a year ago, after a staging gig in Medina. It had been just my speed: efficient, physically taxing, and over before the traffic on 520 could ruin my commute. He’d followed up with a few texts, to which I replied aloofly.

He got the message.

We both worked in liminal spaces—houses that weren't quite homes, lives that were just suggestions. We knew better than anyone how deceptive the allure could be.

"Looking good, Rami," Steve said, setting up his tripod in the foyer. "I could make some room for you on that sectional before I shoot it. For old times' sake."

I looked at him—the aesthetic ideal. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, zero body fat. A year ago, I would have said yes. Today, I just felt impatient.

"I wouldn't dream of ruining your shot, Steve," I said, offering a small, diplomatic smile. "Besides, I’ve got hydrangeas that need to be in the ground before you do the exterior."

Steve checked his watch. "I have to be on Capitol Hill by 2:00. Can you have the front ready by 1:00?"

"An hour?" I looked out the windows. "Yeah. I’ll make it happen."

"Go," he chuckled, waving a hand airily. "I don't want your shadow in my wide-angle anyway."

I headed outside.

The exterior wasn't a tragedy, just uninspired. I had six five-gallon hydrangeas and a dozen bags of dark mulch to add some contrast. Manageable, but the ground was baked hard by the heatwave.

I was digging a hole for a mature hydrangea when the heavy thud of a car door echoed through the cul-de-sac.

I knew before turning that it was Dan.

He walked up the driveway in his Sales Manager uniform—the blue button-down, olive ass-hugging chinos, and those scuffed leather boots. He was carrying a small, red hard-sided cooler in his left hand.

He set the cooler down in the shade of the Japanese maple near the porch, then stopped, taking in the pots and the bags of soil, the shovel in my hand, the sweat on my face.

"Hey," he said, resting a hand on my side.

It was a casual, confident touch—warm and heavy through my shirt—and gone before I could process it.

"Steve’s inside," I said without looking up, resting a foot on the shovel. "I have forty minutes to give this place some depth so the listing photos don’t make it look like a foreclosure."

"Is it that bad?" Dan asked.

From inside, a photo flash flickered behind the living room glass.

I wiped my forehead with a forearm. "Nah. But it needs to pop."

Dan didn’t wait for an invitation. He started unbuttoning his shirt.

As he shrugged out of his sleeves, the sunlight caught the glint of that gold chain resting in the hair at his collarbone. He draped the shirt and his tie over the boxwood hedge.

He stood there in the midday heat, shirtless and ready. "Let’s do it," he said.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a pair of thick, rubber-dipped gardening gloves. I tossed them to him.

"Here," I said. "Don't ruin your manicure."

Dan caught them against his chest, grinning. He tugged them on, the yellow fabric looking comically bright against his hairy forearms.

We fell into a rhythm. I pointed out where the next hydrangea would go, and Dan dug the hole, driving the shovel into the hard earth with his weight. I cut them out of the plastic pots, settling them in.

We didn't talk—just handed off tools and bags of mulch. In the natural light, the gold shone in Dan’s hair and caught on the chain slipping back and forth as he worked.

By 12:50, the last bag was empty.

I steadied the hydrangeas one more time as Dan stood back, hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling as he surveyed the transformation.

The yard popped now—the deep black soil making the white hydrangeas glow. It looked managed. It looked cared for.

"Damn," Dan said, carefully wiping his forehead with a forearm to avoid the dirt on his gloves. "That actually looks really good."

I rose to my feet, nodding.

I looked at the neat rows, then at him. "We got it done," I said.

He turned to me, a genuine grin on his face. "We make a pretty good team, Rami."

He reached down into the cooler and pulled out two Modelos. He clamped his rubber-coated palm over the cap and twisted hard.

Hiss.

He passed me the bottle, the condensation already appearing on the glass.

"Beer?" I asked, taking it. "At 1:00 on a Thursday? Don't you have to go sell a luxury SUV in twenty minutes?"

"I'm the Sales Manager," Dan said. "I'll chew some gum. Besides... look at that."

We clinked the beer necks. Without a word, I turned and wandered to the edge of the lawn, dropping down to sit on the curb. Dan followed, grabbing an empty mulch bag to sit on to protect his chinos.

I took a long draw of the beer. In the periphery of my vision, I saw Dan pull the gardening gloves off, one by one.

He rested the gloves on the grass between us.

We sat with our legs stretched out toward the street, the cold beer cutting through the dust in our throats.

I watched him. His cheeks were flushed pink from the work, and his neck looked damp. From the corner of my eye, I could see the dark mulch dust clinging to the feathery hair on his shoulders where a bag had rested.

I reached out.

I used my bare hand to brush it away.

Dan glanced over his shoulder, checking the contact. Animal instinct.

“Mulch,” I said.

I swept my hand down the furrow of his spine, flicking away the mulch. It felt primal—grooming the pack. He didn't pull away. He leaned into it, just a fraction.

When I finished, he turned and examined me.

"You’re a mess too," he said softly.

He reached out to brush a smudge of dark soil off my tricep. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin of my inner arm.

"All clear," he said.

He pulled back, cleared his throat, and turned his eyes back to the cul-de-sac.

Then the front door opened.

Steve walked out, hauling his Pelican case and tripod onto the porch to set up the wide-angle exterior shots.

He stopped when he saw us—two dirty, shirtless men sharing beers on the curb.

Dan stood up immediately—the bear retreating, the Sales Manager returning. He walked over, offering a hand to Steve.

"Hi. I'm the owner," Dan said. "We just finished."

Steve took Dan’s hand, but his photographer’s eye was working. He looked at the sweat on Dan’s hairy chest, the dirt on my arm, and the way we were occupying the space together.

"Nice work," Steve said, coolly. "Place looks ready."

"I better get going," Dan said, dropping his hand. He looked down at me. "So... that's it? Listing goes live tomorrow?"

The question hung there. The work was done. The house was staged. There was no reason for us to be there tomorrow. No reason for him to bring sandwiches. No reason for me to see him.

"Noon," I said, shielding my eyes from the sun.

Impulsively, I went on. "I've got a couple of other jobs in the morning. But I'll stop by at the end of the day to do a last walkthrough. Make sure the light timers are set and nothing has shifted."

It was a lie. I didn't need to check the timers.

Dan gave a slow, steady nod. "Right. Walkthrough."

He nodded at Steve, then headed for the boxwood hedge. He plucked his shirt and tie off the leaves with a surprising gentleness, draping them over his arm.

I watched his broad, hairy back as he walked to his SUV. As he pushed his arms into the sleeves, he looked like a bear who had just mauled a garden and was better for it.

He climbed into the driver's seat with his shirt front fully open. The heavy door thudded shut, and I watched as he backed out and drove off.

"Hm," Steve said.

I snapped to—looked up. Steve was peering down at me with his photographer’s gaze.

"What?" I asked, my voice sounding thin.

Steve didn't answer. He just gave a small huff of a laugh, shook his head slightly, and turned to pick up his tripod.

He knew.

I rose to clear the shot. I bent to pick up the gloves and the bottle Dan had left in the grass.

It was heavy—still half full.

I stared at the amber liquid. He hadn't finished it.

---

Chapter 7: The Walkthrough

By Friday, the photos were done. The listing had hit the MLS at noon to catch the weekend traffic. The job was finished, technically.

I returned to my real life. I ran invoices in Kirkland. Provided a color consult for a soulless condo in Redmond.

It felt strangely anonymous.

After the intensity of the last three days—the rush job, the heat, the proximity to Dan—my regular routine seemed flat. I found myself checking my phone, not for client emails, but for... something else.

I drove back to Bellevue after 5:00 PM for a final walkthrough. I told myself it was professional diligence. The light timers needed checking. The pillows needed fluffing.

I brought a bundle of fresh white tulips for the vase on the dining table. In the kitchen, I set up a heavy cookbook on the counter, open to a recipe for Beef Bourguignon. It was a psychological trigger; I wanted potential buyers to think that if they lived here, they’d be the kind of people who would happily simmer wine and pearl onions for their family.

I did a final sweep, checking the art for level, smoothing a microscopic divot in the gray duvet on the master bed. Then I vacuumed my way out of every room, walking backward to ensure the carpet lines were perfectly straight—literally covering my own tracks.

It was as if I’d never been there.

I grabbed the canvas strap of my kit bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

I checked my watch. 6:22 PM.

I nudged the bowl of wax lemons on the counter, turning the seam of the plastic molding away from the light. I straightened the cookbook a millimeter to the left.

I checked my watch again. 6:28 PM.

I knew Dan’s dealership was fifteen minutes away. I knew he usually wrapped up his week around six.

The silence in the house was total.

Then, it broke.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The electronic chirps drifted in from the porch, followed by the mechanical whirrr-click of the deadbolt retracting.

I straightened the spine of the open cookbook, feigning industry.

The door flew open, followed by the soft thud of boot strikes on the carpet.

"You're here."

Dan was standing in the archway, breathing hard, car keys still clutched in his hand. It wasn't a question. It sounded like relief.

I suppressed a smile and looked up. “Don’t track anything in.”

He didn't answer.

He had that worn-down look specific to Fridays—tired, but wired, buzzing like a man who'd spent twelve hours talking people into debt. He was wearing his "closer" uniform, but the tie was gone, stuffed in his shirt pocket.

I caught myself staring.

I’d spent seven years writing him off as a hapless relic, buried in shapeless beige slacks. But the man in the archway was wearing fitted navy chinos that actually hugged his thighs. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned to the sternum, sleeves rolled messily to reveal thick, corded forearms.

Even his watch—a heavy diver’s piece on a wide, distressed leather cuff—was something I would have normally sneered at. But on his thick wrist, it just looked solid. Capable.

I realized, with a sudden, disorienting jolt, that his midlife crisis wasn't a breakdown. It was a rebrand. 

Or maybe it wasn’t him who changed. Maybe I had. Maybe I was seeing something that had been there all along. Maybe something I hadn’t fully wanted to see.

Whatever it was, God help me, it was working.

"Sorry," he said, loosening his stance. "Last customer kept me. Guy couldn't decide on the trim package. Thought I’d come… get one more look."

"Everything's done," I said quickly, forcing my eyes away from the fit of his pants. "I was just doing a final check on the props."

With my eyes down, Dan let his drift to the room.

He stared at the bright yellow lemons. He stared at the open cookbook. He stared at the early evening light hitting the clean, clutter-free surfaces.

"Jesus," he said softly.

"Too much?" I asked.

"No," he said. “No.”

He walked into the room, his boots soft on the tile. He ran a thick finger along the edge of the quartz island.

"It’s... nice," he said finally. "I didn’t think it could ever look like a home again. Not after the divorce. This is something."

"That’s the trick," I said. "Everyone has mess. This is supposed to look like another chance. A shot at doing it right. Better this time. Like cracking open a new journal, before you write all the things in it you regret later."

“Mission accomplished,” he said. He picked up one of the wax lemons—the same ones he’d called stupid on Tuesday. He weighed it in his palm, accepted the fact of it, and put it back.

"Linda called me an hour ago," he said. "The listing has been live for six hours and we already have three requests for private showings tomorrow."

"See?" I asked. "I told you."

"And that's in addition to the Open House," he added, looking impressed. "She thinks we’ll clear 950. Maybe more if we get a bidding war."

In the dim, staged kitchen, Dan looked almost too real for the staged home. Too big, too hairy, too complicated for the illusion—as if any sudden movement could upset everything.

I should have said goodnight. Left without a trace.

"You survive the week?" I asked instead.

He grimaced. "Barely. End of the month quotas. Everyone is scrambling."

"And the... living situation?"

His shoulders dropped another inch. "Don't ask."

"That bad?"

"I'm forty, Rami. I run a sales floor that moves three million dollars of inventory a month. And last night, my mother came into my room at 10:00 to ask if I wanted hot cocoa."

I snorted. "That sounds nice, actually."

"It's humiliating," he said, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm sleeping in my childhood bedroom in Renton. My feet hang off the end of the bed. They’re walking on eggshells around me. They think I'm going to have a breakdown if they mention the divorce."

“Would you?”

That got his attention. He looked up, his eyes clear.

“No. No. I’m ready to move on.” He looked around the empty, pristine kitchen. "What did you call it? A new journal?”

"Exactly."

“I just need this place to sell, Rami. So I can get my own place. Figure out who I am."

The admission hung in the air. A rare peek at something real under the Sales Manager facade.

"Well, the house is live," I said. "If the traffic is this good already, you'll be out of your mom's basement in thirty days."

"God, I hope so."

He checked the heavy watch on his wrist again. "Look, it’s almost seven. End of the week. You have plans?"

"Not really," I admitted. "Just heading home."

He looked at me, his expression shifting to determined.

"I know a place downtown. Old school steakhouse. Leather booths, dark lighting. They pour a heavy Cab."

“Are you asking me?” I gestured between us.

“Am I that bad at this?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’m asking you. Don’t make me go to Renton now, Rami. I’ll have to watch Jeopardy and explain why I'm home on a Friday night again."

He turned on the Sales Manager grin—the one that probably closed the deal on the trim package an hour ago. "Let me buy you a steak. Consultants gotta eat, right?"

I thought about the grid. I thought about the faceless torsos and the "Looking for Fun" messages waiting on my phone.

And there was Dan, looking at me like I was the only person in the world who understood why he couldn't go home.

I let the strap of my bag slide off my shoulder. It dropped against the island.

"Leather booths sound good," I said.

"Great." He grinned like he’d just closed a deal. "I'm driving. You look like you need a drink."

"Amen."

He rested a hand on the small of my back, directing me to the door.

He stopped outside to punch in the code one more time. 2-0-2-0. The mechanical deadbolt slid home, sealing the past inside.

I walked down the driveway to where his massive German SUV—another demo from the lot—was idling.

Inside, I pulled the seatbelt across my chest, the mechanism locking with a soft click. Dan did the same, the belt cutting across his chest. Beneath it, the white shirt pulled tight against his shoulders and the solid curve of his belly.

“Hold on,” he said, pulling out his phone. His brow furrowed as his thumb darted over the screen.

He set it down and turned to me. “Parents.”

“Upset you’re not coming home for Jeopardy?" I asked, as he backed out of the driveway.

“Are you kidding?” He chuckled as he merged onto the street, the big engine purring. "Probably relieved I have a date."

A date.

It was just Dan being Dan—using the word carelessly—the way he’d use "buddy" or "pal." This was just using me as an excuse to escape his mother's hot cocoa.

Still, I watched the streetlights blur, trying to calculate the odds.

"Let's hope you don't disappoint them," I said, careful to give nothing away.

---

Chapter 8: Rare 

The restaurant was named The Porterhouse.

We walked in, and the place was packed. The dining room was a sea of noise, ringed by dark wood and brass rails. It was exactly the kind of place a Sales Manager might take a client to close a deal—loud enough to hide a conversation, but quiet enough to hear the ice clink in a heavy glass.

The host looked up, scanning a monitor. "Good evening, gentlemen. Do you have a reservation? The dining room is fully committed tonight."

Dan didn't blink. He leaned one elbow on the host stand, scanning the room, his eyes snagging on the lounge.

"We don't need the dining room, Josh," he said, reading the guy's nametag in a low, confidential rumble. "I always like the bar best anyway. Better energy."

He pointed a thick finger toward a specific spot in the back corner, tucked away in an alcove. I had to squint to see the visible sliver of it. "What about that curved booth in the nook? That looks open."

The host hesitated, looked at the empty booth, then looked back at Dan’s easy, expectant grin.

"I can make that happen," the host said, taking two menus. "Follow me."

"Appreciate it," Dan said.

He threw a heavy arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side as he steered me through the crowded bar.

It was a classic Dan move—claiming the space, and by extension, claiming the person next to him, as if I weren't a perfectly competent adult capable of walking myself.

A week ago, I would have hated it. I would have bristled at the weight, ducked out from under his arm, annoyed that he assumed he could just pilot me around like a sidecar.

But tonight, surrounded by the noise and the crowd, I didn't duck. I wanted to feel that particular weight, while I still could.

I let him steer me all the way to the circular leather booth. It was intimate by design—a tight C-shape meant for cocktails and affairs. I marveled that Dan had spotted it at all from the door.

I slid in to the 4 o'clock position. Dan slid in at 8 o'clock.

The leather squeaked as he did. His broad shoulders took up his half and encroached on mine. His thigh pressed firmly against my leg from hip to knee.

“Tight fit,” he said casually, but he didn't pull away.

I opened my menu, scanning the prices. A side of asparagus was eighteen dollars.

"Don't bother," Dan said.

He leaned back, one arm draped along the top of the curved leather seat behind me. He didn’t open his menu.

When the waiter arrived, Dan didn't hem or haw. He just listed an order like he was reading an invoice.

"We’ll start with the Wedge Salads. Then the Cowboy Ribeye. To share. Rare. I want that center cool."

"Sides?" the waiter asked, scribbling.

"Creamed spinach and the truffle fries. And a bottle of the Cab. The '18."

"Excellent choice, sir."

Dan turned to me as the waiter walked away. “Sorry. Habit. Trust me?”

The question was casual, but felt loaded.

I was used to making the decisions. I picked the paint colors. I picked the furniture. I picked the guys on the apps.

It was rare that someone else offered to drive, and more rare that I let them. 

I should have ordered my own meal. An individual cut of meat. A side salad.

I closed my menu.

"Feed me," I said, meeting his gaze.

A grin spread slowly on Dan’s broad face. He gave a nod to the waiter, sliding the unused menus to him.

"Cowboy Ribeye?" I asked, breaking the tension. "That’s a lot of meat, Dan."

"We earned it," he said, relaxing into the seat, his leg pressing against mine. "And I'm starving. My mom’s on a 'heart healthy' kick. If I have to eat another piece of poached salmon, I'm going to bite a tire. Sometimes you just need something else."

The wine arrived. Dan tasted it, nodded, and watched as the waiter poured. He didn't pick up his glass immediately. He looked at me, his expression shifting from hungry to curious.

"So," he said. "I feel like I've just been bitching about my life for a week. Tell me about you."

I swirled my wine, watching the red legs run down the glass. "What about me?"

He looked me over. His eyes traveled from my face to my shoulders, then down to my chest and back up again.

"You're twenty-five," he said. "You have a good job. You're a good-looking guy. Built."

He paused, tilting his head. "Why are you single? You should have guys lining up around the block."

I smirked, taking a sip of wine. "I do have guys lining up. That's the point."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't need a relationship to get what I need," I said. "I have the apps. I have a system. It's efficient. Swipe right, meet up, everyone gets what they want, everyone goes home. No drama, no alimony.” I looked him in the eye. “No offense."

"Yeah," Dan said.

Dan, of all people, ought to see I had a point.

I took a long pull of the wine. It was velvety and high-proof, and I felt the warmth of it loosening a knot in my chest I hadn't realized was there.

"Why complicate it? Relationships are messy. I saw what my parents went through. The yelling, the silence, the split. Why risk it?"

Dan listened, taking in every word—maybe more than he ever had. He took a sip of wine, the glass looking small in his thick hand.

"Sure," he said quietly. "But it’s not all bad.” He looked down at his glass, tracing the rim with his thumb. "I know I messed up my marriages, Rami. I know I'm a cautionary tale. But... don’t you ever want something more than that?"

The admission hung between us, surprisingly heavy for an after-work conversation.

"I like having the bed to myself," I lied. It was mostly true, but right then it seemed impossibly large. "More room."

“Maybe I’m not built for the systems,” Dan said. He looked at me. “If I got my hands on something good... I wouldn't let go so easy. I don't trade in for the newer model.”

The salads arrived, breaking the suddenly charged moment.

“Alright,” Dan said, picking up his knife and fork.

He didn't pick at his food. Dan ate with a distinctly masculine gusto. He cut the wedge of lettuce, forking big bites, enjoying the crunch and the fat of the bacon. He wiped a smudge of blue cheese dressing from his mustache with a linen napkin, not missing a beat.

His sheer capacity for consumption was something that used to bother me. Now, watching his thick throat work as he swallowed... it was a different sort of bother entirely.

Then the steak arrived.

It was massive—a bone-in slab of meat, charred on the outside and sliced to reveal a glistening, dark red center.

"Now we're talking," Dan said.

He didn't ask what I wanted. He loaded three thick slices onto my plate, then three onto his own. He spooned a heap of creamed spinach next to it, and licked a drop of red juice from his thumb.

"Eat up," he commanded, his knife and fork moving over the table like a conductor. "You need the protein."

I cut into the steak. It was perfect. Salty, fatty, bloody. I took a bite and hummed in approval.

"Good?" he asked, watching for my reaction.

"Incredible."

He smiled, satisfied. He cut a piece of his own steak—a large piece, mostly the fatty cap—and chewed slowly.

I couldn’t look away from the way his heavy jaw worked, except to catch the flicker of his dumb gold chain in the tuft of chest hair at his open collar.

“The wine hit,” I said, wiping the dampness from my hairline.

I could feel it—the heat at my jaw, the way alcohol always did. The buzz behind my eyes, blurring the lines.

We weren't client and contractor. We weren't brothers-in-law. We were two men in a dark corner, sharing red meat and red wine.

For a while there was no conversation. Just eating, and Dan’s knee against mine under the table.

After the initial wave of satisfaction, Dan leaned back. He took a sip of water—switching from the wine, pacing himself. But the work-week fatigue was gone from his face, replaced by something alert, but at ease.

He picked up his knife and got back to it, but slower. More careful.

"When I get my own place,” he said, his voice low, “I'm going to need help furnishing it. Maybe you could…”

I could have said I don’t do residential work—just high-volume flips. I could have told him I could give him a reference. Instead, I held my fork mid-air. “Yeah.”

“Hate to break up a good team,” he continued, taking another cut. “I don't want it to look like a bachelor pad. I want it to look... grown up."

He didn’t look up, eyes on his work. "Especially if I have to learn this 'system' of yours. If I'm going to be out there. What did you call it? Swipe?"

I froze.

For seven years, Dan had been in my life because he married Nadia. I’d been secretly delighted when they split—thinking his occupation of our family would finally stop.

It hadn't actually occurred to me—not until this exact second—that it really would stop.

That he wouldn't be Nadia's husband, or the sad divorcé I was trying to fix. He would just be a single man in a bar.

The idea of him out there, learning the rules. Using that loud, dumb—but effective—Sales Manager charm to close the deal with some woman who had nothing to do with me. Swiping his big thumb across a screen to find someone to warm up his new bed that I picked out for the act...

I hated it. I hated it instantly and violently.

"I think that's more of a gay thing, Dan," I said, feigning disinterest, trying to dismiss the image entirely. "Straight people still meet in bars. Or… I don’t know… dealerships."

"Maybe," Dan said.

A faint sheen of steak grease clung to his bottom lip, catching the dim light. His broad tongue darted out to lick it away, pink and wet against the coarse hair of his mustache.

He caught me staring. He didn't look away.

"Eat up," he said softly. He nudged my knee again. "We've got a lot of meat to finish."

---

Chapter 9: The Close

The bill came, and Dan didn't even look at it. He dropped a black Amex on the tray before the waiter could say a word.

"No dessert," he said. "We're full."

We walked out into the cool Bellevue night. The air cleared some of the wine fog, but the buzz was still there, hot under my collar.

We got into his massive SUV. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing us in. He started the engine, and the dashboard glowed with a soft, amber light, illuminating the width of his thighs against the leather.

He pulled out of the garage, steering with one hand, the other resting on the gearshift inches from my knee. He didn't turn on the radio. The silence wasn't the easy, working quiet of the last few days—it felt prickly. Charged. Like the air right before a thunderclap.

"Where to?" he asked, his voice sounding loud in the quiet cabin.

"I need to go back to the house," I said. "My truck is there. And I left my kit bag in the kitchen."

"Right," Dan said, nodding once, his eyes fixed on the road. "The house.”

He turned the wheel, heading back toward the residential hills. I watched the streetlights flicker past, counting them to keep my heart rate down.

He turned onto Crestview Drive. The cul-de-sac was dark. He pulled into the driveway, parking next to my beat-up work truck. He killed the engine.

The silence rushed back in.

We spoke at the exact same time.

"I'll just grab—"

"I'll unlock—"

We both stopped. It was clumsy. Awkward.

"You go," Dan said, clearing his throat.

"I'll just grab it," I said. "And get out of your hair."

We both got out of the car. I walked fast, trying to keep it professional, but Dan matched my pace, his boots heavy on the concrete behind me.

He punched in the code—2-0-2-0—and the lock clicked.

I walked into the dark foyer. The streetlamp outside cast long, pale rectangles across the floorboards.

I stopped for a second, looking at the shadows.

God, I used to hate this house. I remembered the Thanksgivings. The Christmases. I remembered sitting at the dining table, watching Dan take up all the oxygen while I stole glances at the grid on my phone under the table, counting the minutes until I could leave.

Now the stolen glances were of Dan. And, standing in the dark with the man I used to resent, I wanted nothing more than to stay.

I walked to the kitchen—the bag was exactly where I’d left it, slumped against the island like a drunk sentry. I grabbed the strap and swung it over my head, settling it across my chest like a seatbelt.

I was buckled in, ready to evacuate.

"Got it," I said, turning around.

Dan was standing in the archway—filling the space in that way he did, silhouetted against the pale light of the foyer.

"You got everything?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, my fingers tight on the strap. "Bag. Keys. I'm good."

Neither of us moved.

"So," I said, my voice tight. "I guess I'm off the clock. Job's done."

"Job's done," Dan repeated. He didn't move out of the doorway.

"Yeah," I said. "Well. I gotta go."

He shifted his weight again, a restless, uncomfortable tic.

"You said you have a system," he said suddenly. "Swipe right, meet up, go home. Efficient."

"It is," I said. "It works."

"I don't know the system," Dan admitted, his voice rough. "I haven't been single since I was twenty-two. I don't know how you guys do this."

"I’ve been throwing everything I know at you tonight," he said, sounding frustrated. "I drove. I ordered the steak. That’s the playbook, right? That’s how you show someone you’re interested. That's how I did it with... well, before."

He looked down, shaking his head.

"But then you talk about this system. Efficiency. And I feel like an idiot trying to woo you with a ribeye when you probably just want me to get out of the way."

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light. He looked… not small—never small—but unsure. A closer who had run out of tactics.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to ask you for a drink, or ask you to stay, or just... let you leave. I don't know the rules, Rami."

"I have an early start," I lied, looking away.

"Do you?" Dan asked. It didn’t sound like an accusation; it was a genuine question. "Do you actually have to?"

I looked up. "I..."

"Because you're flushed," Dan murmured. “Your cheeks.” He took a step, entering my personal space. "And you're breathing fast. I can see it."

My hand flew up to my lips instinctively.

"I'm not trying to be smooth," Dan said, shaking his head as if frustrated with himself. "I'm out of moves, okay? I'm just... looking at you. And you look like maybe you don't want to leave."

I felt my resolve faltering against his gravity.

"I don't want to go home," I admitted, the truth slipping out before I could catch it. "My apartment is cold. The bed is too big."

"Me neither," Dan said immediately. "I can't go back to Renton, Rami. I can't sleep in that twin bed again. Not tonight."

The confession hung between us. One bed too big, one bed too small.

And one bed upstairs, perfectly staged, that was just right.

He looked at me, and I looked at the exit—the door I had been trying to escape for seven years. Then I looked at Dan.

He didn't wait for another word. He didn’t ask. He reached out, grabbing the front of my shirt—clumsy, urgent—and pulled me in.

His mouth landed on mine—awkwardly at first, but didn’t stop, didn’t break. It wasn't polite. His tongue was demanding, filling my mouth completely. The coarse bristles of his mustache grazed my upper lip, sparking a friction burn that went straight to my groin.

He was over six-three and broad as a barn door; I was five-seven and compact. He engulfed me. When he groaned, I could feel the vibration against my mouth and deep in my chest.

As he closed in around me, pinning me against the quartz island, I felt the hard, heavy ridge of his cock pressing through his chinos.

I grabbed his biceps, holding on.

“Fuck me,” I whispered against his mouth.

There it was. I hadn’t planned it. But in the moment, it seemed long overdue. Like we’d been building up to it for years.

Dan pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark.

"Yeah," he growled. "Yeah."

---

Chapter 10: Punch List

The climb upstairs was a blur.

We didn't walk so much as we collided our way up the steps—pushing and pulling each other, our mouths latching on each other. At the landing, I spun him, taking the high ground and walking backward up the risers to claim the advantage.

“Better,” I breathed, a smirk forming as the eight-inch height difference finally vanished.

I dropped my kit bag at my side and hauled my polo shirt up over my head, bunching it up in my fist.

I watched his eyes darken as they swept over my exposed torso.

"Fuck," he mumbled, the word more breath than sound.

He ducked his head, burying his face in my chest. He wrapped his lips around a nipple and sucked, hungry as a newborn. My knees nearly buckled. The scrape of his mustache against my skin sent electric jolts straight through the center of my body, grounding out at the base of my spine.

His large hands gripped my waist to anchor me, and I wrapped my arms around his head, his hair thick between my fingers. He sucked and tongued one nipple and then the other with the same appetite I’d seen at dinner.

When he pulled up off of me, his lips were wet.

For the first time ever, we were eye-to-eye, sharing the same heated breaths. His pupils were wide, swallowing the gold flecks.

"Bed," he grunted. "Now."

I snatched up the kit bag by its strap, blindly pulling it along as I backed into the doorway of the master suite. My hand brushed the art I’d hung on the wall, knocking a frame askew.

I backed up all the way to the bed we’d carried there, swinging the bag onto the nightstand. Dan kicked the door shut behind him and came toward me like a tsunami.

His mouth crashed on mine. His hands were everywhere at once—thumbs brushing over my nipples, rough palms grabbing at my pecs, testing the muscle. 

The buttons of his shirt gave way—POP. POP. POP.—revealing the landscape I’d studied all week.

When I pushed the white cotton off his shoulders, the flat gold chain tugged sideways, gleaming against the dark mat of hair that swirled down his chest. My hands sprawled into the fur, tracing the line of it down to his waistband. He seemed massive under my hands, dense under a plush surface.

The urgency to get undressed peaked.

I shoved my jeans down, kicking them away. Dan cursed softly, hopping on one foot to pry off his boots, then shoving his chinos down his thick thighs.

He straightened up, standing there in just his white briefs and the gold chain, his chest heaving.

I shoved my hand into his briefs. I needed to know.

My palm closed around him, and I let out a shaky breath. I expected him to be big—he was a big man—but the reality was more than I’d imagined. He was heavy in my hand, flaring out widest at the middle, a dense, thick shape that filled my palm and then some.

"Jesus," I whispered.

"Too much?" he rasped, half worried and half proud.

"Just right," I breathed, nudging him backward toward the mattress. "Sit down."

Dan obeyed. His calves hit the edge of the bed and he dropped his weight—WHUMP—and I moved on him, hooking my thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and peeling them down. He raised his hips to let me.

His cock sprang free—solid, bobbing under its own weight as it jutted out from a dark nest under his belly. I had to think through my plan of attack.

I dropped to my knees between his thighs, and ran a hand up the underside, feeling the heat, the velvet texture of the skin. I cupped his balls with the other. A clear bead of precum was already weeping from the slit at the top.

I leaned forward and licked it away—turning my head as I lapped around the head, smearing his precum.

Dan’s hips twitched off the mattress. He rested a hand against my head. "Rami..."

I didn't let him talk. I opened my mouth and took him in, holding his balls firm.

It was a tight fit. He was thick—girthy enough that I had to relax my jaw to accommodate him. I bobbed down, smearing him, lubing him with my spit. I took the head, then the shaft, feeling him stretch my cheeks.

"Oh god," Dan groaned, his head falling back, his hand tangling in my hair. "Fuck. That’s... Jesus."

I worked him, bobbing, trying to find the right angle. Fuck, he was big.

I released him for a moment, leaving his cock gleaming and wet. I crawled onto the bed, pushing Dan back to rest on his elbows. I took him from a new angle, my knees near his shoulders—a straight shot down my throat.

At the new angle, there was less resistance. I swallowed him with a corkscrew motion, filling my throat on the way down, dragging my lips on the way up.

“Oh, Jesus," he whispered.

I worked him that way, hearing his moans. I wondered if he'd ever had this before—had it this way—and the thought urged me to take more, until I made ugly croaking sounds and my jaw ached.

But I heard his whimpering gasps.

And then I felt his hand clutch at my ass. The cheek, kneading it with his rough fingertips. And then a more searching touch, finding the hollow between the cheeks. And then grazing my hollow.

I pulled off of his cock to look him in the eye. It was a Dan I’d never seen before—his eyes heavy-lidded but focused. His breathing was low. He looked hungry.

“Hold on,” I said.

I reached over the side of the bed, groping for the bag on the nightstand. My hand dug in, feeling for the cool plastic of the bottle in the side pocket. When I pulled it out, the clear liquid caught the moonlight.

Dan’s head cocked slightly. Then he recognized it.

"You travel with that?"

“Tool of the trade,” I said, flopping onto my back.

Dan turned on his side to kiss me, and then rolled up. His hands hit the mattress on either side of my head, and then I was pinned, his heavy, hairy thighs on mine, his weight pressing me down into the duvet.

He hovered over me, bracing himself on his forearms. He looked down, his eyes scanning my face, my chest, my stomach.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice rough, "how bad I wanted to be right here."

"Then show me," I answered.

I uncapped the lube, squirting out a messy, dripping handful, and reached down to coat him. He let out a sharp breath at the cool slick on his cock. His hips rocked gently as I stroked him, covering the length and girth of him. Then one more squirt, and a quick smear at my bottom.

Not enough—certainly not enough—for what Dan was packing. But I was done waiting.

I shimmied back against the pillows and spread my legs wide. "Fuck me."

Dan moved with a lumbering hesitation, settling between my legs. He dropped his weight onto one arm, angling himself with his free hand, navigating the new terrain. I hooked my left leg around him, reaching down to get him in place.

He braced himself against me, eyes looking down, brow furrowed. I shifted my hips.

And there it was: contact.

He took a breath and pushed.

The head was a dull pressure. But then there was more, opening me. Another push, and still more. I could handle that.

Then he hit the middle—that thick widening of the shaft—and the sensation spiked. The stretch was a ring of fire.

"Oh fuck," I gasped, head pressing back into the pillow.

Dan froze instantly.

I could do this. I had to.

I gripped his biceps, forcing my body to accept what was happening to it.

"Go," I gritted out. "Just... go."

He pushed—forcing me open. It was searing. A supernova in my eyes.

And then there was a sudden, merciful glide as the thickness passed and he slid all the way down to the root.

The fullness hit me at once. It was overwhelming. I opened my mouth to say it—Too much, too much, stop!—but as his hips settled against my rear, the deep pressure settled in. The supernova melted into a white-hot pleasure deep in the core of me, radiating outward.

"You’re..." he mumbled, sounding shocked at the grip of a man around him. "So fucking tight."

“Just fuck me,” I grunted. As good as it felt, the pressure was overwhelming. I needed movement.

Dan obliged—he pulled back—that difficult drag of the middle again—and then drove in.

“Yeah,” I gasped as he did it again, drawing back, a respite for my core but a harder stretch at the entrance, and then back again.

He rested a hand at the headboard and an arm cradling my leg and worked to find his rhythm—his beat sounding against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The pleasure was deepening as my insides accommodated his slick intrusions.

Looking up, I could see him watching me. The gold chain hung down and swayed with each thrust. His eyes scanned my face—searching.

Every time he drove forward, I felt a micro-hesitation at the end of the stroke—pulling the punch, like he was terrified of his own weight and size.

“Stop, stop,” I gasped, placing a hand flat against his chest.

He froze instantly, his cock wedged in me to the hilt, and my sight went white.

“You’re holding back,” I said, breathless.

"You're small," he rasped, sweat dripping from his nose.

I looked him in the eye.

“I’m not tolerating it, Dan,” I said. “I want it. Don't handle me. Fuck me.”

I watched the words land. I watched him realize he didn't have to shrink to fit.

Something in his face broke open, his hips shifted slightly. Even his slightest movement lit up my nerve endings.

"Okay," he growled.

He twitched and pulled back, then out.

It was like releasing a cork from a bottleneck—I felt the loss immediately—a deep ache as my insides quivered.

"Turn over," he ordered. The voice was an octave deeper. "On your knees."

I scrambled to obey, the mattress dipping as I turned and pushed myself up on all fours.

Dan moved behind me. I felt his rough palms grip my hips—thumbs digging into the muscle, taking ownership.

"I want to see," he muttered, looking down at me.

He didn't hesitate this time. He lined up and drove in—one smooth, heavy slide—burying the thick middle deep inside me.

"Oh god!" I cried out, my hands grasping at the bedsheets automatically.

"Yeah," he grunted, his voice sounding rougher than I’d ever heard before. "That’s it."

He drew back and thrust in, his hands locking my hips, giving him the control. The friction built fast. He wasn't gentle anymore. The bed rocked with his motion.

ThudThudThudThud.

He shifted his grip, moving one hand to the back of my neck—heavy, dominant.

"Down," he whispered. "Flat."

I let my arms give out, collapsing onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow.

Dan followed me down. He settled his full weight on top of me, pushing the air out of my lungs. His heavy arms wrapped around my head and shoulders, his thighs against the back of my legs.

He was everywhere, all at once, pulling me back onto him with every thrust to meet his force.

"You like that?" he growled, his wet chest against my back. "You like having a big dick inside you?"

"Yes," I gasped. "Fuck yes."

"Good," he snarled. "Because I'm not stopping."

He found the angle and drove deep, hitting a place I didn't know I had.

His heavy, pistoning thrusts shook the bed frame. He was hammering me, using his weight to drive it home, over and over.

The body mechanics might not be what he was used to, but the instinct was the same—fuck hard for the deepest penetration. Breed.

He might have said he wasn’t stopping, but the friction was too much. I felt his rhythm falter, his control slipping against the tightness of the fit.

"Rami," he groaned into my ear. "You're... fuck..."

His breathing turned into a low, guttural panting, like an engine overheating. Hhhuh. Hhhuh. Hhhuh.

"Do it," I groaned into the pillow, reaching back blindly to grab at his flank. "Cum in me." 

That broke the dam.

The bear was fully loose now. He drove in hard, the headboard hammering the wall—THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD.

There was a long, deep rumble and he shoved into me hard—the pleasure and pressure spiked—HNHHHH—and I knew he was cumming, pulsing inside me.

I was already on the edge, and his last thrusts pushed and dragged my cock against the lube-slicked duvet—that last, essential friction. I came in waves that seemed endless, seeing stars.

Dan stayed there, heavy and panting, his heart hammering against my spine.

He didn't pull out. He didn't roll off. He just stayed—the wet fur of his chest rising and falling against my back, keeping me pinned under him. The fit was perfect—the mound of his belly pressed into the sway of my lower back. It filled the hollow of my spine completely, erasing the last bit of empty space between us.

My breathing eased, and I felt him soften inside me—a slow, reluctant retreat.

Finally, he groaned and pulled out, leaving me hollowed out.

He rolled to the side. "Fuck," he wheezed, wiping sweat from his eyelashes.

I turned my head on the pillow, looking at him. His hair was plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, a sheen coating him like a second skin.

He took a long breath.

"That was different," he whispered, chuckling darkly.

I closed my eyes. I didn't ask from what.

Dan’s hand, heavy and damp, landed on my head, scratching lightly against my scalp.

"Jesus. We're soaked."

"Sweat equity," I mumbled.

Dan snorted. "Bed held up."

"Solid oak," I mumbled. I reached up to rap my knuckles against the headboard. "Told you."

"Yeah," Dan sighed, a sound of pure contentment.

We stayed like that for a long time, listening to our breathing sync up, until the adrenaline faded and the cooling sweat began to make us shiver.

My usual cue to get up, get dressed. Get going.

He leaned over the side of the mattress, his hand groping for the floor until he snagged his discarded white briefs. He bunched the cotton in his fist and wiped his cock off with a rough efficiency, cleaning away the lube and the inevitable mess of me—I hadn't prepped, and the evidence was all over him. He didn't look grossed out, just practical. He dropped the ruined underwear back onto the floor.

Dan looked down at the duvet—a wet slick of fluids that smacked against our bare skin.

We didn’t say a word, but understood.

We lifted our hips in sync, pulling the heavy fabric down with our hands, then shoving and kicking it with our heels, the top sheet dragged with it. We dropped onto the cool fitted sheet.

Dan grabbed the light top sheet from where it was gathered near our feet. He pulled it up over us and then pulled me back on my side, against his chest.

Instead of pushing back—getting up—I shifted my hips, finding a space against him.

"We have to be out by noon," I whispered. "For the showing."

"I know."

He ran his big hand over my flat belly and my chest, his leg hooking over mine, pinning me to the bed.

"They can drag us out," he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. "I'm not moving."

---

Chapter 11: Morning Wood

I woke up because I couldn't breathe.

It wasn't a panic attack. There was a heavy, hairy arm draped across my chest, pinning me to the mattress, and a very solid leg hooked over my thighs. 

A low, rattling snore erupted from Dan’s open mouth. It vibrated right through his ribs and into mine. In my apartment, I used a white noise machine. Here, the noise was a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man.

I wasn’t going to get to sleep again through that.

I blinked against the bright Saturday morning sun streaming through the sheer curtains. 

We’d slept hard, except for the one time I woke to the sound of Dan pissing in the master bath—a long, thundering piss that sounded like a racehorse.

I’d stomped in right after him, passing him in the doorway. There was no modesty, no awkward shuffling; just a warm, sleepy brush of my shoulder against his biceps and a grunt of acknowledgment.

I’d dropped onto the porcelain while he washed his hands. It felt surprisingly domestic. A two-man job.

I sat there, purging myself—of dinner, of him. It took a whole Tuesday NYT crossword on my phone to get through it, my vision blearing as my insides gurgled and spasmed. Even then, empty and quivering in a cold sweat, I could still feel the ache for him in me.

Now, lying there in the daylight, I took inventory. 

My skin was sticky. My insides felt hollowed out and battered—but like a great workout, that specific, earned soreness. Even empty, I could still feel deep, restless quiver where he’d occupied me.

I shifted slightly, trying to ease the weight off my chest.

Dan didn't budge. Instead, his arm tightened, pulling me closer into his heat. He made a low, grumbling sound in his chest, vibrating against my back.

"Don't move," he mumbled into the pillow. "You're warm."

"I'm crushed," I whispered, but I didn't push him off.

I turned in his grip so I was facing him. Messy hair, sleep lines on his cheek. The gray and gold hairs in his mustache caught the light, and the chain twisted slightly against his tan throat.

He was still half-asleep, but his body was waking up. I could feel him stirring against my thigh—a slow, heavy thickening.

I reached out, brushing my thumb over his nipple. It was pink against the mat of chest hair. I circled it with my thumb, watching his breath hitch. I leaned in, taking it into my mouth, sucking gently.

Dan gasped. His hips bucked forward instinctively.

One hand came up to grip the back of my head, holding me there. The other hand moved down my body, searching. I was already hard—fresh morning wood.

He clutched at me—squeezing.

"Jesus, you’re hard?" he murmured, his voice vibrating against me.

"I'm a morning person," I mumbled against his skin.

“You’re twenty-five,” he chuckled.

I pulled back, looking down at the tent in the sheet between us. I wanted to see the reality of him in the daylight.

"I need to check," I whispered.

I slid down the mattress, pulling the sheet with me.

Dan lay back, his chest rising and falling, watching me as I crouched at his side.

In the morning sun, he was impressive—thick, heavy, and swaying slightly. The shaft was broad and flared, the head a deep, dusky pink.

I looked at the sheer scale of it, and the soreness in me made sense. I’d had that inside me—had been pummeled with it.

A challenge.

I wrapped a hand around the base, feeling the heat, and leaned in. I licked a stripe up the underside, tasting the salt of his skin and whatever was left on him from our fuck.

I opened my mouth and took him in.

Dan gasped, his hips jerking off the mattress.

My mouth was dry, and I had to work up the spit to cover him, taking the head, then the shaft, my jaw working. I loved the way he filled my mouth completely, leaving no room for air, only him.

"Rami," he warned, his hand tangling in my hair. "You don’t have to force it."

I pulled off for a moment.

He looked resigned.

The irony of it hit me. Everywhere else, Dan took up all the space. He sucked the air out of the room, sprawled over armrests, and assumed the world would make room for him. But here? Naked, with me?

Here he was holding back, terrified that he was too much.

I wondered how many women he’d been with who had made him feel like a burden. Women who choked, or pulled back, or made him shrink himself to fit into their space, leaving him to take whatever scraps of friction he could get without hurting them.

"I can handle it," I murmured against the head. "Watch."

I lavished spit on him, lubing his girth and length with my own mouth. I looked up at him through my lashes, and saw the shock on his face as I kept going.

I pushed down, fighting my gag reflex, determined to take him deep. I imagined every person who had ever made him feel clumsy or oversized, and I swallowed past them.

I got him to the back of my throat and held him there, snorting, letting my throat work him, until I heard his voice.

I pulled off, holding his wet erection as I looked at him through teary eyes. “How was that?”

“Like my soul left my body,” he chuckled. “How’s you do that?”

“Trade secret,” I smirked. 

I opened to take him again, but without a word, he reached out. His big hands grabbed me at my side, turning me. He took my leg and hauled me up and over his body.

I scrambled there, thinking he wanted a straighter angle—that he wanted to fuck my throat. I opened my mouth, ready to take him again.

But he didn't stop pulling. He dragged me higher, until my hips were level with his face.

He gripped my ass, spreading the cheeks wide. Then I felt something hot and wet at my hole.

His tongue.

Oh fuck.

His heavy arms wrapped around my ass, locking me in as he lapped at me. It wasn't tentative. It was hungry. He shoved his tongue into me—probing, eating me from the inside out.

I dropped my head down into his hip, a moan eking out of my throat. I reached back, my hand cupping the side of his face. I felt the relentless grind of his heavy jaw working against me, and the rough friction of his mustache scrubbing against my sensitive skin. It was abrasive and wet and overwhelming.

I’d had my ass eaten before. But not like this. Not with that appetite. That curiosity. It felt like he was trying to devour me whole.

My hand jerked him lazily, in time with the wet, hot smacks of his mouth.

"Dan," I gasped, my hips thrusting my cock against his hairy chest. "Jesus, Dan."

He didn't stop. He worked me until I was twitching, until I was slick and open and begging.

And as I pumped a thick surge of precum from Dan’s stiff cock, I realized—he wasn't just tasting me. He was preparing me.

Reluctant to end it, but needing what I knew was coming next, I pulled myself off of him, his hold around my waist loosening.

I sat back on my heels, taking him in.

His big body was sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving. His cock was throbbing, dark and hard, jutting up over his heavy balls. His mouth and chin were wet with me, glistening in the sun, and the gold chain rose and fell with his breath.

I crawled back up the bed, straddling his hips. I loomed over him, blocking out the sunlight.

"Good," I said, bending down to kiss the wetness on his mouth. "Now put it in me. Round two."

"Round two," he growled.

He reached blindly for the lube bottle on the nightstand where we'd left it. He uncapped it, squeezing a generous amount onto his hand and slicking himself down.

I lifted my hips, positioning myself over him. I wanted to ride him. I wanted to control how deep that monster went.

I lowered myself. The head of his cock—broad and hot—pressed against my entrance. I gritted my teeth, ready to sink down onto it—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The electronic chirps from the front door echoed through the empty house like gunshots.

We froze.

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Chapter 12: The Last Staging

KA-CHUNK.

The heavy mechanical lock disengaged with a sound that felt like a gavel coming down.

"The realtor," I hissed, my blood running cold. "She’s early."

"It's 9:15!" Dan whispered, panic flaring in his eyes. "The open house isn't until noon!"

"The private showings—" I choked out. "She said she had requests! Get off! Get off!"

I shoved at his massive chest.

We scrambled. It was pure chaos.

Dan rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He stood up, fully naked and fully erect, looking wildly around.

"My clothes," he hissed. "Where are my clothes?"

"Floor!" I whispered, scrambling for my jeans. "Everywhere!"

There was a blast radius of incriminating evidence on the floor around the bed—my polo, his shirt, tangled in my boxers and jeans, his heavy boots and mine—his chinos off to the side.

Downstairs, the front door opened. We heard the click-clack of high heels on the hardwood foyer.

"Daniel?" a bright, professional voice called out. "Hello? Are you here? I saw the car."

"She's coming up," Dan whispered, eyes wide.

I dove for the pile of clothes. I scooped up his pants, his white shirt, his heavy boots, and the first underwear I laid hands on. I shoved the bundle into Dan’s chest.

"Bathroom!" I ordered. "Go!"

Dan clutched the clothes against his bare chest, and walked backwards into the master bath. Even in his panic, there was a crazy grin under his mustache.

I watched him disappear into the tiled room.

Then, the bed.

The sheets were a disaster. The fitted sheet was pulled up at the corner, and the top sheet was a topographical map of our night—wrinkled, twisted, and stained with sweat, lube, and sex. It looked like a crime scene.

"Daniel? Is that you?"

"Just finishing up!" I called out, my voice cracking slightly.

I couldn't use the duvet—it was on the floor where we'd kicked it, stained too. Unsalvageable.

I grabbed the heavy bundle of the duvet to shove it aside. That’s when I saw them: the briefs Dan had used to wipe himself off. The white cotton was balled up near the foot of the bed, smeared with the evidence of what we’d done.

I snatched them up and shoved them deep inside the folds of the ruined duvet. I balled the whole thing up tight and kicked it into the corner of the walk-in closet.

Click-clack-click-clack. The heels were on the stairs.

I looked around frantically. My eyes landed on the mid-century armchair in the corner. I’d draped a chunky, oatmeal-colored knit throw over the back of it on Thursday.

Texture, I thought wildly. Layers.

I grabbed the throw and launched it across the bed. It landed centrally, covering the worst of the wet spots and the wrinkles on the sheets. I tweaked the corner, making it look artfully casual.

I grabbed my polo shirt from the floor and pulled it over my head. I shoved my legs into my jeans, my hard-on still tenting the denim, and fumbled with the metal button. I zipped up commando, the denim rough against me.

The bedroom door handle turned.

I barely had time to turn around before the door swung open.

Linda, the realtor, stood there. She was impeccable in a cream blazer and heels, holding a folder of listing sheets. She stopped dead, looking surprised to find me standing in the middle of the room, one hand still smoothing my shirt.

"Oh," she said. "Rami. I didn't know you were here."

"Just... adjusting the linens, Linda," I said, stepping to the side to block her view of the bed as best I could. "Decided the duvet was too heavy for the season. Went for a… lighter look with the throw. Breezy."

She peered around me at the bed—just a sheet and a strategically placed blanket. 

"It is warm today," she said slowly.

Then her nose twitched slightly. A subtle, sharp inhale. She blinked, her smile freezing for a micro-second as the musk of the room hit her. It was thick, biological, and undeniable.

I spotted the little plastic bottle of lube on the bedside table. 

"Exactly," I said quickly, stepping forward to block her view of it. "Dan’s just in the bathroom." That was enough of an answer, but in my panic I added, “Too much coffee.”

"Ah," Linda said. Her eyes flicked to the bathroom door, knowing exactly who—and what—was behind it. "Well, tell him I'm here. The couple is actually running early. They might be here in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes," I repeated, feeling a drop of sweat roll down my back. "Great. We'll be out of your hair in five."

She looked down. I realized one of my bare feet was trying to cover the other.

She nodded and turned, her heels clicking back down the stairs to the kitchen.

I exhaled, sagging against the doorframe.

I risked a glance back at the bed. The throw was perfectly biased. The pillows were crisp. In under sixty seconds, I’d turned a biological disaster zone into a spread for Architectural Digest.

Honestly? I deserved a goddamn industry award for that. Staging of the Year.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Dan walked out. He was fully dressed now—chinos buckled, white shirt buttoned, boots laced. He was finger-combing his messy hair, looking flushed but decent.

"Is she gone?" he whispered.

"Downstairs," I said.

He let out a long breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Jesus. That was close.” He looked around. “What happened to the comforter?"

"Closet," I said. Then I froze. "Wait. The closet."

I ran to the walk-in. I grabbed the massive, bundled-up duvet—heavy with our mess and his dirty underwear in its core. I roughly folded it, the ruined center inside, and tucked it firmly under my arm.

"I'm taking it," I said. "Prop removal."

Dan walked over to me. He put a heavy hand on my free shoulder, pulling me in for another wet kiss. He pressed a ball of fabric into my hand—my boxers.

"You grabbed the wrong ones," he murmured against my ear, a wicked glint in his eye. "Guess I'm freeballing today."

My throat went dry thinking about him in those chinos with nothing underneath, his lubed erection rubbing against the fabric with every step. I selfishly, jealously, hoped it was torture.

I stuffed my underwear into my pocket.

“Me too,” I mumbled, hoisting the duvet higher to hide my reaction.

We walked downstairs, trying to look casual.

Linda was in the foyer, arranging brochures on the entry table. She looked up as we descended—Dan looking flushed and broad, me trailing behind him clutching a giant wad of bedding like a security blanket.

"There he is," she said brightly. "Ready to sell?"

She stopped.

She looked at Dan. She took in the hair that was sticking up in the back, the flushed cheeks, and the wrinkled white shirt.

Then she looked at me—my unlaced boots, the lump in my jeans pocket where my wadded-up boxers were hidden. She looked at the giant duvet bundled under my arm, hiding a multitude of sins. 

Her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted between the two of us—the big, rumpled Sales Manager and the flushed, disheveled Stager carrying the literal bedclothes.

"My goodness," she said, her voice dropping a polite octave. "You boys have been working hard. The house looks... very thoroughly prepped."

Dan coughed, adjusting his collar.

"Sweat equity," he mumbled.

Linda raised an eyebrow. "Well. It shows. You two should probably... clear out. Before the Johnsons arrive."

"Going now," Dan said. "Good luck, Linda."

"Thanks," she said dryly. "Drive safe."

I wanted to yank that smug, bleached bob right off her head. I'd just handed her a thirty-thousand-dollar commission on a silver platter, and she looked at us like the help.

We walked out the front door, feeling her eyes on our backs until the door clicked shut behind us.

We walked down the driveway to the cars. My beat-up Ford and his sleek German SUV. The adrenaline was slowly fading, replaced by the reality of the morning.

I unlocked my truck and tossed the ruined duvet and my kit bag onto the passenger seat. I turned to face him.

"She knows," Dan said, running a hand through his hair. "We looked like we just rolled out of a dryer."

"She won’t say a word" I replied, shaking my head. "I walked in on her and a mortgage broker in a staging suite in Medina last year. You wouldn't believe what goes on in these houses for sale. We all have dirt on each other."

Dan laughed, a breathless, relieved sound. He rubbed the back of his neck. The humor faded, replaced by a sincere, heavy look.

"So," he said. "That was..."

"Amazing," I offered.

"Interruptus," he corrected. He looked at my truck, then back at me. "I wanted to finish that."

"Me too."

"So," he said, shifting gears. "Tonight."

"Tonight?" I asked.

It wasn’t my system. I was the one-and-done guy. 

"I can't go back to Renton. I can't take another night in a twin bed. Not after last night." He glanced over his shoulder. “And I can’t stay here.”

He took a step closer. “You said your bed’s too big. And I can bring dinner.”

He looked at me, waiting.

It wasn't just the system.

My brain started firing off warning flares. This was my ex-brother-in-law. Leo’s father. This was a twice-divorced car salesman with a gut, a hairy back, and a gold chain that belonged in 1998.

He was a walking, talking pile of baggage. He was loud, he was messy, and he was complicated.

But then I looked at his waist.

I thought about him standing there in those chinos, completely naked underneath. I thought about the weighted reality of what was swinging between his legs under his gut—that thick, flared cock that I had  stretched me open and filled me entirely.

I didn’t know how my sister ever gave it up.

Logic said run. But my body remembered the weight of him, and it screamed open the door.

“Thai," I said. "Pad See Ew. No ketchup."

"Snob," Dan grinned like a boy. 

He stepped backward, eyes on me. "See you at seven, Rami."

"See you, Dan."

He got in his car. He backed out of the driveway, the engine purring. 

I watched him drive away.

Then I looked back at the house one last time. The "For Sale" sign was planted in the lawn. Linda was inside, getting ready to sell the dream to the Johnsons.

I climbed into my truck. I needed coffee. Badly. And I needed a shower.

I adjusted the rearview mirror. My hair was wild, my neck was red, and I looked like I’d been dragged through a bush backwards.

Usually, I’d fix it—smooth the hair, wipe the sweat, reset the look. Today, I just winced and let it be. 

For my whole adult life I'd been building aspirations for other people. Staging the dream. Clearing out before the dust settled.

As I merged onto the highway, watching the speedometer climb, I thought about my apartment in Bellevue. It was a white box. Curated. Perfect.

My instinct was to start planning the stage for tonight. Dim the lights. Hide the chargers. Put fresh flowers in the bathroom. Position the Eames chair just so.

I tightened my grip on the wheel.

Dan had seen me sweaty. He’d seen me desperate. He’d wiped the mess of me off on his own briefs. He’d seen me with my hair sticking up and my boxers in my pocket.

I wasn't going to buy flowers. I wasn't going to fix the lighting. I wasn't even going to pick my socks up off the floor.

For once, I was done staging.

I was getting ready for something real.

 

END

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Thanks to my friend Hayden for helping me think this through, and for reading so many versions.

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