The scent of isopropyl alcohol mingled with the faint, powdery fragrance of old paper in the waiting room of Dr. Currier’s optometry practice. Keith sat on the edge of a worn vinyl chair, its frame creaking softly as he shifted his weight. The room was a time capsule, with faded posters of anatomical eyes and a dusty ficus in the corner that looked like it had given up on life a decade ago. He smoothed down the front of his button-down shirt, a recent purchase meant to signal his new status as a college graduate and a man with a respectable job at the washing machine plant. At twenty-two, he still felt like a kid playing dress-up, especially here, a place he’d been coming to since he was small enough to need a booster seat.
“Keith?” The receptionist, a woman whose name he could never remember but whose tightly permed hairstyle hadn’t changed in fifteen years, called his name. “Dr. Hamilton will see you now.”
Dr. Hamilton. The name was new. Dr. Currier, a man whose jowls had slowly merged with his neck over the years, had always done his exams. Keith stood and followed the familiar hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thin, industrial carpet. The exam room was just as he remembered: sterile white walls, a counter laden with intimidating metal instruments, and the imposing phoropter that looked like a steampunk robot’s face. But the man standing by the counter, scribbling on a chart, was anything but familiar.
He was exactly Keith’s height, with a lean, athletic build that was perfectly showcased by the pale blue dress shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was a shock of straight, sun-bleached blond, parted cleanly but with an adorable fringe of bangs that fell just above his eyebrows, giving him a look of boyish charm that was at odds with the professional authority of his white coat. When he turned, Keith’s breath hitched. His eyes were a startling shade of cerulean blue, and they crinkled at the corners as he offered a small, polite smile.
“Keith? I’m Dr. Tucker Hamilton. I’m Dr. Currier’s new associate. I’ll be doing your exam today.” His voice was a smooth, calm baritone, the kind of voice that could read the phone book and make it sound interesting.
“Okay,” Keith managed, his own voice sounding thin and reedy in comparison. He sat in the patient’s chair, the leather cool against the back of his thighs. The exam proceeded in a haze of clinical routine. “Read the lowest line you can.” “Which is better, one or two?” Keith found it difficult to focus, his gaze continually drawn to the doctor’s hands—long, elegant fingers with neatly trimmed nails—as they adjusted lenses and made notes. He could see a few pale, golden hairs on the doctor’s forearm, and the sight sent a jolt straight through him. He was acutely aware of the proximity of their bodies, of the way Dr. Hamilton would lean in, his cologne—a clean, subtle scent of bergamot and sandalwood—filling the small space between them.
At the end of the exam, Dr. Hamilton dimmed the overhead lights, leaving only the soft glow from the instrument panel. He rolled his stool closer, his expression open and friendly. “Everything looks great. Your prescription is stable. We’ll get you set up with another year’s supply of contacts out front.” He paused, his blue eyes searching Keith’s. “Do you have any questions for me?”
This was it. The moment stretched, thick with unspoken possibility. Keith’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet room. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Taking a steadying breath that did little to calm his nerves, he leaned forward. The movement felt slow, deliberate, as if he were watching himself in a movie. He extended his hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and let it come to rest on the doctor’s knee. The fabric of his trousers was fine wool, warm and firm beneath his palm.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the words feeling both terrifying and exhilarating as they left his lips. “Dr. Hamilton… could I have your personal number and take you out for dinner and a movie?”
For a split second, the world froze. Dr. Hamilton’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his friendly smile vanished, replaced by an unreadable mask. He didn’t move, didn’t pull away. He simply locked eyes with Keith, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. Keith’s stomach plummeted. He had made a horrible, catastrophic mistake.
“As much as I am enjoying this,” the doctor said, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that vibrated through Keith’s hand still on his knee, “it’s not appropriate for your hand to be where it is.”
Humiliation washed over Keith in a scalding wave. He snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned, his face flushing a brilliant, painful crimson. “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at his own lap, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
“A more appropriate place for that,” Dr. Hamilton continued, his voice now holding a distinct, amused warmth, “would be on the couch in my apartment.”
Keith’s head snapped up. The doctor’s mask was gone, replaced by a devastatingly handsome smirk. He reached for a pad of canary-yellow sticky notes on the counter, his movements fluid and confident. With a pen from his pocket, he scribbled a series of numbers, tore off the top sheet, and held it out.
“You’re cute, you know,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “I don’t want anyone here to find out about my personal business. They’ll discover it soon enough.” He winked, a slow, deliberate gesture that made Keith’s knees feel weak. “Text me as soon as you can, and you should probably call me Tucker. After all, you’ve already touched my thigh.” With a final, disarming smile, he stood, slipped the sticky note into Keith’s shirt pocket, and let his fingers brush against Keith’s chest as he did, before turning and leaving the room.
Keith sat there for a full minute, his mind a complete blank, the sticky note feeling like a live coal against his skin. Then, adrenaline surged through him. He practically fled the room, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He gave the receptionist a jerky nod, mumbled something about ordering his usual contacts, and stumbled out the front door into the bright afternoon sun. He made it to his car, fumbling with the keys before collapsing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. He leaned his head back against the headrest, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, the events of the last five minutes replaying in his mind on a dizzying loop.
His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He carefully typed the message, his fingers clumsy with excitement and lingering disbelief. Tucker, this is Keith. I can’t wait to “see” you. Name the time and the place, and I’ll be there. He hit send, the whoosh of the message being delivered sounding impossibly loud in the quiet car. He had taken the whole day off work, a decision that now seemed like the most brilliant stroke of foresight in human history.
He drove home on autopilot, his mind racing. The moment he was inside his small apartment, he booted up his laptop, his heart pounding with renewed urgency. He navigated to the website for Currier Family Vision, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He found the “Meet Our Staff” page and clicked. There he was. A professional portrait of Dr. Tucker Hamilton, smiling that same disarming smile. Keith stared at the image, his gaze tracing the line of his jaw, the perfect fringe of his blond bangs, the intelligent warmth in his blue eyes. A powerful, pent-up arousal that had been building for years, coalescing around this single, perfect man, finally demanded release.
He retreated to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He retrieved a bottle of lube from his nightstand, his hands already trembling with anticipation. He freed himself from his trousers, the simple touch sending a jolt of electricity through him. As he gripped himself, his eyes were still fixed on the image on the laptop screen. He imagined the feel of the doctor’s thigh under his hand, the sound of his voice, the promise in his eyes. The pleasure built with an intensity he’d never experienced, a white-hot pressure coiling deep in his groin. When he finally came, it was with a strangled gasp, his body arching off the bed. The force of it was staggering, a thick, powerful release that seemed to go on and on, spraying across his chest and stomach in a warm, sticky arc that traveled farther than he’d ever thought possible.
He lay there for a long time, panting, his body humming with a blissful exhaustion. After a moment, he rose, cleaned up meticulously, and stepped into a hot shower, the water washing away the physical evidence but not the euphoric high. He emerged with a new sense of purpose. His apartment, usually tidy, was now unacceptable. He spent the next two hours in a frenzy of cleaning, wiping down every surface, vacuuming with meticulous care, fluffing the pillows on his couch until they were perfect. He wanted everything to be immaculate. He was bringing Tucker here, after their dinner and a movie. He was sure of it.
The chime from his phone was a small, electronic sound, but in the pristine silence of his apartment, it landed like a thunderclap. Keith froze, a dust rag clutched in his hand, his heart leaping into his throat. He’d been cleaning for what felt like an eternity, trying to burn off the nervous energy that had been vibrating through him since he’d left the optometrist’s office. He dropped the rag onto the coffee table and snatched his phone from the polished surface, his thumb fumbling as he swiped the screen open.
There it was. A new message from Tucker H. His breath caught in his chest as he read the words, his eyes devouring each one.
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