The rusty Ford pickup sputtered to a halt three blocks from the Maple Crest neighborhood, its headlights cutting through the drizzle. Inside, Mick wiped condensation from the windshield with a grease-stained sleeve, eyeing the darkened colonial at the end of Sycamore Lane.
It was a perfect mark – no cars, no lights, just one fat security sign peeling near the garage. He popped the glove compartment, his fingers closing around the cold steel of his lockpick set. Easy in, grab the jewelry box the tipster swore was in the master bedroom, easy out. Rent was due tomorrow.
Mick’s boots sank into the sodden lawn as he skirted the motion sensor’s sweep. The back door’s deadbolt yielded with two practiced twists of his tension wrench. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something else … musky. Heavy. He flicked his penlight – gleaming hardwood, tasteful furniture, framed powerlifting trophies catching the dim glow. Weird hobby for a rich guy. He crept toward the staircase, avoiding the creaky third step he’d memorized from the blueprints.
A floorboard groaned overhead. Mick froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. Shit. Occupied? Intel said “sole occupant, travel schedule like clockwork.” He ducked into the shadow of a grandfather clock, holding his breath. Footsteps descended – slow, deliberate thuds that vibrated through the floor, not the light patter of some startled homeowner. These were weighted.
Light flooded the foyer. Mick squinted against the sudden glare. Towering in the doorway, backlit by the hall chandelier, stood a man who looked carved from granite. Sweatpants hung low on his thick hips, riding beneath the swell of a powerful belly. A faded tank top strained across slabs of pectoral muscle, sleeves cutting into biceps thicker than Mick’s thighs. No fear in those eyes, just … amused curiosity. Like finding a stray puppy in his kitchen.
"Lost?" The voice was a low rumble, deeper than Mick expected. The weightlifter took a step forward, the sheer bulk of him blocking the exit.
Mick’s hand flew to his jacket pocket – the knife. A reflex. But the man just chuckled, a rich, warm sound that filled the space.
"Relax, buddy. I saw you casing the place Tuesday. I’ve been expecting you." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing. The movement made the veins in his forearms stand out like cables. "My name’s Brick. And you …" His gaze dropped, lingering deliberately on Mick’s rain-soaked jeans clinging to thick thighs. "… look like you could use a drink." A slow, knowing smile spread across Brick’s face. "Or something … warmer."
Mick’s knuckles whitened around the knife handle. Adrenaline screamed “run,” but Brick’s sheer presence pinned him like a specimen. That scent – lemon polish mixed with raw male sweat and something primal – thickened the air. Brick unfolded himself, stepping closer. Mick flinched, expecting violence. Instead, a huge, calloused hand reached out, not to strike, but to brush rainwater from Mick’s stubbled jaw. The touch was startlingly gentle. Electric. Mick’s breath hitched.
"Cold hands," Brick murmured, his thumb tracing Mick’s lower lip. The other hand drifted down, fingers hooking casually into Mick’s belt loop, pulling him forward until their bodies almost touched. Heat radiated from Brick’s massive frame, a furnace against Mick’s damp chill.
Mick felt the hard ridge of Brick’s cock pressing against his own through the layers of fabric. A low groan escaped him, unbidden. The knife clattered to the hardwood floor.
"Better," Brick breathed, his voice thick. He yanked Mick’s jacket open, buttons popping. Rough hands slid under Mick’s soaked turtleneck, palms scraping over hard-packed muscle and coarse chest hair. Mick gasped, head falling back as Brick’s mouth found his throat – kissing, sucking, claiming. His own hands moved without thought, clawing at Brick’s tank top, desperate to feel that furnace-hot skin. Fabric ripped. Brick laughed against Mick’s neck, a deep vibration that went straight to Mick’s groin.
Brick shoved Mick backward. He stumbled, crashing onto a plush leather sofa. Before Mick could react, Brick was on him, knees pinning Mick’s thighs apart. Sweatpants and boxers vanished in one brutal tug. Mick’s thick cock sprang free, already leaking and achingly hard.
Brick stared down, eyes dark with hunger. "Fuck, you’re built," he growled, wrapping a massive hand around Mick’s shaft. His thumb swiped over the slick head, making Mick buck and curse. Brick leaned down, his own monstrous erection straining against Mick’s hip. "I’m gonna make you forget all about that jewelry box," he promised, his breath hot on Mick’s ear.
Mick’s hands scrabbled at Brick’s waistband, yanking the sweats down past thick thighs. Brick’s cock sprang free — thick, veined, and already dripping. Mick’s mouth watered. He lunged upward, capturing the head, sucking hard as Brick groaned above him. The taste was salt and musk, overwhelming. Brick tangled his fingers in Mick’s hair, guiding him deeper until Mick choked, tears pricking his eyes.
"Easy, tiger," Brick rumbled, pulling back just enough to let Mick breathe. "There’s plenty more where that came from."
Brick hauled Mick upright, flipping him onto his stomach with terrifying strength. Mick’s face pressed into the leather sofa, inhaling the scent of sweat and polish. Brick’s calloused hands spread Mick’s cheeks wide. Mick tensed, expecting pain, but Brick just chuckled low in his throat.
"Relax," he ordered, spitting thickly into his palm before slicking his cock. The first press was brutal — a stretch that burned — but Brick held Mick’s hips steady, driving in slow and deep until Mick’s gasp melted into a ragged moan. "There," Brick grunted, bottoming out. "Feel that? It fills you up nice."
He started moving — long, punishing thrusts that rocked Mick forward with each snap of his hips. Mick clawed at the cushions, his knuckles white. Every drive hit his prostate, sparks of pleasure-pain lighting up his spine.
Brick leaned over, licking Mick’s shoulder as his pace quickened. "Take it," he snarled, slamming home. Mick’s cock throbbed, untouched and leaking onto the leather. He was close, so fucking close.
Brick’s rhythm faltered, his breath coming in harsh grunts. "I’m gonna cum inside you," he warned, hips stuttering. Mick arched back, meeting each thrust, and everything shattered.
Brick roared, burying himself deep as his cock pulsed. The heat flooding Mick’s guts tipped him over. He came hard, stripes of sperm painting the sofa beneath him.
They collapsed together, Brick’s weight pinning Mick down, both men slick with sweat and gasping. Brick nuzzled Mick’s neck, breath hot. "Stick around," he murmured, voice rough. "Got more than silverware to steal."
Mick laughed weakly, the sound muffled against leather. Brick rolled off him, standing with effortless power. Mick watched the thick muscles ripple in Brick’s back as he walked toward the kitchen. The weightlifter returned moments later with two frosted beers and a damp towel. He tossed the towel to Mick. "Clean yourself up, fella." Mick wiped the cooling semen from his belly and thighs, the towel smelling faintly of bleach. Brick’s eyes never left him, dark and assessing.
Brick handed Mick a beer. Their fingers brushed — a jolt of leftover electricity. Mick took a long pull, the cold bite sharp against his raw throat. Brick drained half his bottle in one swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He settled onto the sofa beside Mick, thigh pressing against his.
The silence wasn’t awkward; it thrummed with unspent energy. Brick traced a calloused thumb over the hickey on Mick’s shoulder. "You bruise easy," he noted, almost approvingly.
Mick shifted, acutely aware of his nakedness, the sticky leather beneath him. "So … you just wait around for burglars to seduce?" The question hung between them, half-joke, half-probe.
Brick’s grin was wolfish. "Only the ones built like brick shithouses." He leaned closer, the scent of sex and beer thick on his breath. "I saw you casing the gym last week too. I knew you’d come." Mick’s pulse kicked. This hadn’t been chance. Brick’s hand slid possessively up Mick’s inner thigh. "Stay," he commanded, low and final. "Or don’t. But if you run …" His grip tightened, promising consequences. Mick didn’t move. The beer tasted like surrender.
Brick stood, extending a hand. "The bedroom’s more comfortable." Mick hesitated, then took it, letting Brick haul him up effortlessly. The weightlifter’s fingers laced through his, rough and warm, pulling him toward the stairs. Mick followed, the hardwood cool under his bare feet, his spent cock stirring again at the sight of Brick’s powerful back muscles flexing with each step.
The master bedroom was dimly lit — a king-sized bed draped in dark sheets, trophies gleaming on shelves, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and sweat.
Brick turned, his eyes molten in the low light. He pushed Mick onto the bed, then knelt before him, spreading his thick thighs. Mick’s breath caught as Brick leaned forward, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path down Mick’s sternum, over his abs, lower — until it dipped teasingly into his navel. Mick groaned, arching off the sheets.
Brick chuckled, the vibration against Mick’s skin electric. "Patience," he murmured, before sinking lower still, his broad shoulders forcing Mick’s legs wider. Mick gasped as Brick’s tongue found his hole — hot, wet, and insistent. He buried his face in the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets as Brick ate him with relentless focus, each lick sending shockwaves of pleasure through the pain — drunk on the sensation.
Afterward, Brick rolled onto his back, pulling Mick atop him. "Your turn," he rasped, guiding Mick’s head down. Mick obeyed, burying his face between Brick’s powerful cheeks, tasting salt and musk as he licked and probed with desperate hunger. Brick moaned, low and guttural, his hands fisting in Mick’s hair.
When Mick finally pulled back, breathless, Brick rolled over and spread his legs wider. "Fuck me," he demanded, his voice raw.
Mick slicked himself with spit, then pressed slowly into the tight, yielding heat. Brick gasped, wrapping his thick legs around Mick’s waist, pulling him deeper. They moved together — slow, deep thrusts that built a different kind of fire. Mick leaned down, capturing Brick’s lips in a searing kiss. It was messy, urgent — tongues tangling, teeth clashing — but beneath the roughness bloomed something startlingly tender.
Brick’s hands slid up Mick’s sweat-slick back, holding him close as their rhythm settled into something profound, unhurried. Mick buried his face in Brick’s neck, breathing him in, lost in the slow, claiming cadence of their bodies.
Mick’s thrusts deepened, each stroke dragging against Brick’s prostate with deliberate precision. Brick gasped, head thrashing against the pillow, his thick thighs trembling around Mick’s hips.
"Right there," he choked out, his fingers digging into Mick’s shoulders. Mick obeyed, angling his hips, driving into that sweet spot relentlessly. Brick’s cock, trapped between their bellies, leaked steadily onto his own abs, a thick pearl forming at the slit with every grind. Mick watched it smear, mesmerized by the sheer carnality of it — the way Brick’s powerful body yielded, the raw sounds tearing from his throat.
The pressure built like a storm surge. Mick felt Brick’s inner muscles clench rhythmically around him, a pulsing vice grip. Brick’s back arched violently off the bed, a ragged shout tearing loose as his orgasm hit. Thick ropes of sperm erupted between them, hot and viscous, splattering Mick’s chest and Brick’s heaving belly.
Mick kept thrusting, riding the waves of Brick’s contractions, the sensation of those powerful muscles milking him pushing him toward his own edge. Brick’s eyes rolled back, mouth slack, utterly wrecked as the last pulses shuddered through him.
The sight, the feel, the overwhelming scent of sex and release tipped Mick over. He slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax ripped through him. It was blinding — a white-hot detonation that emptied him into Brick’s depths. He groaned, low and guttural, hips jerking erratically as he pumped wave after wave of sperm deep inside. Brick sighed, a sound of profound satisfaction, his legs tightening possessively around Mick’s waist, holding him locked in place as the last tremors subsided.
They lay tangled, breathing harshly in the aftermath. Mick collapsed onto Brick’s broad chest, spent and sticky. Brick’s hand came up, fingers carding gently through Mick’s damp hair. The tenderness was jarring after the ferocity. Mick lifted his head, meeting Brick’s gaze. The weightlifter’s eyes were heavy-lidded, sated, but held an unnerving intensity. He traced Mick’s jawline with a blunt thumb.
"Told you," he murmured, voice rough. "Better than silver." Mick didn’t answer, just rested his forehead against Brick’s, the unspoken question hanging between them: What now? Brick’s arms tightened around him, an answer in itself. Outside, the drizzle turned to rain, drumming softly against the window. The world beyond Maple Crest felt impossibly distant.
*****
The next thing Mick knew, harsh sunlight sliced through a gap in the heavy curtains, painting a stripe across his eyes. He blinked, disoriented. The scent of sandalwood, sweat, and sex was thick in the air. He was on his side, pressed against a furnace. Brick’s massive arms were still locked around him, one heavy forearm draped possessively across Mick’s chest, the other hooked low over his hip. They hadn’t shifted all night; Mick could feel the imprint of Brick’s body against his back, solid and immovable as bedrock. The sheer weight was strangely comforting, anchoring him in the aftermath of chaos.
A low groan vibrated against Mick’s spine as Brick stirred. Mick felt the slow stretch of powerful muscles behind him, the deep inhale that lifted Mick slightly with Brick’s chest. Calloused fingers traced a lazy path up Mick’s flank before Brick’s voice, thick with sleep, rumbled near his ear.
"Morning, thief." He punctuated it with a soft bite to Mick’s shoulder, right over the fading bruise. "Ready for a shower?" It wasn’t really a question. Brick’s hand slid lower, squeezing Mick’s hip. "We need to wash last night off. I got a big walk-in stall downstairs. Plenty of room."
Mick grunted assent, his own muscles protesting as he untangled himself from Brick’s embrace. The cool air hit his skin, raising goosebumps.
Brick rolled out of bed with effortless power, his naked form silhouetted against the bright window – thick thighs, the heavy curve of his belly, the dense muscle of his back shifting as he stretched. He glanced back at Mick, a slow, knowing smile spreading. "Race you." He didn’t wait, padding barefoot toward the bedroom door, the heavy tread of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Mick followed more slowly, the hardwood cool beneath his soles. The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator. He found Brick waiting just inside the spacious bathroom, already turning the faucets. Steam began billowing into the walk-in shower stall, easily big enough for three people. Tiled walls gleamed, and multiple showerheads were mounted at different heights.
Brick stepped under the nearest spray, water sluicing down the powerful planes of his back and shoulders, catching the light on his wet skin. He turned, water streaming down his chest and thick thighs, his cock already thickening in the heat. He held out a hand, palm up, steam swirling around him. "Coming in?"
Mick hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping into the stall. The hot water hit him like a physical blow, instantly loosening the knots in his shoulders. Brick pulled him close under a secondary showerhead, hands sliding possessively over Mick’s slick flanks. The steam thickened the air, carrying the clean scent of soap mingling with the lingering musk of sex from their skin.
Brick reached for a bottle, squeezing citrus-scented gel into his palm. His big hands began working it into Mick’s shoulders, fingers digging deep into the hard muscle with surprising skill. Mick groaned, head dropping forward as tension melted under Brick’s rough touch. The rhythmic kneading moved lower, down Mick’s spine, over the swell of his ass.
"I’ve been calling you 'thief' in my head since Tuesday," Brick rumbled over the drumming water, his thumbs pressing deep into the dimples above Mick’s tailbone. "You got a real name?"
"Mick," he grunted, leaning into the strong hands working his lower back. "Michael, actually." Water plastered his dark hair to his forehead as he glanced back. "Most folks just call me Mick."
Brick chuckled, a low vibration Mick felt through the wet skin pressed against his spine. "Brick and Mick." He tested the sound, then grinned, white teeth flashing in the steam. "Yeah. I like that." His hands slid lower, calloused palms smoothing over Mick’s ass cheeks, spreading them deliberately under the hot spray. "It fits."
Mick braced his forearms against the cool tile as Brick stepped flush against him, the thick, hard length of Brick’s cock nudging insistently between his cheeks. No preamble, no hesitation. Brick used some of the shower gel to slick himself, then guided his blunt head to Mick’s entrance. Mick hissed at the sudden stretch, hotter than the shower water, as Brick pushed in with one relentless, deep thrust. The tile vibrated with Mick’s groan.
Brick gripped Mick’s hips, fingers digging into flesh, and began a slow, powerful rhythm. Each withdrawal was agonizingly deliberate, each plunge back in a claiming slam that drove Mick forward onto his elbows. "Feel that, Mick?" Brick growled, water cascading over his shoulders, plastering his chest hair darkly to muscle. "I’m filling you up proper." He reached around Mick’s hip, his massive hand wrapping Mick’s slick, hard cock with bruising pressure. Mick cried out, the dual sensation overwhelming – the deep, stretching fullness inside him and the rough, perfect friction on his shaft.
Brick’s thrusts quickened, turning punishing. His fist pumped Mick’s cock in perfect, brutal sync with his hips. Steam thickened, water sluiced, and Mick’s world narrowed to the pounding heat behind him and the relentless grip in front.
Brick’s breath came in harsh grunts against Mick’s neck. "I’m gonna make you spill," he promised, his voice thick. Mick could only gasp, his vision blurring, every nerve screaming. Brick’s rhythm hit a frantic peak, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside Mick just as his fist twisted expertly on Mick’s shaft.
The orgasm tore through Mick like lightning – a blinding, shuddering release that pulsed thick ropes of sperm against the wet tile wall. He sagged, only Brick’s iron grip holding him up as Brick roared, burying himself to the hilt, his own climax pulsing hot and deep within Mick’s clenching heat. They stayed locked together under the pounding water, breathing ragged, the steam swirling around their spent bodies.
Brick pressed a wet kiss to Mick’s shoulder blade. "Breakfast, Mick?"
They sat at Brick’s sturdy oak kitchen table, steam rising from mugs of black coffee. Mick wore borrowed sweatpants that strained around his thighs; Brick sat shirtless across from him, sunlight catching the water droplets still clinging to his dense chest hair. The silence was comfortable, charged with the memory of the shower stall. Mick watched Brick demolish a stack of pancakes dripping with syrup, the fork looking comically small in his huge hand. He stirred his own coffee, the spoon clinking softly.
"Why?" Mick finally asked, the word sharp in the quiet. "Why are you being so … decent? After last night? After what I came here to do?"
Brick paused mid-bite, lowering his fork. He studied Mick, his gaze thoughtful, stripping away layers. "You don’t feel like a lifer," he said, his voice a low rumble. "No cheap desperation sweat under the rainwater smell. Just … pressure." He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "Desperate men do foolish shit. I saw it in your eyes when you froze on my stairs. Not greed. Panic."
Mick stared into his coffee, the dark liquid swirling. The truth felt heavy, jagged. "Rent’s due," he muttered, the word scraping his throat. "The landlord’s got zero chill. If it’s not paid by today, end of business, I’m sleeping in that rusty Ford parked a few blocks away." He forced a bitter laugh. "Guess I picked the wrong damn house."
Brick didn’t smile. He pushed his plate aside, the clatter loud in the quiet kitchen. "How much?" The question was direct, devoid of pity.
Mick named the figure. It felt obscene saying it aloud in this clean, solid house. Brick simply nodded, a slow, decisive dip of his chin. He stood, the movement fluid and powerful, and walked to a small wooden box on the countertop. Mick watched, heart hammering against his ribs, as Brick flipped it open. Inside wasn’t jewelry. It was cash. Neat stacks. Brick counted out bills with thick, deliberate fingers, the sound crisp in the stillness. He walked back, the wad of money held loosely in his fist. He dropped it onto the table in front of Mick. It landed with a soft thud.
"Consider it … advance payment," Brick said, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned down, planting both hands on the tabletop, caging Mick in. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto Mick’s. "For services rendered." A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "And hopefully, future ones." He straightened, leaving the cash lying there like a challenge – or an anchor. "Finish your coffee. Then we’ll talk about what happens next."
He picked up his plate, heading towards the sink, leaving Mick staring at the money, the scent of maple syrup and Brick’s lingering musk thick in the air.
The silence stretched, broken only by the clink of Brick’s plate in the sink. Mick stared at the cash. It wasn’t just money; it was a transaction laid bare, payment for the sweat and heat and desperate surrender still clinging to his skin. The weight of Brick’s generosity, the unexpected decency after the raw carnality, hit him like a physical blow.
A tremor started deep in his chest, climbing his throat. He tried to swallow it, clenching his jaw, but the pressure built behind his eyes, hot and unstoppable. A choked sob ripped free, then another, shoulders shaking as tears coursed down his cheeks, mingling with the steam still rising from his untouched coffee.
"I can't," Mick gasped, the words thick and broken. "How could I repay you? I have a job that pays shit. I can't take your money. Not now. Not after … knowing you." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing tears. "Hell, I'll be back for more of … this … anytime you want. Just say the word. You're … fuck, Brick, you're gorgeous. Sexy as hell. I can't imagine a time I wouldn't want you." The confession hung raw and trembling in the morning light.
Brick turned slowly, leaning back against the counter. He watched Mick cry, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, a slow, understanding warmth softened the granite planes of his face. He didn't speak. He simply walked back to the table, his movements deliberate and quiet. With a thick finger, he nudged the wad of cash towards Mick, not taking it, just acknowledging it. Then, carefully, he gathered the bills back into a stack. He walked to the wooden box on the counter, placed the money inside, and closed the lid with a soft, final click.
He turned back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Alright," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Then how about this?" He paused, letting Mick sniffle, catching his breath. "Do you need a job … a real one? We can find you a job." Brick gestured vaguely towards the house. "Move in here. With me. This place is too damn big for just one guy. Too many echoes." He met Mick’s wet, bewildered gaze, his own steady. "Honestly? You’d be doing me a favor."
Mick stared, tears still drying on his cheeks. The offer hung in the air, immense and terrifying. A job. A roof. Brick. The sheer unexpectedness of it stole his breath. Before he could form a coherent thought, Brick pushed off the counter.
"The shower’s still warm … unless you prefer the bed," he said, his tone shifting back towards practicality, though his eyes held Mick’s. "Think about it." He walked past Mick, heading towards the hallway, leaving the scent of soap and damp skin and possibility in his wake. Mick sat frozen, the echo of Brick’s footsteps fading, the closed cash box gleaming dully on the countertop.
The silence pressed in. Mick’s gaze drifted from the box to the rain-streaked window, then to the ripped leather sofa visible through the archway – a stark reminder of the night’s ferocious beginning. Brick’s offer wasn’t charity; it was a lifeline wrapped in granite muscle and unexpected tenderness. Move in. With me. The words reverberated, colliding with the ingrained wariness of a man used to back alleys and slammed doors. Could he trust this? Trust him?
He pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loudly. The borrowed sweatpants hung low on his hips. He walked to the sink, staring at Brick’s discarded plate smeared with syrup. Slowly, deliberately, he picked up the sponge, squeezed soap onto it, and began scrubbing. The warm water, the rhythmic motion, grounded him. He rinsed the plate, dried it with a towel smelling faintly of bleach, and placed it neatly in the cupboard. A small, deliberate act of belonging.
He heard Brick’s heavy tread returning. Mick turned, leaning back against the counter. Brick filled the doorway, freshly dressed in worn jeans and a grey pullover that strained across his chest. He glanced at the clean sink, then at Mick, a flicker of surprise softening his features.
"Well?" Brick asked, his voice low, expectant.
Mick took a breath. The tremor was gone. "Shower first," he said, meeting Brick’s gaze steadily. "Then … we talk about that job." He pushed off the counter, stepping towards Brick. He stopped inches away, tilting his head back slightly to hold the weightlifter’s intense stare. "And the rent." He paused, letting the implication hang – the unspoken acceptance of the roof, the proximity, the us. "I pay my way."
A slow, genuine smile spread across Brick’s face, warmer than the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds outside. He reached out, not grabbing, but resting a massive, reassuring hand on Mick’s shoulder.
"Fair enough," he rumbled. His thumb brushed Mick’s collarbone. "Shower first. Towels are on the warmer." He squeezed once, then stepped aside, clearing the path. "Don’t take too long."
Mick moved past him, Brick’s heat lingering on his skin. The walk-in shower stall was still humid, tiles slick with condensation. He cranked the hot water back on, steam billowing instantly. Under the pounding spray, Mick scrubbed mechanically — soap chasing away sweat, sex, and the phantom stickiness of tears. The water scalded his shoulders, grounding him.
Move in. With me. The words echoed louder than the drumming spray. Could he? Brick wasn’t some soft mark; he was a force of nature who’d seen Mick at his most desperate and hadn’t flinched. Mick rinsed off, toweled dry roughly. The borrowed sweatpants felt like a temporary skin.
He found Brick in the living room, kneeling by the ripped leather sofa. A heavy-duty sewing kit lay open beside him, thick thread already pulled through a curved upholstery needle. Brick glanced up, his expression focused, almost tender, as he worked the needle through torn leather. "I made this sofa myself," he said without looking up. "Years back. Hate seeing it damaged." He tugged the thread taut, the tear closing inch by inch under his thick fingers. "Just needs patience. And the right tools."
Mick watched, transfixed. The raw power in those hands, capable of snapping bones, now meticulously repairing what Mick’s panic had destroyed. It felt like an answer.
Brick tied off the thread, clipped it, and ran a palm over the repaired seam. Satisfied, he stood, dusting his hands. "Now, about that job," he stated, turning to Mick. "You know the gym downtown, Iron Haven? A buddy of mine owns it. He needs a front desk guy nights and weekends. The pay’s decent. Gets you health insurance after ninety days." He crossed his arms. "Can you look people in the eye? Can you handle a cash register?"
"Yeah," Mick said, the word firm. Relief warred with disbelief. "I can handle it."
"Good." Brick nodded once. "Shift starts tonight. Seven ‘til closing at 2am." He stepped closer, invading Mick’s space, his gaze dropping to Mick’s mouth. "Rent," he murmured, voice dropping to a growl. "We’ll work that out." His hand slid around Mick’s waist, pulling him flush. "Starting now."
He kissed Mick, deep and claiming, tasting of coffee and promise. Mick kissed back, pouring every ounce of wary hope into it. When Brick pulled back, his eyes were dark, possessive.
"Welcome to your new home, Mick."
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