Bryn's trembling.
Not just from the steam or the shock of orgasm - though those play their part - but from something deeper. Something raw. His back is slick beneath my palms, his breath shallow against my neck. I can still feel the last of my cum leaking from inside him, warm and thick, sliding slow between his cheeks as we sit tangled on the tiled bench, our bodies pressed together in the humid silence.
I cradle him without thinking. One arm around his chest, the other curled around his thigh, anchoring him to me. Siting on my lap - his head rests against my shoulder, damp curls sticking to my collarbone. For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the low hum of the steam and the quiet, wet drip of sweat - and everything else - onto the floor.
Then he shifts.
Just slightly.
A little flinch. A sharp inhale. His body tenses in my arms like he forgot I was still holding him.
“Bryn,” I murmur, low. Not a question. Just his name. A tether.
He doesn’t answer. But when I glance down, I see the expression on his face. Not regret. Not shame. Something else.
Surprise. Maybe even disbelief.
His eyes are wide. Not alarmed, exactly - but stunned. Like he just stepped off a rollercoaster that dropped too fast, too far, and now he’s not sure if the ground beneath him is real.
I feel a hollow tug in my gut. Because I know that look.
I’ve seen it before. Not on him, though - but on myself. The moment after impact. When the lust fades just enough for the thoughts to come back. When your body’s still buzzing and loose, but your heart's caught in your throat, trying to make sense of what just happened.
I pull him a little closer. Gently. Give him the choice to lean into me - or not.
He doesn’t move either way. Just breathes.
Slow. Uneven. His ass shifts in my lap - probably sore. Probably wrecked. I hadn’t held back. Not for a second. And now that the fog is lifting, I know it. I know I used him. Not in a way he didn’t want - he begged for it, took it, came hard - but in a way that wasn’t entirely about him.
I’d fucked him like he was someone else.
Like he was Marcus. Like he was the man who left me carrying all this hurt for so long. I turned Bryn into a surrogate for the damage I never got to return. I used his body to empty out years of rage.
I used Bryn to try and redeem every gay man that was ever fucked over by a straight man as badly as I was.
I close my eyes.
“Fuck!”
The thought clings like sweat, thick and sour. Shame collects at the back of my throat. I run a hand down Bryn’s spine - slow, deliberate. Not to comfort him. To calm myself.
His skin quivers beneath my touch, breaking into goosebumps. He doesn’t pull away. But I feel the shift - like something inside him has cracked open, and now he’s trying to hold the pieces together.
I want to ask if he’s okay. But that question feels too shallow. Too neat for what just happened.
So I say, “I didn’t mean to…”
But the words collapse before I can finish.
Because what didn’t I mean?
Didn’t I mean to fuck him so hard? Didn’t I mean to let go completely?
Didn’t I mean to pour every ounce of grief and fury into his body like he was built to carry it for me?
His voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Rough-edged.
“I’m fine.”
But the way he says it - it isn’t exactly dismissal – but it is shaky. Like he’s still catching up to himself.
I pull back enough to see his face.
He meets my eyes - just for a second - then glances away. His cheeks are flushed. His lashes clumped with sweat. His lips slightly parted, as if still holding the echo of everything I did to him.
“Really?” I ask, keeping my voice low, steady.
He nods. “Yeah. I mean…” He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “I’m sore as hell. You really went for it.”
That cocky smile that I’m used to tries to land. But it wavers.
“You wanted it,” I say, not as a question. As a truth, a reminder. For both of us.
He swallows. “I did.”
Silence settles again. The steam curls around us, thick and heavy like fog on a battlefield. He shifts again - less tense now - but still thoughtful. I can see it in the way he keeps glancing down, then up, like he’s sorting through things he doesn’t have words for yet.
“I needed it,” he adds.
That lands hard.
Because I needed it, too.
But not like that. Not from him.
And maybe that’s the truth I’ve been dodging.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I’m the problem.
I press a soft kiss to his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lean in either. Just breathes, slow and steady, letting the moment hold.
“I don’t want to leave you - this thing we have - with the wrong idea,” I say finally, voice rough at the edges.
He tilts his head slightly, waiting.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
There’s a pause. A heartbeat. Then he says, “I know.”
Another pause from him. “But you still kind of did.”
That lands in my chest like a cold drop of water.
“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “Not like I regret it. Just… I think parts of me didn’t know how much I could feel until they were being pushed past the edge.”
I nod slowly. “But I wasn’t gentle.”
His brow furrows - not in confusion, but in memory.
“Maybe I didn’t need gentle,” he says.
I pause.
“You sure?” I ask.
He gives a half-shrug. “I’m not sure about anything right now.”
The honesty in that makes me ache.
And there it is. The truth hanging in the middle of the steam room, fog-thick and painful.
I stroke his thigh again, watching the slick curve of muscle twitch under my palm. My cum is still leaking out of him - slow and viscous - sliding between his legs like a secret I left behind. The sight of it - vulgar and intimate - should make me feel triumphant. Satisfied.
But it doesn’t. It makes me feel responsible.
“I think I used you,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not for the sex. For something else. Something I didn’t even know I was still carrying.”
Bryn looks at me.
His face doesn’t harden. Doesn’t retreat. He just listens.
“I think I poured everything I’ve been trying to forget into you,” I continue. “All the years of being a secret. Of being the fallback. Of being the one left behind.”
He watches me like he’s trying to see the shape of that pain.
“You didn’t ask for that,” I say. “You didn’t deserve to be the vessel I emptied it into.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Was it… about the guy you spoke about earlier?”
The question hangs in the steam like a flare.
I nod. “Yeah. Him. And maybe every other man who wanted me in private but couldn’t bear to want me in public.
Bryn breathes in slowly.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I figured.”
No accusation. No recoil. Just quiet understanding.
And that?
That breaks me more than if he’d slapped me.
We sit in silence again. But this time, it’s softer. No longer tense or waiting to snap.
Just… quiet. Like the aftermath of something sacred, not shameful.
“I liked it,” he says eventually, his voice barely above the hum of the steam. “Even if it was too much. Even if I didn’t know what the fuck was happening half the time.”
He gives a crooked, tired smile. “You make me feel… I don’t know. Seen. Useful. Like a part of me I buried a long time ago is rearing it’s head again. ”
I frown, gently. “Even when I’m brutal?”
He looks down, then back at me. There’s no hesitation in his reply.
“Especially then. Because you weren’t pretending. And neither was I.”
I let that settle. Let it find a place to land in the raw space between us.
“If there’s ever a next time,” I murmur, “I want to touch you like you’re made of something sacred. Not something to punish.”
His eyes flutter closed at that. His chest rises, then sinks, slow and measured.
“I think I’d like that,” he says.
I pull him closer again.
Let the silence hold. Let it wrap around us like the thinning steam - less oppressive now, more like breath on skin.
We don’t speak for a while. The heat no longer blistering, just soft and steady. Bryn shifts against me, slower this time, as if he’s just become aware of how sore his body really is.
“We should…” he murmurs, the rest of the sentence trailing off into the fog between us.
I nod anyway.
We should.
We peel ourselves off each other slowly, limbs reluctant to part. I help him stand - his legs unsteady - and he winces as my cum slips further down his thigh, stark against his flushed skin.
I grab one of the towels and kneel, wiping him gently. He doesn’t flinch. Just looks down at me, breath shallow, lips parted. There’s something about this part - this quiet act of care - that feels more intimate than anything we did against the wall.
Once he’s clean, we exit the steam room and head for the lockers. I reach for a fresh towel. He lets me dry him, arms slightly lifted like he’s offering himself - still trusting, still open.
I don’t rush. I towel his back, his arms, the curve of his chest, down his legs. I skip his cock - on purpose - and catch the flicker of a smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He does the same for me. His hands are light, deliberate, his movements slower than mine, lingering just a little too long over my shoulders, my hips.
And he, unlike me, also dries my soft cock.
We dress in silence. I pull on my shorts, then a hoodie, the towel still looped around my neck. Bryn slides back into his compression gear with a muted wince as he pulls the fabric over his sore thighs. The green tank top is damp from sweat and steam and clings tighter than before.
He runs his fingers through his curls, taming them into something half-presentable. I tie my hair back.
There’s something strange and familiar about getting dressed next to him - like we’ve done it a dozen times, even though we haven’t.
At the front of the gym, we pause at the glass doors. The night outside is cool and soft, the parking lot mostly empty now, quiet in that way only late hours can be.
Bryn turns to me. “Will you meet me tomorrow? Just for coffee. Like… how this all started.”
I hesitate. The weight of everything between us presses in again - his marriage, his daughter, the mess that’s sure to follow if we keep going down this path.
He sees the conflict on my face and steps in a little closer. “It’s just coffee,” he says gently. “Same time. Same place.”
I nod. Slowly. “Okay.”
His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. He leans in, presses a kiss to the side of my mouth - not quite on my lips, not quite off them. A promise, maybe. Or a question.
We part without another word.
He gets in his car first. I watch the taillights glow red as he pulls out and disappears into the dark.
Only then do I breathe again.
And even then, it’s shallow. Because I already know I’ll show up. I just don’t know if I should.
My apartment is dark when I get home, save for the city’s ambient glow leaking through the windows. I don’t bother turning on the lights. Just drop my keys on the counter and stand there for a moment, breathing like I’ve run a marathon.
My body aches. Not from the workout. Not even from the sex.
From the weight of what I did.
The steam, the slick skin, Bryn trembling under me - it all replays behind my eyes like it’s still happening. The guttural sounds he made. The slap of our bodies colliding. The raw way he opened for me. God. It was incredible.
Devastating.
Too much.
I scrub a hand over my face and walk to the kitchen, pour a glass of water I don’t drink. My reflection in the window startles me. I look wrecked. Not in a good way. In a real way. Like someone who finally saw himself clearly after years of squinting through denial.
That wasn’t just sex.
That was rage. Grief. Loneliness. Years of being someone’s secret. Of being wanted, but never claimed. Used, then discarded. And tonight, I turned it all inside out. Forced it into Bryn’s body like it would purge something from me. Like he could carry it instead.
He didn’t deserve that.
Yeah, he begged. Yeah, he moaned like it was everything he wanted - said so afterward, even. But that doesn’t make it okay. That’s not the kind of man I want to be.
Not again. Not ever.
I turn from the window, grab the glass, and take a long sip. The cold hits the back of my throat, grounding me. A small mercy.
No one has ever made me feel this out of control before.
I walk to the bedroom, peel off my hoodie, then my shorts, dropping them into the hamper with a careless thud. The bed’s still unmade from last night. I don’t bother fixing it. Just slide under the covers, naked, and stare at the ceiling. The scent of Bryn clings to my skin, intimate and earthy. Evidence.
“I won’t do that again,” I whisper - to the room, to myself. “I’ll never treat someone like that again.”
Especially not to Bryn. He’s too… open. Too raw. Too brave, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
The guilt still hums through me, quiet but persistent. But beneath it, something else begins to stir. Not peace. Relief maybe. Like a knot I didn’t know I’d tied has finally begun to loosen. Like I’ve stopped holding my breath.
Something cracked loose in me tonight. Bled out beneath the weight of that final thrust. That final moan. That final surrender.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in years, I feel a little less haunted by the ghost of Marcus.
I get to the coffee shop earlier than usual the next morning.
Not on purpose, I tell myself - but maybe it is. Maybe I need the buffer. The calm before whatever storm Bryn might bring with him today.
The coffee shop is already humming with its usual rhythm: steam hissing from the espresso machine, plates clinking behind the counter, the low murmur of regulars pretending their lives aren’t quietly on fire. I recognize most of the faces. The woman with the tight bun and pearls who always orders green tea and sips it like it’s a vintage red. The older man by the window who writes obsessively on napkins and never looks up. The gym bro with his backwards baseball cap, hunched over a battered HP laptop - always out of place amongst the MacBook crowd, but a fixture all the same.
I wonder, briefly, what secrets these customers carry. What wreckage they’ve hidden well enough to pass for functional. What parts of themselves they’ve let someone else fuck - figuratively or literally - and then packed away behind polite smiles and too-hot coffee.
I slide into Bryn’s usual seat.
It still smells faintly like him. Pine. Salt. Skin. Something darker I can’t name. My fingers trace the grain of the table, slow, uncertain. I don’t know what he’ll say. What we’ll be today. Strangers again? Illicit lovers? Something in between?
I breathe in. Try to find stillness.
Then the bell over the door chimes.
And there he is.
Backlit by sunlight, he steps inside like a wet dream in human form - smirking, slow, unapologetically obscene.
His drawstring pants are pale, nearly white, and gauzy enough that they might as well be transparent in this kind of light. The morning sun pours through the coffee shop’s windows and hits him just right, casting his body in gold and shadows. The fabric clings to him - thin, soft, revealing everything. His cock sways with every step, heavy and unbound, a thick outline pressing against the cotton. Not swinging. Bouncing. Confident. Languid. Proud.
Jesus. I feel my mouth going dry.
He’s not just sexy. He knows he is. And today? He’s basking in it.
His tank top is cropped and loose, cut just short enough to leave the waistband of his pants - and the deep V of his hips - exposed. It rides high when he moves, flashing his stomach, the hard line of his abs, that fucking treasure trail that disappears beneath those pants like a whispered promise. His nipples are hard, blatant through the fabric, begging for attention. His curls are a little messy, like he barely bothered to tame them, and his skin glows - warm, flushed, alive.
He walks like a man who got absolutely railed last night and enjoyed every second of it. Like he’s still riding the high, still dripping with it. Which, knowing him, he probably is. The cocky glint in his eyes dares anyone to look. Dares them not to.
And when he sees me?
That smile curves slow and sharp across his face. Familiar. Dangerous.
His eyes flick down to where I’m sitting - his usual spot - and he doesn’t even pause. Just keeps walking, loose-hipped and graceful, straight toward the booths in the back.
Then he lifts a hand in greeting, fingers loose, casual, almost lazy.
Like he owns the whole room.
And right now, he does.
He owns the space - the light, the floorboards, the air between every set of eyes that trail after him like they can feel it too - the hum, the buzz, the “someone got ruined last night” swagger that rolls off him like heat.
He doesn’t stop at his usual seat. Doesn’t even glance at it.
Instead, he gestures to one of the booths lining the back wall, the one with the padded benches. “Can we… maybe not do the wooden chairs this morning?” he says, flashing a crooked grin and wincing as he shifts his weight from one hip to the other.
I blink. Then laugh - low, involuntary. “Ass still tender?”
His expression morphs into something halfway between murder and delight. “Let’s just say compression shorts and underwear were a hard no today.”
He slides into the booth first - slowly, carefully, like every muscle in his body is singing from overuse. There’s a theatrical little groan as he lowers himself onto the cushion, followed by a dramatic exhale that turns more than a few heads.
Especially hers.
The woman with the tight bun and the green tea - her usual spot three tables over - gives him a long, deliberate once-over over the rim of her teacup. There’s no judgment in her gaze. Just something knowing. Maybe even wistful. Like she remembers exactly what it feels like to walk into a place sore, glowing, and freshly fucked.
And Bryn? He notices.
Of course he does.
He shifts on the seat again, spreading his legs wider like he’s settling in - and his cock flops against the inside of his thigh, obscene under those sheer, sinfully thin pants. The fabric drapes over him like it’s trying, but failing, to be polite. It’s not subtle. It’s practically art. Every bounce, every twitch, is a goddamn exhibit.
My eyes dart to the older woman.
She’s still watching.
Bryn follows my gaze, clocking her, and then turns back to me - leaning in conspiratorially, eyes sparkling, lips quirking into that smirk I’ve already started to dread and crave in equal measure.
“I swear I thought these pants were thicker,” he whispers. “Guess I should’ve checked the mirror.”
I choke on a laugh. “You sure this wasn’t planned?”
His grin is wicked. “Let’s call it… a subconscious exhibitionist lapse.”
We fall into a quiet for a moment. Not awkward - just full.
Like neither of us is quite sure how to balance what happened last night with the brightness of morning.
Outside, a dog barks. A courier glides past on a bicycle. The world continues its indifferent spin.
But here, in this booth, with Bryn’s bare thighs pressing against the vinyl seat and my heart doing odd things in my chest, time feels slower. More deliberate. As if we’ve stepped out of it for now.
He stretches slightly, careful but cocky, like he knows he’s being watched - and doesn’t mind one bit. His fingers toy with the hem of his tank top, lifting it just enough to tease another flash of skin. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth like he’s still riding the high of last night’s ruin.
I glance at him again. The way his eyes flicker over the menu without really reading it. The way he presses one hand into the bench to shift his weight like he’s trying not to groan again. He winces - then grins at me like it’s a joke you have to be naked to get.
“You okay?” I ask, softer this time.
His eyes meet mine. Something shifts there. Still warm. Still amused. But underneath it - something quieter. Something a little exposed.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just... didn’t expect to still be feeling it this much. But also? I’m kind of glad I am.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Glad?”
He leans back, cocky again. “It’s proof it wasn’t a dream.” My heart skips a beat. “Also, a weirdly satisfying reminder that your dick is an actual weapon.”
I snort, shaking my head. “That’s one way to put it.”
He gives me a wink, then softens. “It was real,” he says, more quietly this time.
I look down at my hands, suddenly aware of the way his words land in my chest.
This isn’t just about sex. Or just about soreness.
It’s about being wanted. About being seen.
We order without needing to glance at the menu - Bryn with his Americano, no sugar, and me with a cappuccino, two sugars, full cream milk. The barista gives me a familiar nod and disappears to make them, while we settle back into the booth. The energy between us is still humming - still charged - but lighter now, like the tension has shifted into something more curious than combustible.
“You work from home, right?” Bryn asks, settling into the cushion like he owns it, like he’s never sat stiffly on a hard chair in his life.
“Yeah,” I say, stirring the foam on my cappuccino. “I split my time between painting and writing. Mostly painting these days. The writing’s more of a… catharsis thing. Journals. Essays no one reads.”
“Painting,” he says, narrowing his eyes a little, as if turning something over in his head. “Wait a second. Bruno Mitchell?”
I snort into my cup. “Guilty as charged.”
“Holy shit,” he says, laughing and shaking his head. “That’s why your name rang a bell. I have one of your paintings.”
“You do??” I raise an eyebrow, amused but also genuinely surprised.
“Yeah. In my apartment nearby. I’m an architect - I mostly work from there. Marianne hates it.” He pauses, catches my wince at the mention of his wife, and adds quickly, “The painting. Not just the apartment. She says it can’t be healthy to look at naked men all day.”
“Which painting is it?” I ask, pushing past the flicker of discomfort to follow the thread.
“The Adam and Steve one,” he says, grinning. “Your reimagining of Tamara de Lempicka’s Adam and Eve - except yours has two naked men – as you know… One with his back to the viewer - shielding Steve, like he’s trying to protect him.”
“And the other fully exposed - genitals and all - vulnerable, but also reaching out. Grateful for Adam’s presence,” I finish for him.
“Yes! That one.” He laughs again, shaking his head. “I spent more on that painting than I did on anything else in that apartment. Had to outbid some collector from Paris who kept driving the price up.”
My eyebrows lift. “That was you?”
He smirks, full of smug pride. “Yeah. I wanted it bad. It hit something in me the second I saw it.”
The coffee arrives, but neither of us reaches for our cups right away.
“Marianne says it’s too… blatant,” he adds, shrugging one shoulder. “But that’s what I like about it. It doesn’t hide.”
“Neither do you,” I say, without thinking.
Still, the mention of his wife for a second time in a few minutes is a jab I wasn’t expecting. I try not to flinch, but it hits me anyway. Sharp. Subtle. Like a crack forming in glass.
“Sorry,” he adds quickly. “Habit. Anyway, she thinks it’s too... suggestive.”
He looks at me for a moment, a flicker of something crossing his face. Then he leans back again, loose and golden and proud – and explains more about his decision to purchase the painting. “ I figured if I’m going to be working all day surrounded by books and blueprints, I might as well stare at something that reminds me of what I’m actually craving. Even if I didn’t really know it at the time.”
He takes a sip of his Americano. “And Marianne thinks it’s just about the naked men.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “People tend to stop looking after they see cock.”
“Her loss,” he says, grinning. “There’s a lot more going on in that piece than just a dick. Though it is a good one.”
I nearly choke on my cappuccino.
I hesitate. Then answer honestly. “It was the hardest piece I’ve ever had to let go of.”
“My agent convinced me it would fetch a high price - and I needed the money, after what happened to me just before painting it. She said it would get people talking, influence the rest of my work in all the right ways. Maybe she was right. On both counts. But that didn’t make it any easier.”
That quiets him. His fingers still on the rim of his almost empty cup. He watches me closely now, like I’ve become something else in the morning light - less shadowed, more real.
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t about the subject matter,” I say slowly. “It was about the vulnerability. The loneliness. The longing. That piece... it was the first time I admitted to myself that I wasn’t just angry. I was heartbroken. I painted it after Marcus - the guy I spoke about last night - left. Or rather, after he stayed. With her. His wife.” I exhale slowly. “I wanted to believe there was still beauty in longing. That even if someone doesn’t choose you, the ache they leave behind can still become something honest. Something valuable. I was looking for my Adam.”
He goes quiet. Then softer, almost reverently, he says, “You painted that man like you were mourning him. Or waiting for him.”
I meet his eyes. “Maybe both.”
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, then adds, “And now that I’ve met the painter, I feel like I finally understand the painting. Why everything makes sense now. That man... the one with his back to the viewer… He looks a lot like me.”
I nod. “He does.”
He smiles. “I always thought the guy with his genitals exposed might be looking for someone. That the painter might be the one looking for him. For Adam.”
“He was.”
A flicker of hope rises in my face, quickly guarded again.
Then Bryn chuckles. “Well, considering then that I am your type, as confirmed by yourself, you’ll be happy to know your babies are still swimming inside me, trying to find an egg that isn’t there.”
I bury my face in my hands, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”
“Compliment accepted. Also – the dick in the picture does look a lot like yours..”
“Jesus, Bryn. Is the vulgarity necessary?” I laugh.
“What?” He grins wickedly. “You painted Adam and Steve. You can handle a little reproductive banter.”
I cover my face with one hand. “I’m never going to drink milk again.”
He laughs. It’s a full, open sound. Something bright flares in my chest. Something warm.
Then, quieter, I ask: “Can I see it again?”
He tilts his head. “The painting?”
“Yes,” I say. “Knowing it ended up with you - it… it changes what it means. I think I need to see it with new eyes. Yours.”
“I never track who buys my paintings,” I continue. “I don’t like the idea of needing to know where they end up. But that one… I hoped it would find its way to a gay man. Someone who might understand it. Not just the technique or the colour theory or the brushwork. But the ache behind it.” I hesitate, then add, almost shyly, “A gay man who’d been left, but still hoped.”
His expression softens. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and steady. “Maybe it did.”
Something loosens in my chest.
“Then yeah,” I say. “I’d like to see it again. See what it became, now that it’s found its place.”
And just like that, the heaviness lifts again.
When I finally look up, he’s already reaching for his phone.
“Let’s go,” he says, sliding out of the booth with a careful wince. “Before I change my mind.”
I follow him out into the morning light.
And oh, the light. It hits him from the front like it’s parting the clouds just for him, setting his hair aglow, kissing the sheen of sweat on his collarbone. But it’s his pants that do the most damage - thin cotton clinging transparently to every inch of his heavy cock, which bounces with each step, unbothered by modesty or underwear. It's like he forgot - or maybe deliberately remembered - just how sheer they are in daylight.
A passing man does a double take. The woman from the tea table nearly drops her bagel.
Bryn notices. He smirks.
He walks like he knows he’s carrying a promise of hope between his legs and has decided today isn’t the day to hide it. There’s no shame in it. No apology. Just that unshakable, morning-after confidence of someone who’s been thoroughly fucked and liked it. Someone who, for once, knows that he’s wanted.
He glances back over his shoulder and catches me staring.
“Eyes up, Mitchell,” he says, grinning. “There’s art to see.”
I snort. “There’s art in front of me already.”
He winks. “Wait till you see my walls.”
And just like that, we keep walking.
Whatever line we’re crossing – again - we don’t speak it.
We just move toward his apartment and the painting, toward the moment.
Toward whatever comes next.
I follow him up the stairs, one floor, two, catching glimpses of his ass shifting beneath those maddeningly sheer pants. Even after everything - after last night, after this morning - it still does something to me. Still makes me want to reach forward, grip his hips, drag him back against me. But I don’t. I let the moment pass, let my gaze trail upward to the tangle of his curls and the confident lift of his shoulders.
He unlocks the door with a key that jingles in a way that shouldn’t be endearing, but it is.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says automatically as he pushes the door open.
But there is no mess. The apartment swallows me.
Plush. Expensive. Everything soft and curated, every piece of furniture tailored to whisper money. Not new money. Not flashy. Old. Considered. Tasteful. The leather on the couch is the kind that grows richer with age. The rug beneath my feet is handwoven, likely older than the both of us. The books on the shelf aren’t for show - dog-eared, underlined, loved.
And there, on the far wall, lit with intention - just above the low walnut console and framed with brutal elegance - is Adam & Steve.
The painting breathes.
It lives here.
The tones of the room echo its palette: the deep blues of Adam’s shadows, the soft cream of Steve’s skin, the flecks of rust-orange pulled into the pillows, the throws, even the flowers on the side table. Nothing matches, and yet everything belongs to it.
I don’t move.
Bryn steps inside, turning slightly to look back at me. “You okay?”
But I can’t answer.
My throat tightens.
The painting was always mine. My heartbreak. My wound dressed in brushstrokes. But here, in this space, it’s no longer about loss. It’s about devotion. About someone seeing it - really seeing it - and saying: I want this to be the heart of my world.
I take a few steps forward. My knees almost buckle.
The sob slips out before I can stop it. Small. Involuntary.
Then another.
And another.
My hand covers my mouth, but the tears keep coming - hot, silent, steady. I turn away, ashamed.
“Bruno?” Bryn’s voice is tentative. I hear him move toward me, but I lift a hand without looking. Not yet.
It’s not just the painting. Not just the room.
It’s what’s opposite the painting.
A sleek wooden desk sits there, perfectly aligned - like it was positioned to always face Adam & Steve. On its edge, a baby monitor rests, still lit. Just beyond it, a play mat in soft muted tones is laid out, toys neatly arranged. It’s clear: when Bryn works, he looks at two things - his child. And my painting.
That undoes me completely.
The tears come hard now - guttural, raw, like something is being wrenched out of me. I drop to the edge of the couch, hands shaking.
He crouches in front of me, startled. “Hey, hey - what is it?” His hands hover over my knees, not touching yet. “Is it the painting? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I croak. “No, it’s beautiful. It’s… God, it’s too much.”
He hesitates. Then sits beside me, cautiously, his thigh pressing against mine. “Talk to me.”
I shake my head. Then, when the sobs slow just enough - “I never thought I’d see it like this. Alive. Like it matters to someone. I poured so much into that piece - into him. And then I had to let it go.”
Bryn doesn’t interrupt.
“I never let myself imagine where it might go. I thought - best-case scenario - it ends up in some collector’s archive. Forgotten. But you - ”
My breath catches. “You built your home around it. You built your life around it.”
He goes quiet.
Then he says, softly: “It makes me feel less alone. Every day. Even before I knew you painted it.”
I wipe my face. “Do you see now why I’m scared?”
He nods. “Yeah. I think I’m starting to.”
“I wasn’t just a secret with Marcus. I was his mirror. His release. His risk. And in the end, when the real world called, he chose safety. He chose her.”
“And you’re scared I’ll do the same.”
I meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t you be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But his hand finds mine.
Laces his fingers through.
“I’m not Marcus,” he says.
I don’t say not yet.
Because right now, his hand is warm in mine. And Adam & Steve watches over us. And maybe - for this moment - that’s enough.
The silence stretches between us - soft, not awkward. Like the aftermath of a good cry, when you’ve said what needed saying and there’s nothing left but breath.
Bryn still holds my hand.
Then he shifts.
Not away from me - toward me. His thigh presses more firmly against mine. His other hand lifts, fingers brushing damp curls off my forehead. His touch is gentle. Purposeful. He doesn’t lean in to kiss me, not yet. He just studies my face, like he’s recalibrating something he thought he understood.
“I want to touch you,” he says softly.
I blink. “Now?”
He nods. “But not like last night. Not like that.”
I hold his gaze. “Then how?”
“Like you matter,” he says. “Like I see you.”
My throat tightens all over again, but I nod.
He rises first, leading me wordlessly to the bedroom with his hand in mine. It’s as beautiful as the rest of the apartment - sunlight filtering in through gauzy curtains, sheets like cloud-stuff, everything in soft tones that echo the palette of the painting in the next room.
When he turns to face me, something’s changed.
The cockiness is still there, but it's gentler now. Steady. Intent.
He tugs the drawstring of his pants loose and lets them fall. His cock - half-hard already - swells as he steps out of the fabric, then reaches for the hem of my shirt and lifts it slowly. I let him. His eyes trail over my chest, not hungrily this time, but with reverence. Like he’s memorizing it.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “Let me.”
I nod again. Barely.
He kisses me. Slow. Mouth soft, lips parting only when mine do. There’s no rush. No desperation. Just warmth. The kind of kiss that tastes like forgiveness. Like beginnings.
His hands glide over my back, then down to my waistband. I let him undress me piece by piece, until I’m standing naked in the soft light and he’s kneeling to press his mouth to the curve of my hip.
When he stands back to look at me again, I lie back on the bed.
He follows, straddling my hips, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of me. His cock grazes my stomach as he leans in to kiss me again - this time deeper, more insistent.
“I want to fuck you,” he whispers.
I exhale slowly, already dizzy with him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want to take you slow. I want to feel all of you.”
He reaches for the lube in the drawer beside the bed - familiar movements, no awkwardness. Just heat. Anticipation.
He slicks me first, then strokes me until I’m hard again. My breath stutters in my chest when his fingers find my entrance, his hand firm around me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Let me,” he says again.
And I do.
I shift, spreading my legs a little wider, letting him settle between them. My head rests back against the pillow, chest rising and falling as I watch him line himself up, steady and reverent.
His eyes drift downward - just for a second - and something flickers in them. Not hesitation. Something else. A flash of memory, maybe. Of recognition.
He exhales, voice low, almost to himself. “Not the first time I’ve seen a man open up like this for me.” He catches himself, shakes the thought away, and adds, softer still, “But it’s different this time.”
I catch the shift. The implication. But he’s already focusing again - on me, on this moment - as the head of his cock presses against my entrance.
I nod – barely - never breaking eye contact.
And then he enters me.
Slow. Measured. Inch by inch.
He sinks into me with aching care, his brow furrowed not from strain, but from awe. His mouth parts, a quiet gasp escaping as he bottoms out, flush against my thighs.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “You feel - ”
“I know,” he breathes. “Just... stay with me.”
He moves slow. Undulating. His hands resting on either side of my chest for balance, his body working me with aching grace. Every roll of his hips is controlled, deliberate - like he’s trying to learn every shape he makes inside me.
And me? I can’t believe I’m letting myself be penetrated. But I also know that this, right here, right now, is what my body needs. What I need.
The way his mouth falls open. The way sweat beads at his temple. The way he bites his lip when the angle hits just right and I moan - louder than I mean to.
He leans forward, bracing himself with one hand beside my head. The shift brings his chest down against mine. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
“I needed this,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “But not just the sex.”
“What then?” I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“This,” he says, fucking slower now. “You looking at me like that. Like I’m something worth staying for.”
My hands slide up his back, cup his ass, guiding him as I kiss him again. Long. Open. Like I believe it, too.
The rhythm builds - not rough, not frantic. Just deep. Sure. Every movement soaked in feeling. Bryn is everywhere - above me, around me, inside me - and this time, it doesn’t feel like he’s taking. It feels like he’s giving.
When we cum, it’s quiet. Shaking. His forehead pressed to mine, my arms wrapped tight around him. I feel him spurt inside me, hot and thick, and I cry out softly as the pulse of him triggers my own release. It hits like a tide - inevitable, rising in the dark, steady and overwhelming.
He collapses onto my chest, breathing hard. Our sweat mingles. Our hearts pound.
Neither of us speaks.
There’s nothing left to say right now.
Just this.
His weight on me. My hands on his back. The painting watching from the next room. And somewhere beyond that, the first fragile threads of something new beginning to stitch itself into place.
Something careful.
Something real.
