Earlier today, Dylan had texted me. He was inviting me to his fitness shoot; some campaign with a protein brand that apparently needed a hot personal trainer to sell tubs of vanilla-flavored muscle dust.
I stared at the message for maybe two minutes. Tops.
Then I replied:
Sure. I’ll be there.
I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t even let myself think. Because if I had, I might’ve remembered how Elliot kissed me last night. How he held me after. How he called me mon amour and meant it.
But I didn’t think about any of that.
I just showered, got dressed, and took a train to the studio Dylan had pinned on Google Maps. It was tucked away in a side street off Canal Saint-Martin, one of those hidden industrial buildings turned creative spaces. High ceilings, poured concrete floors, white walls, and filtered light that made everything and everyone look more expensive than they were.
I walked in, trying to look casual, but the air conditioning hit immediately; crisp, clean, and laced with the scent of eucalyptus and espresso. The kind of place where models came and went like wind.
The studio was cool and sharp, all clean lines and soft light, the kind of place that made everything feel expensive. White walls, concrete floors, and massive windows spilling natural light across the minimalist setup. There were tubs of protein powder stacked like they were art, a few sleek dumbbells near the shoot area, and a ring light humming quietly beside a stool.
And Dylan?
He was across the room talking to someone who looked like the producer...confident, animated, charming in the way only Dylan could be when he wasn’t trying. He wore black compression shorts that clung to his quads like second skin, and a matching black compression tshirt stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. His body looked carved, like it had been designed specifically to sell whatever this product was.
I was so lost in watching him...how he smiled with half his mouth, how he adjusted the position of a protein tub like it was instinct that I didn’t even realize he’d noticed me.
“Spaghetti Noodle,” he called out. Then blinked, as if catching himself. “Troy. Troy here.”
I walked in, trying not to let the heat crawl up my neck.
“Hey,” I said, casual as I could manage. “How’s the shoot going?”
He shrugged, then flexed his arm dramatically. “Protein brand. They wanted a real trainer. Not just some model with abs.”
I grinned. “So… you.”
“Exactly.” He looked down at his own outfit. “How do I look?”
I gave him a mock glare. “You already know how you look. Don’t make me say it.”
He smirked. “Fair.”
I looked around. “Photographer’s not here yet?”
He shook his head. “Any minute now. You can chill over there if you want. Grab a drink. Watch me be hot.”
I found a seat off to the side, near one of the equipment tables. It was quiet, dimmer over here. I pulled out my phone, but I wasn’t really looking at it. I was thinking about last night. About Dylan. About Elliot. The way I’d let both of them take something from me. One soft, slow, and careful. The other rough, teasing, and undeniably addictive.
I’d barely sat down when the door swung open.
“Hey hey,” came a voice I knew before I even saw him.
I turned just in time to see Elliot walk in, black slacks and a white linen shirt rolled to his elbows, camera strap across his chest. His curls were artfully disheveled, and his grin was already in place.
He walked straight up to Dylan and offered a hand. “You must be the model.”
Dylan chuckled, shaking his hand. “And you must be the photographer.”
“Elliot,” he said smoothly.
Then, lifting his camera, he fake-snapped a shot at Dylan. “Let’s hope you’re photogenic.”
Dylan grinned. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Elliot turned to unload his gear when his eyes landed on me.
And his whole face lit up. “Oh my god, hey, mon amour! What are you doing here?”
My heart dropped through my ass.
I swallowed. “I, uh...I’m just tagging along with Dylan.”
Elliot tilted his head. “You two know each other?”
“Yeah,” I said too fast. “He’s my friend Jake’s brother.”
I glanced toward Dylan, who was flipping through a shot list with the producer, face unreadable.
Elliot stepped closer, eyes still on me. “I’m so glad you’re here. You finally get to see me in my natural habitat. Didn’t I tell you I looked sexy behind the lens?”
I gave a tight smile. “You did mention that.”
“Stay close,” he winked. “It gets better.”
He went back to the setup. I sat down again, a pit forming in my stomach. Two of them. Same room. Both oblivious to the full truth. I didn’t know who I was more afraid of; Elliot, with his sweetness and his camera… or Dylan, with his silence and his knowing eyes.
The shoot began. Dylan stood in front of the lights, holding the tub, smiling like it was effortless. Elliot gave soft directions, clicking away, adjusting angles, checking lighting. The whole thing was strangely… normal. Professional. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they’d just met.
Every few minutes, Dylan would glance over at me.
And I’d pretend not to notice.
“Let’s get some shirtless ones,” Elliot said, lowering the camera after a while. “Something a little more powerful. You in?”
Dylan didn’t hesitate. “I thought you'd never ask.”
He reached for the hem of his shirt and started tugging it off. But it clung to him; tight with sweat. It caught at his pecs and biceps and he laughed, struggling a little.
“This thing’s basically glued on to my body.”
Elliot adjusted the lighting rig, then looked over his shoulder.
“Troy, my love, do you mind helping this gentleman with his shirt? I’ve got this framing perfect and I don’t want to mess the set up”
My pulse spiked.
Dylan’s arms were raised, shirt halfway off. His torso gleamed with sweat, muscles flexed and waiting. His eyes slid toward me, unreadable. I stood slowly, legs stiff, mouth dry.
I walked towards him.
And the room went still.
Dylan's skin was hot under my fingers.
That was the first thing I noticed. Not the way Dylan’s pecs strained as I peeled off his sweat-slick compression shirt. Not the way his abs flexed when I pulled the damp fabric over his head. Not even the way his eyes never left mine. Just the heat of his skin. Alive. Real. Familiar.
As the shirt finally came off, time slowed for a beat. His bare chest was slick with sweat, every line of muscle catching the studio light like it was sculpted just to tease me. His collarbone glistened. His abs; tight, defined, ridged like stone shifted as he moved, and my eyes couldn’t help but trail down, following the veins along his arms to the waistband of his black compression shorts.
And then lower.
Because of course they did.
The fabric clung to him, wet and low, and I could see the heavy outline of his cock beneath it. I swallowed hard. Every inch of his body was a reminder. Of last night. Of the way he moved when his cock was inside me. The way his breath had gone ragged right before he told me to keep looking at him while he claimed my hole.
Now I couldn’t stop.
My cock stirred in my jeans, slow and stubborn. I shifted my posture, trying to hide it, but it was no use. My body knew him. Knew what it felt like to be under him. Wrapped up in him. Open, aching, full.
And his eyes were locked on me like he could read every memory crashing through my head. Every craving I hadn’t figured out how to bury.
He smirked.
And just as I tugged the shirt over his head, while my fingers grazed the bare skin of his ribs, he leaned down; close enough for only me to hear. “It’s him, isn’t it?” he murmured, breath brushing my ear. “The French guy.”
My hands stilled for half a second.
“The one who kisses your forehead while he fucks you.”, Dylan whispered.
I swallowed hard.
“The one who fucked you... and you still came to me after.”
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
His shirt finally slipped free from his arms, and the tension between us snapped like a pulled thread. Before I could catch my breath, Elliot’s voice cut in from behind the lens.
“Perfect,” he said, from behind the lens. “The sweat adds intensity. Let’s keep it raw.”
I stepped back quickly, heart pounding, forcing myself to look anywhere but at Dylan’s body or worse, his eyes. I rubbed my palms against my thighs like I could wipe the memory of his skin away.
“Let’s keep it raw,” Elliot said again, adjusting his camera settings. “Lose the protein tubs for a few, yeah? Just movement now. Light stretches. Natural poses.”
Dylan nodded and turned back toward the light setup, every muscle shifting like he knew I was still watching. I tried not to. I tried to sit down, cross my legs, scroll through my phone; anything that made me look normal.
But I couldn’t ignore the throb between my legs. Or the heat crawling up my neck. I wasn’t just remembering last night. I was reliving it. Every thrust. Every growl. Every time Dylan had said my name like it meant something.
I pressed my knees together tighter.
Dylan reached for a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap, tilted it to his mouth, and took a slow sip; throat bobbing, biceps flexing like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then, with the most casual shrug imaginable, a bit of water spilled.
Right onto his chest. And then his shorts.
“Shit,” he muttered, looking down at the wet patch now spreading low across his waistband. He didn’t exactly move fast to wipe it away.
“Guess I’m soaked,” he added, glancing up at Elliot with a smirk. “Adds to the whole sweaty post-workout vibe, right?”
“Honestly?” Elliot lifted the camera. “It’s working.”
But Dylan’s eyes weren’t on Elliot anymore.
They were locked on me.
And he was still smirking.
Like he’d finally seen it for himself. The one who kissed me soft and called me his. The one standing ten feet away, grinning behind the camera, with no idea his hands weren’t the only ones on me last night.
And unfortunately or fortunately; he was right.
Dylan turned toward Elliot, rolling his shoulders back like he was limbering up. “Should I pour some more water over myself for the next shot? Really lean into the whole ‘beast mode’ thing?”
Elliot gave a short laugh. “If you want to give the people what they want.”
Dylan smirked, already holding the bottle. Without waiting, he tipped it again over his chest. The water spilled in slow rivulets down his torso, darkening the fabric of his shorts even further. It clung to his abs, traced every muscle like it knew the path better than I did. My cock twitched in my jeans, hardening painfully.
He glanced sideways; right at me. “Hope this isn’t too distracting for the studio audience,” he murmured, just loud enough to pass as a casual joke.
I rolled my eyes, but my throat went dry.
The water caught the studio lights as it trickled down his chest, pooling at the waistband of his shorts. He let out a slow breath, then glanced sideways at Elliot. “These shots working for you?”
Elliot nodded behind the camera. “Yeah. Hold it. A little more angle; perfect.”
Click.
Flex.
Smirk.
Click.
Dylan flexed his arms, subtle but intentional. Every pose was sharp, practiced, hot. And I was sitting in the corner trying not to get hard. Which was going poorly.
I stood, subtly shifting to rearrange myself, and walked over. Elliot was already scrolling through the photos; Dylan’s glistening abs, his flexed arms, the way he smirked at the camera like he knew exactly what he was doing. He looked unreasonably good. Stupidly photogenic. The kind of man whose pictures came out looking like thirst traps even when they were for a protein brand.
Elliot leaned in beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, hand landing lightly on my arm as he tilted the monitor toward me. It felt innocent. Casual. But I still felt it...his warmth, his scent. That familiar, heady mix of expensive cologne and something deeper, something like red wine and summer skin.
He was close enough that I could feel his breath as he spoke. “Look at this one...see how the shadow hits just under his chest? That’s going to be the hero shot.”
I nodded. But I wasn’t really looking at the screen anymore. I was remembering last night. The way Elliot had kissed me slowly, with his hand on the side of my face like I was something fragile. The way he had looked at me after, like he already knew my answer before I did. The way his body moved with mine, patient, attentive, fucking me like he wanted to be memorized.
And now here he was, showing me pictures of the other man I’d let do the same.
There I was, in the middle of a photo studio, with Elliot standing beside me, his shoulder brushing mine; scrolling through shirtless pictures of Dylan, the man whose cock had been inside me less than twenty-four hours ago. And Elliot, the man standing next to me now, the one who had kissed me slow and fucked me like he cared, still had no idea.
“He’s beautiful, right?” Elliot said, nudging my arm with a grin.
I blinked. “Huh?”
“Dylan. Great model. Great energy. Total natural.”
“Yeah. Sure. He’s, uh… photogenic.”
Elliot turned to me then, really looked at me. “Everything okay?”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He tilted his head. “You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m not...” I stopped.
Because Dylan had just walked over, toweling himself off. He looked at the screen over my shoulder. “Damn, I look good. Make sure to send me the unfiltered ones. And tag my protein partner, obviously.”
He glanced at Elliot. “You’re killing it, man.”
Elliot smiled. “You’re easy to shoot.”
Their handshake felt slow-motion. Their banter, casual. But I could feel it; the electricity between them. And me? I was standing in the middle of a charged wire.
Elliot looked between the two of us, then back at me. “So… how long have you and Dylan known each other?”
I hesitated.
Elliot looked between the two of us, then back at me. “So… how long have you and Dylan known each other?”
I hesitated.
Then glanced at Dylan.
He was already across the room, towel slung around his neck, wiping down his abs as one of the producers showed him something on a clipboard. He nodded, said something with that half-smirk still lingering on his face. Like nothing was wrong.
Elliot’s voice was quieter now. Closer.
“Troy.”
I turned.
“Can we talk for a sec?”
He didn’t wait for a full answer. Just gestured toward the back hallway, near the emergency exit door. No one else was around. The sounds of studio chatter and camera gear faded as we stepped into the quiet space. The door swung shut behind us with a soft click.
Elliot didn’t look mad. Just-steady. Composed. The way someone looks when they’ve already run the conversation in their head.
“I didn’t want to ask you in the middle of the shoot,” he said. “I’m a professional.”
He paused, took a breath. “But the way you took off his shirt? The way he looked at you; like he’d already had you. Like he was waiting for more. And you…”
I stayed silent.
“You looked like someone who already knew every inch of him,” Elliot said. “Not a stranger. Not just a friend.”
My chest tightened.
He kept his voice soft. “Are you sleeping with him?”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I wanted to lie. Just because the truth sat like a stone in my mouth.
Elliot’s jaw shifted. Just once. “That’s what I thought.”
I looked down.
“We aren't exclusive,” he added quickly. “I get that. And I walked into this knowing it might not last. But I still let myself fall.”
His voice caught; not dramatic, just real.
“And now I can’t unfeel it, Troy. I can’t stand here, watching you with someone else, and pretend it doesn’t affect me. Especially not when that someone looks like....” He stopped. Smiled thinly. “...well, him.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t. But that’s not enough anymore.”, said Elliot.
A long, quiet pause passed between us. Somewhere behind the wall, I could still hear Dylan’s laugh; low and easy.
“I just…” Elliot finally said. “I don’t want to be someone’s second choice.”
I looked up.
He met my eyes, held them. “So if you figure it out; if you know what you want - text me.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. I just stood there, full of a hundred things I couldn’t name. Elliot stepped forward, and before I could stop him or say anything; he pulled me into a hug.
It was gentle. Warm. A little too long to be just friendly, and a little too soft to be just casual. He held the back of my neck for a second when we pulled apart, like he didn’t want to let go but knew he had to.
Then he smiled, just barely and said, “Take care, okay?”
I nodded. My throat was too tight to answer.
He didn’t wait for more. Just turned back toward the studio, grabbed his camera bag, muttered a few quiet goodbyes to the crew and Dylan, and walked out.
No drama. No slammed doors. Just the slow sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
And me, standing in the quiet, with Dylan still laughing somewhere behind the set…
…torn between two different kinds of want.
And still not ready to choose either.
______________
A minute passed. Maybe more. Then I heard Dylan’s voice behind me, casual but close. “What was that about?”
I turned. He was walking over, towel slung around his neck, damp hair pushed back, his hoodie sticking to his chest. His face unreadable, except for the slight tilt of curiosity in his eyes.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s fine,” I said, too fast. “All good.”
Dylan didn’t press. Just looked at me for a beat too long, then nodded slowly. “Cool,” he said. “You still hungry?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. You wanna grab something?”
The question hung in the air like it was nothing. Just dinner. Just a maybe. But I couldn’t answer. Not yet. Because I knew whatever I said; it would mean something.
If I said yes…
Was I letting Elliot go?
Elliot, who kissed me like he meant every second of it. Who held my face like I was something worth holding on to. Who kissed my shoulder after and whispered stay. Who looked at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask. Saying yes to Dylan might mean letting that go. Letting him go. And I didn’t know if I could.
But if I said no…
I’d be lying. To myself.
Because Dylan was the man I’d had a crush on since forever. Since that weekend with my best friend Jake, back when I pretended not to stare. Since that night in the basement where everything changed. He was the one who broke me open. Who touched me like my body was his to memorize. The one I couldn’t stop tasting, no matter how many times I said it was the last. My body had gotten used to him. The sound of his voice, the stretch of his cock, the way he growled my name when he fucked me.
So what now?
Do I choose the man who fucks my brains out…
Or the one who holds me close and kisses me like I matter?
Dylan asking me to dinner; that was new.
Was it just another chance to get off…
Or was he ready to take this further than our secret fucks in dark rooms?
And Elliot, he taught me that sex doesn’t have to be rough to be intense.
That intimacy could feel like being lit up from the inside.
But I liked the rough too. I liked being wrecked.
And maybe that was the problem.
I wanted both. I wasn’t ready to lose either of them.
From across the room, Dylan’s voice rang out...loud, easy, cocky.
“Spaghetti Noodle, you coming?”
My breath caught.
And for a second, I honestly didn’t know.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ End of Season 2 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Troy's Note: Season 2 ends here. Messy. Dramatic. A little too honest.
Thank you for following Troy, Dylan, and Elliot through all the chaos, the sex, the blowjobs, the tension and the feelings none of them were ready for.
I wanna know; how’d you like this season?
Whose team are you on?
And seriously… what would you do if you were in Troy’s position?
Drop your thoughts in the comments <3
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