Season 1, Episode 1
The Scent of Him
Anyone who stepped through the door of dorm room 3B entered a world of absolute masculinity and testosterone: the lingering salt of Luke’s post-practice sweat, the clean, sharp smell of laundry soap from the mountain of clothes on Paul’s chair, and the faint, spicy ghost of the Szechuan beef they’d demolished an hour ago. It was the smell of their shared life, a scent Paul had come to associate with a feeling of profound, unshakable rightness.
Paul was hunched over a magnetic chessboard perched on his cluttered desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. His blue eyes, usually dancing with an easy, infectious charm that could disarm professors and beguile strangers, were narrowed to sharp slits, tracing a deadly path from his ebony knight to Luke’s exposed ivory king. He was shirtless, a habit he’d picked up from Luke, wearing only a pair of worn gray sweatpants that hung precariously low on his lean hips, revealing the sharp, shadowed V-cut of his abdomen. He wasn't built like Luke (who was a force of nature, like a living statue) but like a panther: all taut, coiled muscle and wiry strength, honed to perfection on the soccer pitch.
The door burst open with a crash that rattled the chess pieces, and Luke stormed in, a human hurricane of raw power and kinetic energy. He was a monument of muscle and sweat, still in his practice gear. His shoulder pads were gone, but his Northwood Wolves jersey and padded football pants were soaked through and smeared with mud and grass stains. At a solid six feet of sculpted brawn, he dwarfed their small room, his presence so immense it felt like it sucked the very air from the space, only to replace it with his own pheromone-drenched heat. He dropped his helmet on the floor with a loud, echoing clatter that made Paul flinch.
“Fucking Henderson!” Luke boomed, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards and up Paul’s spine. He was a walking subwoofer. He stripped his jersey off over his head in one fluid and violent motion, revealing a chest that looked like it had been carved from granite by a god who specialized in pure, masculine power. His pecs were thick, heavy slabs of muscle, and his stomach was a brutalist landscape of deeply etched abs, all slick with a sheen of sweat that caught the light. “Thinks he can run a slant route on me. On me! I put his ass in the dirt so hard I think he found oil.”
Paul smirked, his eyes never leaving the board. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Let me guess… You celebrated by standing over his unconscious body and flexing until a vein in your forehead popped?”
“Damn right I did!” Luke grinned, the sound a low, satisfied growl. He grabbed a towel from the hook on the door and roughly scrubbed at his short brown hair. “Gotta let ‘em know who owns the fucking field!” He stalked over to their shared mini-fridge. Every muscle, from his wide lats to the thick cords of his traps, flexed and shifted under his skin. He pulled out a neon-yellow Gatorade, twisted the cap off with a flick of his wrist, and chugged half of it in three massive gulps, his throat working.
Then he turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned his hip against Paul’s desk. The heat radiating from his body was like a furnace, and his bare thigh pressed against Paul’s shoulder. It was a casual, thoughtless point of contact, one of a thousand they shared every day, but a sudden, sharp jolt went through Paul.
“Whatcha doin’, genius?” Luke’s voice was softer now, laced with affection. “Plotting world domination one pawn at a time?”
“Just dismantling your last pathetic attempt at a Queen’s Gambit.” Paul said, his voice steady despite the sudden flutter in his chest. He finally moved his knight, the magnetic piece clicking satisfyingly into place. “Checkmate in three. You’re getting predictable, big guy.”
Luke scoffed, playfully shoving Paul’s head. His calloused, powerful fingers tangled for a moment in Paul’s soft, curly hair. The gesture was meant to be dismissive, brotherly. But his hand lingered for a breath too long, his fingertips warm against Paul’s scalp, and that simple touch felt like a brand.
“Fuck you!” Luke grumbled, but there was no heat in it. “My mind was on the game. The real game.” His hand dropped away, and Paul felt a strange sense of loss.
“Sure it was. Or was it on Pamela’s fine ass?” Paul teased, a defense mechanism to steer his own treacherous thoughts back to safer, straighter territory.
Luke let out a low, throaty chuckle that was pure sex. “Can’t it be both?” He moved away, turning his back to Paul as he began to unlace his muddy football pants.
Paul kept his eyes locked on the chessboard, but his entire consciousness was focused on the man behind him. His senses were on high alert, cataloging every sound: the slide of the heavy fabric down Luke’s powerful legs, the soft sigh of relief as he kicked the soiled pants into a corner, the rustle as he searched his dresser drawer. Out of the corner of his eye, a sliver of his peripheral vision he couldn’t force away, he saw Luke standing there in nothing but a pair of tight, black compression shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
His friend was a walking wet dream. Thick, powerful thighs that could crush a watermelon, a perfectly round, high, firm ass that was bisected by the taut seam of the shorts, and a bulge in the front that was frankly obscene even when he was soft. It was a heavy, substantial promise of the nine inches Paul knew he was packing. He’d seen it, of course. In locker rooms, in shared showers after a workout. But seeing it like this, in the privacy of their room, with the memory of Luke’s touch still tingling on his scalp… it was different. It was dangerous.
Paul felt a familiar, insistent tightening in his own sweatpants. His cock, a traitorous bastard, was stirring to life. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
“You’re a pig.” Paul managed to say, his voice a little strained.
“And you love it.” Luke shot back without missing a beat, pulling on a fresh pair of worn-in jeans. He turned back around, zipping them up, and the casual domesticity of the act was so at odds with the riot of lust churning in Paul’s gut that it made him feel dizzy.
Luke’s easy smile faded as he looked at Paul. His brown eyes, usually warm and open, narrowed with concern. “Hey. You’re quiet today. Everything good?”
Paul forced a casual expression, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, man. Just tired. Long day of… you know. Thinking.”
“Bullshit!” Luke said immediately, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He had a sixth sense for Paul’s moods. “You’ve got your ‘I’m overthinking shit into a black hole’ face on. What is it?”
Before Paul could formulate a lie, Luke’s big, warm hands landed on his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. “Too much chess, not enough living.” Luke diagnosed, his thumbs digging deep into the knots in Paul’s traps with practiced ease. The touch was meant to be comforting, a friendly massage, but it was pure, unadulterated electricity. Paul’s entire body went rigid, his breath catching in his throat. The scent of Luke’s clean skin, soap and residual sweat, filled his nostrils.
“C’mon, loosen up.” Luke grunted, his grip firm and sure. He was so close Paul could feel the warm puff of his breath on his neck, raising goosebumps. “You’re wound tighter than a goddamn snare drum.”
And then, just to be a shit-stirrer, to break the sudden, strange tension he probably didn't even understand, Luke used his incredible strength to spin Paul’s desk chair around and haul him up to his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paul laughed, but the sound was thin, nervous.
“An intervention.” Luke declared, a predatory grin spreading across his handsome face. “A physical one.”
And then he lunged.
The next day, the Northwood University cafeteria was a cacophony of clattering trays, shouted conversations, and scraping chairs. It was the social heart of the campus, and Paul and Luke were right in its center, holding court at their usual table near the windows. Luke was recounting a brutal tackle from yesterday’s practice, acting it out with sweeping gestures that nearly knocked over a salt shaker, his voice booming over the din. A small crowd of teammates and admirers were hanging on his every word.
Paul sat beside him, nursing a coffee, a small, knowing smile on his face. He was the quiet counterpoint to Luke’s boisterous energy, the calm anchor to his storm. People often said they were like two halves of a whole, and watching them now, it was easy to see why. Luke was the raw power, the sun and Paul was the gravity, the quiet intelligence that orbited and shaped it.
“...and then I told Coach, if Henderson tries that shit in the game on Saturday, I’m not just gonna tackle him, I’m gonna fold him up and mail him back to his mommy.” Luke finished, and the table erupted in laughter.
“There go the soulmates.” a girl from their English Lit class whispered to her friend as they passed by, not quite quietly enough.
Paul felt a familiar flush of something he couldn’t quite name (maybe pride mixed with a strange possessiveness). He glanced at Luke, who had heard it too. Luke just grinned and threw a heavy arm around Paul’s shoulders, pulling him into his side in a rough, affectionate hug.
“You hear that, Paulie? We’re soulmates!” Luke said loudly, for everyone to hear. “Means you’re stuck with my sweaty ass forever.”
“A fate worse than death…” Paul retorted dryly, but he leaned into the embrace, the solid warmth of Luke’s body a familiar comfort against his side.
Just then, Pamela arrived, a vision in a green sundress that brought out her eyes. She slid onto the bench next to Luke, placing her tray down with a bright smile. “Talking about yourself again, babe?” she asked, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“Only my best qualities.” Luke said, turning his attention to her.
Paul felt a subtle shift in the energy. The circle of their two-person universe was now a triangle. He liked Pamela. She was smart, funny and she clearly adored Luke. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being an observer when she was around, watching their easy intimacy from the outside. He watched her hand rest on Luke’s thick thigh, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his jeans, and a sour knot formed in his stomach.
“So, Paul.” Pamela said, turning her bright green eyes on him. “Luke tells me you’re some kind of secret chess wizard. Are you going to the tournament next month?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking about it.” Paul said, forcing a smile.
“You should!” Luke interjected, his attention snapping back to Paul. He picked a stray french fry off Paul’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “Gotta defend your title. Show all those nerds what a real brainiac jock looks like.” He winked, then, without thinking, he picked up another fry, dipped it in ketchup, and held it up to Paul’s mouth. “Fuel for the genius.”
It was a nothing gesture. They shared food all the time, their boundaries of personal space practically nonexistent. But with Pamela sitting right there, watching with a slightly strained smile, the act felt charged. Paul’s eyes met Luke’s over the french fry. For a split second, the noise of the cafeteria faded away. It was just them again. Paul opened his mouth and took the fry, his lips brushing against Luke’s fingertips.
The contact was fleeting, but it sent another one of those illicit jolts through him. He saw a flicker of something in Luke’s eyes before he turned back to Pamela, laughing about something she said.
Paul chewed the fry slowly, the taste of salt and ketchup mixing with the bitter tang of jealousy and the sweet, dizzying poison of his own desire. He felt Pamela’s gaze on him, a curious, assessing look. She saw it. She saw the intensity of their bond, and for the first time, Paul wondered if she saw the dangerous current running beneath it, the one he was trying so desperately to pretend wasn’t there. He took a long sip of his cold coffee, the arm Luke had thrown around him still feeling warm on his shoulders, a phantom limb of possession.
The night before the big game against their rivals, the Westwood Ravens, the campus was buzzing. Parties were already starting, but in room 3B, it was quiet. The only light came from the glow of Paul’s laptop, where he was methodically breaking down game footage of the Ravens’ star quarterback, looking for tells in his posture, his footwork, anything to give Luke an edge.
Luke was sprawled on his bed, supposedly studying his playbook, but he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. He was staring at the ceiling, his massive frame tense.
“He’s got a tell…” Paul said softly into the darkness, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Right before he fakes a handoff and goes for a long pass, he licks his lips. Every single time.”
Luke didn’t answer, so Paul turned in his chair. In the dim, blueish light from the laptop, he could see the worry etched on Luke’s face. The usual easy confidence was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability Paul rarely saw.
“Hey!” Paul said, his voice gentle. “You with me?”
Luke sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire university’s expectations on his shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He sat up, running a hand over his face. “I just… This game, man… and my dad’s flying in.”
“You’re gonna kill it, bro!” Paul said with absolute certainty. “You’re the best goddamn defensive end in this conference, and everyone knows it.”
“What if I’m not?” Luke’s voice was barely a whisper. “What if I have an off day? One bad game, and all that shit…”
That, right in front of him, was the Luke that no one else saw. Not the boisterous jock, not Pamela’s confident boyfriend, but the guy who carried a heavy pressure on his broad shoulders. Paul’s heart ached for him.
He got up from his desk and walked over to Luke’s bed, sitting on the edge. “That’s not gonna happen. You’re not going to have an off day. And even if you did, which you won’t, it wouldn’t matter. You’re more than one game, Luke.”
Luke looked at him, his brown eyes dark and serious in the faint light. “You really believe that?”
“I know it.” Paul said, his own voice thick with sincerity.
Luke scrubbed his hands over his face again, then let his head fall forward, resting it on Paul’s shoulder. His hair was soft against Paul’s cheek, and he smelled like clean soap and the faint, familiar scent of Luke. Paul froze for a second, his entire body going rigid with the shock of the tender contact. This wasn’t a rough hug or a playful shove. This was trust. Raw vulnerability.
Slowly, Paul relaxed. He let himself absorb the solid, heavy weight of his friend. He could feel the steady beat of Luke’s heart through his T-shirt. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, to pull him closer, to tell him that he’d always be there to catch him. But he didn’t. He just sat there, perfectly still, providing a silent, solid anchor in the dark.
“Thanks, Paul…” Luke mumbled into his shoulder, his voice muffled. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, man.”
“You’d be lost.” Paul whispered, a half-joke that felt entirely true.
Luke chuckled, a low vibration against Paul’s collarbone. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, his head resting on Paul’s shoulder, their breathing slowly syncing up in the quiet room. In that moment, the frantic, clawing lust Paul usually felt was replaced by something deeper, something so powerful and overwhelming it scared him more than any simple physical desire. It was a profound, soul-deep love for the man leaning on him, and the lines between that love and his lust were blurring into a dangerous, beautiful, terrifying mess. He was hopelessly gone for his best friend.
The tension from the night before had coiled and sprung. Luke had played the game of his life.
He was a force of nature unleashed, a whirlwind of controlled violence. He’d sacked the Ravens’ lip-licking quarterback three times, forced a fumble that led to the winning touchdown, and had, as promised, folded Henderson on a brutal but clean tackle that made the whole stadium gasp. He was the hero, the MVP, the king of the campus.
And now, he was straddling Paul on his bed, pinning him to the mattress, and the world had shrunk to the space between their bodies.
It had started as an explosion of celebratory energy. Luke had burst into the room after the post-game celebrations, still high on adrenaline and victory, his voice hoarse from shouting. Paul had been trying to concentrate on a paper, but Luke was a magnetic field of pure kinetic joy, impossible to ignore.
“We did it, man! We fucking did it!” Luke had roared, grabbing Paul and lifting him off his feet in a bone-crushing hug.
The roughhousing that followed was inevitable. It was their language, a physical expression of a bond too big for words. A shove turned into a grapple, a grapple into a full-blown wrestling match on the floor, all grunts and laughter and the thud of bodies hitting the cheap dorm carpet. Luke, with his superior weight and raw strength, was always going to win. He’d maneuvered them onto Paul’s bed, flipping Paul onto his back and settling his heavy frame over him, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head.
That’s when the laughter died.
It evaporated into the charged air, replaced by the sound of their ragged, panting breaths. Luke was straddling Paul’s hips, his denim-clad thighs locking Paul’s legs in place, his weight a heavy, dominant pressure. The position was shockingly, breathtakingly intimate. Paul could feel the solid, thick ridge of Luke’s crotch pressed firmly, undeniably, against the front of his own jeans. And in response, his own cock, that goddamn traitor, was surging to life, growing thick and hard with a speed that was both thrilling and terrifying.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked up, his wide blue eyes meeting Luke’s dark brown ones. The triumphant, playful glint in Luke’s gaze was gone. It had been replaced by something else entirely. Something darker, hotter, and intensely focused. It was confusion. It was curiosity. It was a mirror of the same dawning horror and arousal that was flooding Paul’s own system.
The inches between their faces felt like a super-charged vacuum. Paul’s gaze flickered down to Luke’s mouth, to his lips, slightly parted as he breathed. He wondered what they would taste like.
Paul couldn’t form words. His throat was tight, his mind wiped clean of everything but the man on top of him. The heat of his body. The smell of his skin. The unrelenting pressure of his cock against his own.
Then Luke shifted.
It was a small, almost imperceptible movement. A slight grinding of his hips, a deliberate adjustment of his weight that sent a bolt of pure, white-hot lightning through Paul’s entire body. It was friction. It was intentional. A raw, guttural moan clawed its way up Paul’s throat, and he had to bite his lip to keep it from escaping.
Luke felt it. Paul knew he did. He saw the shock register in Luke’s eyes, followed instantly by a flare of something else—something that looked terrifyingly like reciprocal arousal. The heavy pressure beneath Luke’s zipper seemed to pulse, to grow even harder against him.
The moment stretched, thick with desperate want. This was it. The point of no return. The line was gone, obliterated by the friction of their bodies. Something was about to break, to shatter into a million pieces. Paul wanted to be shattered.
BZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZT.
The loud, obnoxious vibration of Luke’s phone on his nightstand sliced through the tension like a fire alarm. The screen lit up the dimming room, illuminating a smiling, blonde Pamela under the contact name ‘My Girl ❤️’.
Luke blinked, his whole body jolting as if from an electric shock. He looked down at Paul, then at the phone, then back at Paul, and the hot, predatory haze in his eyes dissolved into a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated panic.
He scrambled off Paul so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet, stumbling backward until his legs hit his desk chair. He put a hand on the desk to steady himself, refusing to meet Paul’s eyes. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.
“Shit!” Luke mumbled, his voice hoarse. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck! It’s Pam. I, uh… I told her I’d find her after the game.”
Paul sat up slowly, his body a thrumming, aching mess of frustrated energy. Every nerve was on fire. His jeans felt painfully tight, the denim rough against his ragingly hard cock. He shifted, trying to adjust himself without being obvious, a pointless gesture as the tent in his pants was impossible to hide. The air in the room, once charged with erotic possibility, was now thick with a suffocating awkwardness.
“Yeah.” Paul manage to say, his voice sounding hollow and distant to his own ears. He tried to summon his usual easygoing smile, but it felt like a grimace, a painful stretching of muscles that didn't want to cooperate. “No worries, man. You should, uh… you should see your girlfriend.”
The word ‘girlfriend’ was a stark reminder of the world outside this room, of the lines they had just come so terrifyingly close to annihilating.
Luke nodded jerkily, still not looking at him. He snatched his phone off the nightstand as if it were a lifeline. “Yeah, Yeah…” He cleared his throat, a rough, scraping sound. “I’m just gonna… I’m gonna go.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He practically fled the room, closing the door behind him with a bang that sounded as final as a gunshot in the sudden silence. Paul heard the low, indistinct murmur of his voice starting up in the small common area, the tone shifting, forcing itself back into the easygoing, happy jock everyone knew and expected.
Paul fell back onto his bed, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. He threw an arm over his eyes, but he couldn't block out the image of Luke’s face hovering above his. Even worse, he couldn't stop thinking about the dark eyes, the parted lips, the flicker of raw desire.
He was shaking.
His entire body was trembling with the aftershocks of the moment. He reached down and touched himself through his jeans, his fingers tracing the thick, hard length of his erection. It was a painful, desperate ache.
“What the fuck was that?”
It wasn't just roughhousing. It wasn't just an accident. He replayed the final seconds in his mind, over and over. The way Luke’s voice had dropped. The way his eyes had darkened and the deliberate, grinding pressure of his hips.
“He felt it too…”
The thought was a terrifying, exhilarating revelation. “He got hard. He felt me get hard, and he pushed against me. He wanted it!”
A wave of heat washed over him, a mix of shame and white-hot lust. He had wanted Luke to keep going. He had wanted him to lower his head, to crush his mouth against his, to rip their jeans off and finish what they had started right there on his bed.
The desire was so powerful, so all-consuming, it left him breathless. But the fear was just as strong. The look of sheer panic on Luke’s face as he scrambled away… that was real, too. He’d scared him. He’d scared them both.
The silence in the room pressed in on him. The ache in his groin was unbearable, a demanding, throbbing pulse that echoed the frantic beating of his heart.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
With a groan, Paul rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow, trying to muffle the sound of his own desperation. He fumbled with the button on his jeans, his fingers clumsy and shaking. He pushed them down, along with his own briefs, kicking them off the bed until he was naked from the waist down, his hard, seven-inch cock springing free, slick with a bead of pre-cum at the tip.
His hand closed around his shaft. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to bring the fantasy into focus. Luke’s body on top of him. The solid muscle, the heat, the raw power… He started to stroke himself, his movements jerky and uneven.
His eyes snapped open, scanning the familiar chaos of their shared room. And then he saw it, lying in a heap near the desk were the clothes Luke had stripped off after practice, the muddy football pants, the grass-stained jersey, and peeking out from underneath… a swatch of black. The compression shorts. The same shorts that had hugged every magnificent curve of Luke’s ass and cradled the heavy weight of his cock.
A wave of dark and compulsive desire washed over him. He crawled off the bed, his knees hitting the cool floor. He was on all fours, his erection pointing toward the pile of clothes like a compass needle finding its true north. He reached out a trembling hand and pulled the black shorts free.
They were still slightly damp, cool to the touch. He brought the fabric to his face, burying his nose in the center of the garment, right where Luke’s crotch would have been. He inhaled deeply and the scent hit him like a drug.
It was pure, undiluted Luke. The primal, musky scent of a man’s sweat and a rich, animalistic pheromone that was uniquely his. It was the scent of the locker room, the practice field, and their shared bedroom all concentrated into one intoxicating aroma.
A desperate sound, half-whimper, half-groan, escaped Paul’s lips. He scrambled back onto the bed, clutching the shorts like a holy relic. He lay on his back, his cock now painfully, achingly hard. He draped the shorts over his face, breathing in that intoxicating scent, letting it fill his head and block out everything else.
His hand moved back to his shaft, his grip slick and sure this time. He closed his eyes, and the fantasy came roaring back to life, now vivid and terrifyingly real.
He imagined Luke’s weight pressing him down again, but this time they were both naked. He imagined that big, powerful hand closing around his own cock, mirroring his movements. He could almost feel the calloused fingers, the overwhelming strength.
“Fuck, Paul…” he imagined Luke growling, his voice that low, sexy rasp from before. “You feel so fucking good…”
Paul’s hips began to buck off the bed, his own strokes becoming faster, more frantic. He rubbed the soft, worn fabric of the shorts over his chest, his stomach, letting the phantom touch and the potent scent drive him wild. He could feel Luke’s mouth on his neck, his teeth grazing his collarbone. He could feel the heavy, thick press of Luke’s nine-inch cock, uncut and massive, rubbing against his thigh, his hip, smearing his wetness against him.
“Luke…” he breathed, the name a prayer and a curse on his lips.
He was close, so fucking close.
The pleasure was coiling tight in his gut, a frantic, spiraling heat. He pictured Luke’s face, the dark eyes burning with that same shocking desire he’d seen before, but this time with no fear, no hesitation. Only pure, raw lust.
“C’mon, Paul, come for me!” the voice in his head commanded.
And that was all it took.
With a choked cry, Paul’s body arched violently. His mind went white with pure sensation. A thick, hot jet of semen shot from his cock, spraying across his own stomach and soaking the front of his black jockstrap. Wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure ripped through him, so powerful it felt like he was being torn apart. He pumped his fist one last time, milking out the last drops, his whole body trembling with the force of the release.
The orgasm faded, leaving him panting, sticky, and boneless on the bed. His heart was still hammering. The only thing he was holding onto was a pair of his best friend’s sweaty underwear.
The reality of what he had just done crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow. He had just come, desperately and pathetically, while smelling Luke’s shorts and screaming his name.
He hadn’t just crossed a line. He had obliterated it, soaked it in his own come, and accepted the devastating, thrilling truth. He was completely, hopelessly, and physically in love with his best friend. With his straight best friend. Who had a girlfriend, who was, at that very moment, fucking her. Doing what he had fantasized about.
He let out a long, shaky breath, staring at the blank, stained ceiling. The status quo was gone. It had been violently, irrevocably shaken. Their easy, perfect friendship, the one thing in his life that felt solid and true, was now a fragile, sexually charged minefield. He had seen behind the curtain, had felt the truth of what lay beneath the surface of their bond.
It was something wild, something hungry, and now that it had been acknowledged, even for a few heart-stopping seconds, it could never be put back in its cage.
their friendship would never be the same again.
