You Used to Look Up to Me
Simon’s PoV
I’d stayed 15 minutes longer than I should have. But some part of me kept hoping she’d show. That there’d be a text with a reasonable excuse. Traffic. A work call. Something that wasn’t just silence. But the screen stayed dark.
I was halfway through my second gin and tonic when I finally accepted I’d been stood up. Again.
As a result, I wasn’t even enjoying my drink all that much. But this place had the right vibe for me to sit there without drawing attention. The lights were low enough not to feel exposed, and the pub busy enough that no one would notice the guy sitting solo, checking his phone every few minutes.
Finally, I pushed back my chair and stood. I just wanted to settle up and go. The server was nowhere in sight, but I’d had enough of waiting.
I’d just reached for my wallet when a voice cut through the noise—deep, grounded, and laced with easy familiarity.
“Simon Halpern? No fucking way.”
I looked up, startled.
A massive guy was walking toward me with purpose, grinning, his arms spreading like this was some kind of special reunion. He acted like someone I should recognize, but my brain wasn’t catching up fast enough.
Before I could say a word, he stepped in and wrapped me in a hug—tight, full-body—and then lifted me right off the ground.
His chest was firm against mine, pecs bunching beneath his shirt, arms locked with quiet force. I wasn’t just being hugged, I was being held. Everything about him felt imposing. Strangely, it didn’t feel threatening, just… disorienting.
By the time he set me down again, my heart was beating fast. I was scrambling to catch up to what this was. I blinked, trying urgently to recognize him. I didn’t. And that blank confusion made me feel unmoored. Guys who looked like that didn’t grin at me like we had a shared history.
Whatever I thought I was hiding, I wasn’t doing it well. I must’ve looked stunned. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say a word, he laughed—shook his head once and smirked, like the punchline had just landed.
“You’re wondering who the hell just lifted you off your feet… like you only weigh 130 pounds.”
Then came the chuckle—low, knowing.
I stared at him. Broad. Grinning. I was struggling to to catch up. He knew me. Not just my name, something deeper. That easy confidence, like we had a past. But I didn’t recognize him at all. Nothing. Just the thud of my heart and the creeping sense that I’d missed something important. Something big.
He could see that I was staring, and must have sensed that I was overwhelmed, because that’s when he let me in on the mystery.
“We used to play tag at the jungle gym in Cloverdale Park when you babysat me.”
I stood there. Frozen, blinking, probably with my mouth half open like I’d been hit with a blunt object. My face was doing things I couldn’t control, eyebrows fighting with each other, jaw slack, brow tense. It wasn’t like I’d babysat a lot of kids in my teens. It could only be…
How the hell was this Zack Maddox?
And now, I felt the weight of it. The scale of him. Tall. Broad. The short sleeves of his button-up strained around thick biceps. The shirt hung open, framing a tank top that clung to his chest like paint. My eyes dragged upward—delts, neck, jaw, the kind of face you weren’t supposed to get caught looking at, but probably would anyway. His grin hadn’t faded. It was warm, open, even a little cocky.
He was looking at me like I was someone he remembered fondly. Like this moment meant something.
But I couldn’t meet him there.
While there was nothing aggressive in his expression, presence felt overwhelming in the way he filled the space. It wasn’t just the size, it was the way he held himself. His eyes were locked on mine, unblinking, like he was still waiting for me to show up in this moment.
And standing in front of him, I felt... small. Not physically, though that too. It was something deeper. Like the version of myself he remembered had more weight than the one standing here now. Like I’d been important to him once—and now I had no idea how to be that person again.
He used to follow me around asking if we could play one more game before bed. Now he stood there—massive, easy, confident—and looked at me like he still expected something from me.
Only I had no idea what.
“Come on dude, say something.” Still watching me, waiting.
“Jesus,” I managed. “You—fuck. You’ve changed.”
I looked him over, again. His thighs were massive, quads carved and thick, pushing against the fabric of his gym shorts like they were custom-fitted.
My gaze dragged back upward—tight waist, broad chest, powerful shoulders, thick neck, strong jaw, and the face. Zack had grown into a very impressive and handsome guy.
I don’t know how long we stood there. He broke the awkward silence for me. Tipped his head toward the table like it was no big deal. “Sit. Let’s catch up.”
And just like that, he gave me something to follow. I didn’t hesitate. I was already pulling out the chair.
I sat first, and then Zack took the seat across from me. His movements were casual, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he took up space. He leaned back, legs spread, one hand resting on his thigh, the other curled around the edge of the table. His arm caught the light—thick, vascular. His shoulders overflowed the chair, making it look like it was meant for a child. Under his open shirt, the tank clung to his chest, tracing pecs that looked like slabs of stone.
I sat there, still trying to process the fact that this was Zack. My face was warm. My chest felt tight.
“So…” I started, because I had to say something, “So I guess you work out, huh?”
Zack grinned. “I started lifting in high school, mostly for football. Just part of the program at first. But my body responded fast, putting on size came easy. After a while, I started caring more about the training than the games.” He glanced down like he could still see the early version of himself, then met my eyes again. “I stuck with it. Pushed harder. Got serious.”
He looked up, easily meeting my gaze. “Eventually some guys at the gym talked me into competing. That went well, and then the sponsorship stuff started—supplements, gear, brand work. Then the coaching offers came in. People want to know how I train, what I eat. And I mean… look at me. They know I’m not guessing.”
He chuckled, then added with a flash of teeth. “Pays better than pouring sidewalks, and I get to stay pumped.”
I nodded slowly, trying to keep my face from giving too much away. But I could already feel it. The way I seemed to shrink next to him. I felt like nothing about me could compete with the sheer presence he brought into the room. I felt small.
Still, my eyes kept drifting—his arms, his chest, the shape of him under that tank. Every movement felt amplified, like his size bent the scale of everything around him. His forearms rested on the table, thick and steady, and I couldn’t stop noticing how they looked compared to mine.
He was so close. Just sitting there. And somehow, it still felt like he took up the whole room.
I told myself it was just unfamiliar. I wasn’t used to guys like him. That was all. Just… contrast. Anyone would be staring. He was objectively impressive. That’s all this was.
Still, I tried to meet his eyes again. Just for a second. I couldn’t.
My stomach tightened. I shifted slightly in my chair, like a few inches might help.
“Sounds like you keep busy,” I said, trying to keep my tone level.
“Yeah.” He paused, eyes still on mine. “It’s wild seeing you again. You were always the cool one on the block. You didn’t talk down to me. I thought that meant you were legit. And you made the best grilled cheese… sammiches. I really looked up to you.”
He said it the same way he had back then—sammich, not sandwich. I felt myself grin, just a little. Same word, same tone. Coming out of a body like his now, it landed different. Almost made me forget how rattled I felt.
“You look good, man.” His eyes moved over me, calm, inquisitive. “I mean I recognized you right away. But now that we’re talking… there’s something different I can’t quite put my finger on.” He gave a small shake of his head, like he was trying to solve it.
I forced a smile. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. The words weren’t meant to sting. But they did. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t.
Something had shifted. And not just in me.
I used to be the older one, the taller one. The confident one. The one who knew what to say.
Now I couldn’t even sit still. I shifted in my chair, hoping it looked casual. But Zack had already gone back to flipping the beer menu, calm and unbothered.
“So, what about you?” he asked, glancing back up. “What’ve you been up to? Were you here with someone?”
I hesitated. The smart play would’ve been to lie. But something about Zack’s presence made that feel impossible.
“I was supposed to be meeting someone,” I admitted. “Date. She, uh… bailed.”
Zack nodded, as if I’d unknowingly offered up another piece of the puzzle before him.
“Guess it worked out.” He smirked, not unkindly. “If she’d shown up, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here.”
I looked up at him, startled by the simplicity of it. I didn’t know what to say to that. I nodded, fingers drumming once on the table before I caught myself and pulled my hand away.
Across from me, Zack looked completely at ease. He sat there, legs spread, forearm resting heavy on the wood, eyes steady. Like this was just two guys catching up.
But I couldn’t get a clean breath. I felt like I was being watched and measured, even when he wasn’t looking. Like sitting across from him was exposing something I didn’t know how to hide.
I needed a second. Maybe more.
Zack’s PoV
I hadn’t seen Simon Halpern in nearly a decade, but the second he stood up, I knew it was him.
Same eyes. Same smile. A little older, sure, but the memories came flooding back.
The way I used to trail after him on my bike like a little shadow. Back then, he was the guy who knew how to fix a chain, draw a perfect dragon, prepare a grilled cheese just right. He could beat every level in Mario Kart and never lost his temper when I talked too much. He was older, in that way that made you think he knew things. I guess I just thought that’s what grown-up looked like.
When I walked up to him, I didn’t expect instant recognition. It’d been years. I figured the size might catch him off guard. But I thought I’d at least get a laugh, maybe a “holy shit” or a shake of the head. Something. Instead, Simon froze. Stared at me like the past and present didn’t line up. Like I’d shown up in a body that didn’t belong to the name he remembered. The hug seemed to make it worse—like it landed too hard, too real. And after that, he just couldn’t find his footing.
He kept glancing away, then back, like he couldn’t decide where to look.
The guy sitting across from me now wasn’t the guy I remembered. He looked rattled. Smaller, somehow. Like the version of him I remembered had been replaced with someone more careful, more uncertain. It was as if he didn’t know how to be himself around me.
He seemed a little lost, and I was starting to feel sorry for him, so I thought I’d try to keep things light.
“You still in the area?” I asked. “Or just visiting?”
“I live here,” he said. “Work’s here. I’m a librarian at the university, they call us knowledge management specialists.”
I nodded slowly. “Nice. That sounds… challenging?”
Knowledge management specialist?
I hadn’t seen Simon in ten years, and that’s what he started with? I asked if he was local—and he led with his job title. Not where he lived. Not how long he’d been back. Just work.
It wasn’t what he said—it was what he avoided.
That’s when it started to click—something wasn’t sitting right. It wasn’t just awkwardness, not exactly. It felt more like restraint. Like something in him was tightening, bracing. His words were careful. Controlled. Not cold, just… guarded. Like he was trying to keep the focus off himself.
And if that was his way of steadying the moment, it wasn’t working. That quiet tension stayed with him. Shoulders a little too square, posture a little too upright. Like relaxing might give something away. Like part of him already felt seen, and didn’t want to be.
He gave a weak smile and reached for his water. His fingers fumbled slightly on the glass. Simon shifted slightly, eyes flicking down and back up. Quick, but not quick enough.
I caught it. He was still taking it all in. Still trying to make sense of the change.
“So… you’re a bodybuilder now,” he said, aiming for casual. “Didn’t see that coming. Must make shopping for clothes a nightmare.”
I grinned. “Yeah, I’ve split a few shirts. Comes with the territory.”
He laughed too hard and looked down at the table.
It wasn’t that funny. But it was the way he laughed—quick, a little too loud—like he needed to shake off whatever was tightening inside him. And as I sat there, I wondered if he even realized how much he was revealing.
I’d seen this in guys before. Simon wasn’t just making small talk. He was trying to process what was sitting across from him. The fact that I’d grown into someone he clearly hadn’t expected. Someone twice his size with the easy confidence that comes with that.
Most people clock the size, make a comment, move on. A joke, a smirk, maybe a compliment if they’re bold enough. Whatever reaction they have, it usually burns off fast.
But not with him.
Simon was still rattled. Still recalibrating. Like the image in his head and the guy in front of him didn’t line up, and he didn’t know what to do with the gap.
And that, more than anything, is what caught my attention.
In the ten years since we’d seen each other, I hadn’t just grown—I’d turned into someone he wasn’t expecting. Taller. Bigger. More grounded. But it wasn’t just the size. It was the way I walked up to him, the way I looked at him. Something had shifted between us, and I could feel him trying to make sense of it.
And that caught me off guard. Not from Simon. Not from the guy who used to feel like a fixture in my world.
But now—watching him fumble through the conversation, watching his eyes keep drifting back to me even when he tried not to—I felt something shift.
I wanted to know what was behind that. And I had a feeling I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
Simon cleared his throat, then gave a small shake of his head, like he was still trying to shake off whatever had a grip on him.
“You were always a hyper kid,” he said. “Not really… athletic though. What got you into all this?”
His eyes flicked across my chest, then darted from shoulder to shoulder. He was trying to take in the full spread and couldn’t do it all at once.
I caught the way he registered the fit. How the seams pulled tight around each delt, the short sleeves cuffed high but still creeping up. The open shirt framed it all, but it was the tank underneath that showed what the fabric couldn’t hide.
I’ll admit it, I didn’t mind how he seemed to be struggling with the new me. I wanted to see where that look would take him, where it would take us.
So I let him look. And then, slow and easy, I reached back to scratch my neck. Just enough to let my bicep swell and the skin stretch tight over the peak.
The shirt sleeve crept up with it, dragged by the mass underneath. I felt the shift—the tension across my delt, the pull through my chest as the tank underneath hugged closer. The button-up flared, hanging open, framing what the tank didn’t hide. His eyes went there instantly.
His mouth parted. His breath caught. And then that stumble—his gaze yanked away, only to find its way back half a second later. Quick. Reflexive. I’d seen it before. A certain kind of stare, the kind guys try to disguise as curiosity or surprise, even when it’s neither.
But the signs were stacking up. I let the flex linger before lowering my arm, letting it fall slow to the table. The pump held—bicep rounded, sleeve bunched high and tight. The shirt shifted again, brushing over the tank where it clung to me. He tried not to notice. He failed.
He probably didn’t even realize how obvious he was being. He was too distracted. Too drawn in. And that only made it easier to see what he couldn’t hide. That’s the moment that stayed with me. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want what he was seeing.
It was time to up the stakes.
“High school treated me well. Don’t you think?” I asked, tone casual, but I knew what I was doing. “I shot up, filled out, and the gym just… made sense. Being skinny never suited me. It didn’t feel right.” I let the silence stretch a beat, then added, “But this? This feels right.”
Simon didn’t say a word. He just sat there, all 130 pounds of him, collar still neat, hands in his lap. No eye roll, no comeback. Not even a flinch at the jab. It was like part of him agreed and he’d already decided I was right.
I leaned forward, resting one forearm on the table. Let the muscle tighten just slightly. Rolled my wrist once, slow and loose, watching the veins shift and rise under the skin. My forearm moved with fluid precision, dense, corded, everything connected. Just strength, shown without effort.
His eyes caught on it. And stayed.
The flicker of something across his face. Stillness that wasn’t natural, like his body forgot how to move for a second. His jaw tightened. His breath hitched. He tried to look away. Failed.
I hadn’t expected this from Simon.
But now that it was happening—watching him fight it, trying to stay cool while his whole body gave him away?
Yeah. I wasn’t in a rush to stop.
He looked like he had a question brewing. And when it finally came out, his voice was soft. Almost sheepish.
“What kind of modeling do you do?”
I didn’t answer right away—just let the question hang as I settled back in my chair. “Mostly fitness work,” I said. “Lifestyle. Supplement companies. Gym gear. Stuff like that.”
His eyes skimmed my chest before he caught himself. I watched him try to recover.
“Shirtless?” he asked.
I smirked. “Often. Sometimes less. Swimwear. Underwear. Whatever the brand wants.” I shrugged. “Muscle sells.”
I could see him trying to picture it. Trying not to—but doing it anyway. That look on his face like he was mentally undressing me, trying to make the image match what was sitting in front of him.
He cleared his throat. “Isn’t that… awkward? Being that exposed? The centre of attention?”
I leaned forward again, just slightly. Not much. Just enough to let the shirt shift and the tank pull tighter.
“Not really,” I grinned. “I’m not the shy type.. You think I don’t have what it takes?”
His lips parted, but no answer came.
I let it sit.
“Fifty-two inch chest,” I added. “Twenty-one inch arms. Eight-pack abs. Some say it’s too much.”
I let the grin come slow. “What about you?” I asked. “You think it’s too much?”
Simon blinked. “I—uh—I mean, it’s... definitely impressive.”
Not a yes. Not a no. Just enough to show he couldn’t answer directly.
“Well you know what they say, muscle builds confidence. Some guys never get past that part. Others…” I let the sentence trail as I sat back again, eyes on his. “They learn to enjoy it.”
His fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table. His eyes hadn’t moved in a while. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t breathing right.
He shifted in his seat, folding his arms across his chest like he was trying to hold something in. It didn’t look comfortable.
His gaze was fixed on my arm. Then a hand drifted lower, almost absentminded. His thumb brushed across his upper arm, slow and uncertain. Like he was feeling for something. Measuring.
His eyes dropped briefly to the table, and I could almost see the math happening in his head. The quiet recognition. The contrast between us was clear, but he was feeling it on a deeper level.
Then he spoke. Quieter this time. A little off-balance. “I’m lucky if I can open a jar without pulling something.”
That got my attention.
Most people tried to play it cool around me. Some cracked jokes. A few tried to posture. But this wasn’t any of that. It was a confession. Quiet. Involuntary. He didn’t realize that he was telling me I made him feel vulnerable.
I could’ve let it hang there. But I’d seen the look in his eyes—the way he watched me like something had tilted inside him, and he wasn’t sure whether to fix it or follow it.
So I leaned in.
“Next round’s on me,” I said, keeping it light. “Unless you were about to call it.”
He hesitated. “Actually… yeah. I should probably head out.”
I nodded. “You live close?”
He looked up. “Couple blocks.”
I held his gaze. “Let me walk you.”
I smiled. Just a quiet offer he didn’t know how to turn down. This was going down just as I hoped it would.
Simon’s PoV
We detoured to the bathroom before heading out. Zack took the middle urinal like it meant nothing. I veered left, choosing the cubicle. I didn’t trust myself to be beside him. I closed the door and stared at the graffiti on the back wall, trying to breathe.
I stood there, hand braced on the metal divider, trying to settle myself. My thoughts were a mess. I didn’t know what I was feeling, exactly. Some mix of nerves and something closer to… being drawn to him.
What kind of guy watches another man like had—tracked the way his arms flexed, the way his chest filled out a shirt?
I didn’t have an answer. I just knew I needed the door between us. Just for a minute. Just to get my footing.
I waited until I heard the sink running before I stepped out. Zack was already washing up, his arms flexing with every motion. His triceps bunched and relaxed as he moved, each muscle playing beneath the skin like it had its own rhythm. He wasn’t doing anything special—just scrubbing his hands like any other guy—but I couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop feeling it.
I stepped up beside him, turned on the tap. And tried to focus.
He reached across me without warning. His chest brushed my shoulder, arm firm as it moved in front of me. He grabbed a paper towel, still talking about something I barely registered, and dried his hands like it was nothing.
I stood there, hands dripping, unsure what to do next.
We were outside walking before I fully realized it, side by side on the sidewalk. Zack was talking. Something about an upcoming shoot. Maybe a brand deal. He mentioned the photographer, a new gym bag, how the lighting setup last time was brutal. I caught pieces, but none of it landed. Not really. I was too aware of his stride, the sway of muscle under his shirt, the sound of his voice curling around me.
A couple passed us going the other way, stepping wide without breaking their conversation. Another pair moved off the curb without hesitation, like they sensed something coming and gave it space. Normally, I was the one who yielded—apologized, made room, stepped aside.
“People are giving us the whole sidewalk,” I said.
Zack glanced at me, smirk tugging slow at the corner of his mouth. “Muscle has its perks.”
He wasn’t bragging. For him it was just a given. It made something twist in me. I looked at him again, how wide he was through the shoulders. How different he was than me.
He walked like someone who knew the world made room for him. And maybe that was what rattled me most. Because I couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to move through life like that.
Outside my building, I hesitated. The walk had helped… a little. But I still felt foggy. Unbalanced.
“You gonna make me coffee or what?” Zack asked, glancing up at the windows. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I fumbled for my keys. “Yeah. Sure. Come on up.”
The elevator was mirrored wall-to-wall. We both caught our reflections.
Zack stood relaxed—open shirt, tight tank, shorts riding high on thick, sculpted quads. His legs looked carved from stone, every movement a quiet flex of power. The shoulders, the arms, the sheer size of him, it all looked effortless.
I stood beside him in jeans and a button-down. It was the first time I really saw us together. And it hit me, how far we’d drifted from the kids we were. He looked like he knew exactly who he was. I looked like I was still trying to figure that out.
Zack caught me looking and smirked, like he’d read my mind.
“Wild, huh? Ten years and a couple hundred pounds later.”
His tone was easy, but there was something in his eyes. Like he knew more than he was saying. Like he was watching not just how I looked at him, but what it did to me.
Inside my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said, trying to sound normal.
I heard the creak of the couch. Fabric shifting. When I came back with two mugs in hand, Zack had taken off his shirt and draped it over the back of a chair.
He was still wearing the tank—but it didn’t matter.
His arms were fully bare now. muscled, sculpted, perfectly defined. Delts like cannonballs. Veins tacked up and down his arms, vanishing beneath the soft stretch of fabric clinging to his chest. The front dipped just enough to show the heavy line of pecs, and the tank hugged his torso tight, hinting at the abs beneath.
Seeing him like that stopped me in my tracks.
He looked up, saw it hit me. The way I couldn’t look away fast enough.
His lips curled, slow. Smug and sure. “I was getting warm. Just wanted to be comfortable,” he said casually, like nothing about this moment felt loaded. “I can throw it back on if it’s messing with your head.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. Not just the words. That he was noticing. He’d seen the way I looked at him—maybe had been seeing it all along—and now he was calling it out. I was being read.
I tried to answer and couldn’t find my voice right away. “No—no, it’s… it’s fine,” I managed, shaking my head too fast.
He leaned back deeper into the couch, one arm stretching behind him. His bicep thickened, swelling with the shift.
It was happening again. My eyes snapped to it before I could stop myself.
Then I looked away, too late.
I turned back toward the kitchen, mumbling something about snacks. Just to put distance between us.
I didn’t trust myself to stay there staring at him.
When I returned, he was studying a framed photo from a trip years ago. I sat across from him. Tried not to stare.
He brought the mug to his lips, muscles flexing, veins shifting under his skin. I couldn’t help it. My eyes went there.
Zack held my gaze. He didn’t say anything at first, he just watched me. Calm. Curious. Letting the tension thicken between us until it felt like it was going to snap.
The silence stretched.
I tried to drink my coffee, but my hand felt clumsy on the handle. The room was too quiet. I felt it in my chest. In my throat. I needed to say something—anything—before I imploded.
“Back in the elevator… you said, ‘a couple hundred pounds later’...” My voice was uneven.
Zack cocked his head, not breaking eye contact.
I hesitated, but he’d opened the door, and I needed to walk through it.
“I was just wondering… like… so, how big are you now?” It came out fast, unfiltered. “I mean—like—” My hand brushed my own chest without thinking, a silent comparison. “Y-you’ve gotten… huge.”
He smiled. Like he’d been waiting for me to admit it.
“You’re not the first to say that,” he said. “Puberty hit like a freight train. I shot up, filled out. Outgrew the kid you knew.”
Zack smirked. Rolled his shoulder slightly. The tank shifted over his pecs.
I flushed. “Jesus. I j-just… I mean… I really noticed it in the elevator.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “In the elevator? Really?” He sounded more playful now. “Simon, you’ve been checking me out since I sat down with you at the pub. And now you’ve been clocking my arms since you handed me this coffee.”
He flexed again, slow and full, like a dare.
I blinked, heat rushing to my face. “Wh—what?”
Zack didn’t look away. “My arm. You keep staring.”
He locked eyes with me. “You look curious. Come check it out.”
I didn’t move.
My brain was screaming to laugh it off, to make a joke, to do anything except what I was thinking. My pulse thudded in my ears. My palms were damp. I tried to look away—failed.
Zack didn’t move either. Just sat there, arm flexed, watching me unravel.
I took a breath. Shaky. Shallow.
And then, I stood. It wasn’t that I’d made a decision. I hadn’t. It was just that I couldn’t stop myself.
Zack stood too.
I stepped toward him, slow and steady. We were close now. Closer than we’d been all night.
I was staring hungrily.
“You’re allowed to touch, you know,” he said quietly. “If you dare.”
Zack’s PoV
He looked up at me like I’d just short-circuited him. Breath shallow, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust them to move. And still, he stood there. Staring.
I waited patiently, letting Simon commit himself.
This wasn’t the first time I’d caught a guy staring at me. Most try to hide it, or joke it off when they’re caught. A few lean in with swagger, trying to deflect. But Simon… he looked torn. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—reaching for me, or walking away.
And that did something to me.
I watched him reach. Slow, hesitant. Like his hand might get burned if he touched me wrong. His fingers brushed the peak of my bicep, featherlight. I tensed it—just a little—and felt the tiniest tremor run through him. His breath caught, sharp and audible in the quiet.
“Harder than you expected?” I asked. My voice came out lower than I meant.
He nodded without speaking.
I brought my other hand up, curled my fingers under the hem of my tank top, but didn’t pull it off yet. I needed to see him want it.
“What’s it feel like?” I asked, looking down at him.
His fingers trailed higher along the peak of my bicep, then swept inward, tracing the hard line where it tied into my shoulder. Thumb brushing along the groove, like he was trying to map the mass by feel.
“Dense,” he whispered. “Hard. Big.”
I felt that in my gut. My cock stirred in my shorts, balls drawing tight. I stepped in, close enough he had to tilt his chin to keep our eyes locked.
He looked rattled. Flushed. But he didn’t step back. “I feel… small,” he said, barely audible.
Fuck. I almost groaned.
I let it hang for a second. Then leaned in.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “That’s the point.”
I grinned. “You want to see more?”
He nodded eagerly.
I peeled the tank up and off, slow. His eyes followed every inch.
He just stared. Then, without me saying a word, he reached out again—both hands this time—fingertips grazing my pecs, then flattening, stroking gently like he still couldn’t believe what he was experiencing.
His palms roamed, slow, reverent. I let him explore. Let him take his time. I could feel the tremor in his fingers every time he traced over a ridge of muscle. When his thumb dragged across my nipple, my cock twitched hard against the inside of my shorts.
I watched him the whole time. He didn’t even notice. He was too busy soaking me in.
His hands slipped lower. I let him go. I wanted him to.
By the time he reached my stomach, his breathing had changed. Shallow. Uneven. His fingertips dipped along the deep lines above my waistband.
I reached down, caught his wrist, and moved his hand lower. Just enough to show him what I wanted.
Simon didn’t resist. His hand landed right over my cock, hard and straining beneath the fabric. I saw the moment he realized how big I was. The way his fingers froze, then slowly flexed.
His breath hitched.
I shifted, towering over him now. His face level with my shoulders.
“Think you can handle it?” I asked.
He didn’t speak—just gave the slightest nod, his hand squeezing again.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and shoved them down. My cock sprang free, hard and heavy, bobbing slightly in front of him. I kicked the shorts and briefs aside.
He stared. Mouth open. Eyes wide.
I stroked his cheek with the back of my knuckles. “You gonna give me a hand?”
He looked up. “Yeah.”
His voice was barely audible. But it was enough.
I nudged his shoulder. “Sit.”
He did so, settling back into the couch like his legs might give out. I stepped closer, standing there, my cock inches from his face.
His hand wrapped around the base, tentative at first, then firmer. I hissed through my teeth.
“Fuck… that’s it.”
Simon’s grip tightened, both hands now working up and down my shaft, slow and careful at first. But that look on his face—focused, dazed, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing—had me pulsing in his hands.
I braced myself on him, gripping his shoulder. “Don’t stop,” I muttered. My voice was rough, almost guttural. “Just like that.”
He picked up the rhythm, strokes growing more confident. One hand stayed near the base, anchoring me, the other teased the head—twisting slightly, stroking in short, hungry passes. It wasn’t just mindless. He was putting effort into it. Watching for my reactions. Learning what I liked, and then giving it to me.
The way his hands moved—deliberate, but full of hunger—it was a bit clumsy, but it was focused. Like he needed this. Like making me lose control had become the only thing that mattered. My abs clenched. The tension built fast. I felt the heat coil deep.
“Fuck… Simon—” My head fell back for a second, jaw clenched, then I looked down at him again. “You’re gonna make me—”
His eyes met mine, wide and almost afraid. But he didn’t stop.
I jerked hard in his grip. Once. Twice.
“Fuck… Simon—” My head fell back for a second, jaw clenched, then I looked down at him again. “You’re gonna make me—”
His eyes met mine, wide and almost afraid. But he didn’t stop.
I jerked hard in his grip. Once. Twice.
Then I came—explosive and charged.
The first thick ribbon hit him high, streaking across his cheekbone and into his hair. He gasped, eyes flinching shut. Then they opened again, still holding my gaze. The next spurt caught his jaw, his lips. He twitched but didn’t pull away. Just froze there, stunned, breathing hard through his nose. More followed. Hot, heavy ropes landed across his throat, his collar, soaking into his shirt.
He blinked through it, gasping, face flushed, lips parted. My cum ran down his chin, onto his neck, clinging to his skin like he’d been marked. And still he didn’t move. Something in him had decided he needed this.
I stood there, chest rising and falling, looking down at what I’d done to him.
And fuck, he looked good like that.
Simon was still looking up at me, dazed. Confused, maybe. But not unhappy. His hand hadn’t moved. He was still lightly curled around my half-hard cock like he didn’t know what to do next. I didn’t say anything. Just watched him, memorizing the look on his face.
I’d been admired before. A lot. Guys at the gym, fans online, the occasional photographer who got a little too into the shoot. But this? This was different. Simon wasn’t trying to impress or score points. He was wrecked. Overwhelmed. Honest. And for some reason, that made me feel more alpha than anything else had.
Finally, he let go and sat back a little. His eyes met mine as my cum dripped down his face, trailing across his cheek and chin, catching at the corner of his mouth.
He blinked slowly, like he was coming back to himself. “That was… that was the first time I’ve ever…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
A drop lingered on his lip. He licked it away on instinct, then froze, eyes wide. Blushing.
I grinned. “How do I taste?”
His blush deepened.
I looked down at him, still red-faced, still wide-eyed, what I’d spilled across his cheek, his shirt, the line of his jaw. He was still sitting there. It seemed he was processing, or maybe replaying, what had just happened.
“You’ve got good hands,” I said, reaching for my clothes. My voice was quiet, but the words came out thick. “And next time, Simon…” I paused, let it hang. “We’ll see what you can do with your mouth.”
His eyes went even wider.
I smirked. Slid my briefs back on. “You’re a natural, Simon. You just need someone to bring it out of you.”
He looked stunned. Still processing everything. I didn’t push it. Just grabbed my shirt and glanced toward the door.
“I’ve got a shoot tomorrow,” I said, adjusting the collar. “Need to look fresh.” I gave him one more look. “Besides, if I’m thinking about tonight, I won’t need much help to fill out the front of my briefs.”
He didn’t say anything, but I saw how he tensed. Still wrecked, in the best way. I’d done that. And I knew I’d be thinking about it for a while.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m free.”
Then I saw myself out.
Simon’s PoV
The door clicked shut behind him.
I didn’t move.
The room was still thick with his scent, something primal. It clung to the cushions, to the air, to my skin. My shirt was damp and sticky where he'd come on me. I should’ve felt humiliated. Instead, I sat there, stunned. Rock hard. Breathing like I’d run four miles.
What the fuck just happened?
I looked down at myself. Still fully dressed, but rattled. Shaken. My heart was still pounding. My thoughts scattered. Zack’s voice echoed in my head—Next time, we’ll see what you can do with your mouth.
Jesus.
I should be angry. Or ashamed. Or something.
But all I could feel was the pressure behind my fly. The ache he left behind.
Zack had become everything I wasn’t—confident, cocky, carved from stone. He filled space without trying. Drew eyes without effort. And when he saw what he did to me, he didn’t back off. He leaned in.
I wanted to blame him. For showing off. For knowing exactly what to say. For flexing like he did, for testing me. For pulling me in and leaving me throbbing.
I closed my eyes, tried to breathe. But the scent of him was still on my fingers. The sticky cooling patch on my shirt pressed against my chest, a reminder. I could still taste him.
I unbuttoned my jeans with shaking hands. Freed my cock from my briefs, already wet at the tip. My fingers trembled as I wrapped my hand around it. Tight. Slow. Hungry.
I didn’t think. Just stroked. Remembering his voice. His weight. The heat radiating off his skin. The look in his eyes when I said yes.
My hips shifted. My grip tightened. My free hand clutched at the cushion beside me. I imagined his chest in my hands again, the way it flexed under my touch. The thickness of him in my palm. The smirk he gave me when he caught me staring. My breath caught.
And then I came. Hard. Jaw clenched. Gasping.
The first spurt landed on the floor. The next shot farther, arcing across the hardwood. I barely registered the mess—just the force of it, sharp and electric. This moment had been building for hours.
I slumped back into the couch, pulse still racing. My cock twitching.
And only then did it hit me—
I was still hard.
Author's note: I know alternating POV isn’t everyone’s favorite—myself included. But I felt it was necessary to introduce both characters properly. Going forward, the story stays primarily in Simon’s point of view. This is a five chapter story. Feel free to leave a comment. :)
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