Zack Avoidance
A few days later, I spotted him just after noon, outside the café across near the campus. Zack was leaned back against a bike rack, mid-conversation with someone, a woman I recognized from the Faculty of Engineering. A doctoral student, tall, polished, always smiling. She laughed at something he said, touched his shoulder like it was nothing. He looked relaxed. In his element.
I didn’t wait to see if he noticed me. I turned immediately and crossed the street, phone to my ear like I was on a call.
My pulse was already up.
By the time I got back to my desk, I was telling myself he was nothing. Just a guy I used to know. He had nothing to do with me. So what if he talked to someone I recognized? He must flirt with everyone. That’s all it was.
Then my phone buzzed. A text.
Zack: you good?
Just those two words. I stared at the screen, thumb resting near the edge. I read it twice. Didn’t reply. I just locked the screen and shoved the phone back in my pocket. But the words stayed with me.
I tried to reset. Opened my inbox. Skimmed a few research requests. Flagged a draft policy someone wanted me to review. But my brain wouldn’t stay put. It kept circling back to that night at my place.
I hadn’t just looked at him. I’d devoured him with my eyes. Soaked in every line of muscle, every curve of strength. Let it hit me, flood me. And while I did, he’d smirked and watched me, until it became obvious I couldn’t look away.
I realized now that he’d known exactly what he was doing. Standing there in that tank, solid and broad and impossible to ignore. Letting it land. Letting it sink in. The size of him. The confidence. The way the fabric clung to every inch he wanted me to notice. He knew how good he looked, and what it was doing to me. He had just waited, sure I’d fold. And I did.
I could’ve said no at any point. But I didn’t. Not when I touched his arm. Not when he peeled off that tank. Not when he guided my hand lower. Like he knew exactly where I’d end up.
He even asked. Flat-out. If I wanted to help him out.
I said yes.
So what the hell was I blaming him for?
That thought stayed with me all afternoon. By three o’clock, I was behind on everything and had snapped at two colleagues for things that weren’t their fault. A student came by with a metadata question I barely answered. During our afternoon check-in, I couldn’t even remember what I was supposed to be working on. I just nodded along, pretending I was fine.
Every time I blinked, I saw Zack’s chest. The thickness of it. The way his pecs bunched together when he tensed them. I remembered the sound he made when I touched him. He moaned low and satisfied, like he’d never doubted my hunger for him. And even now, as I continued to struggle with my feelings, part of me felt proud to have drawn that out of him.
By four-thirty I’d had enough. I shoved my laptop into my bag and left without saying goodbye. I needed space. Air. A walk. Anything to shake the static from my head.
On the way down, in the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. My jaw was clenched, my neck flushed, like I was coming down with something.
Then the words started.
I’m not gay.
I’m not confused.
I’m not one of those guys who just—
It was a one-time thing. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
It didn’t mean anything.
I tried to believe it. Tried to make it make sense.
But my body wasn’t listening. Not my pulse. Not the heat behind my eyes. Not the way I was still half-hard just thinking about him. The words might’ve worked yesterday. But now they just felt hollow.
I stepped out into the late-day heat and kept walking. Eyes forward. Jaw tight. Hoping the sidewalk would carry me far enough away from whatever the hell was unraveling inside me.
~~~~~~
The next morning, I stepped into the shower and let the water run warm enough to feel like something I could disappear into. The heat rolled down my back, loosening the tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. It felt good. Steady. Like something familiar I didn’t have to think about. I stood there longer than usual, hands braced against the wall, letting the steam rise and swirl around me, quieting everything for a few minutes. Just water and breath. No expectations. No confusion. No Zack.
But my fingers didn’t get the message.
They slid down my chest, slow, almost absentminded. Ghosted over my stomach. I told myself I was just washing. But my fingertips lingered. Dragged lower.
I caught myself before I got too far. Snapped my hand back like the water had turned cold.
I stared at the tile for a few seconds, jaw clenched, steam rising around me like it could hide what I was feeling. I wasn’t going to get off in the shower like some horny teenager. Not over him.
And still, my cock throbbed, even as I turned away from the spray. Even as I tried to think of other things—meetings, errands, anything but the way Zack looked at me the other night.
That’s when it hit me. Zack hadn’t just filled out. He hadn’t just grown up.He’d built himself into something massive, deliberate, and unapologetic. The mass, the symmetry, the power—none of it happened by accident. He’d felt something. A pull. A drive. And instead of questioning it, he’d embraced it. Pushed himself until that presence, that body, that quiet force—that was what he had become.
It explained a lot. The calm. The way he stood there and let me stare. The way he didn’t apologize for taking up space.
He’d earned it. He owned it.
And maybe that’s why he didn’t second-guess himself. Why he didn’t ask permission before taking off his shirt. Why he could just sit back and smirk while I lost my grip.
Because guys like Zack didn’t wonder what they were allowed to want.
And whatever this was building inside me—it wasn’t just confusion, and it was more than admiration. It felt bigger than that. Closer. Physical. Like I was being drawn into something I didn’t understand but couldn’t turn away from.
I stood there too long. Water still running. I felt tense. I turned off the tap and stepped out dripping, towel forgotten, chest rising and falling, trying to get myself under control.
I was still rock hard. And the worst part? I’d thought that naming it—understanding Zack, telling myself I’d figured him out—would help. That it would make all of this easier to manage. But it didn’t. My body still reacted. Still wanted. And I was clinging to the one thing I hadn’t done,touching myself, as if that restraint meant something. As if it proved I had some kind of grip.
But the ache between my legs said otherwise.
The day blurred past. Meetings. Emails. Noise. I kept my head down and did what needed doing. But underneath it all, I felt like a thread about to snap. After work, I went for a run. Not my usual loop. I needed something longer. Harder. Something to empty me out.
But the rhythm didn’t clear anything.
Every time my feet hit the pavement, I heard Zack’s voice again—steady and amused. I saw his hands tugging at the hem of his tank. I remembered how his cock pressed thick against his shorts even before I touched him. How he'd wanted me to see it all, slow and deliberate. Like he knew I’d carry it with me, whether I wanted to or not.
I pushed harder. My lungs burned. My calves screamed. But the heat in my chest remained.
I stopped at a bench, bent over with hands on my knees, gasping. Not from the run. From everything I couldn’t shut down.
And then I remembered the old Zack. The one who used to tag along behind me at the park. Watching me run. Asking questions. Laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny. Back when he was just a kid with wide eyes and no idea what he’d grow into.
That kid disappeared 200 pounds ago.
Now, Zack looked like he could crush steel in his hands. And now, I was the one staring at him. I was the one acting like I couldn’t get enough of being close to him.
I stood up, unzipped the pocket on my armband, and pulled out my phone. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t even think. I just opened the messages app and stared at his name.
And then it hit me—he never followed up, not really.
Just one message. you good? That was it. Like I was a passing impulse. A stray thought. I locked the screen and shoved the phone back in like it burned.
Fuck him. Let him move on. Let him flirt with whoever he wants. I’m not chasing this. I’m not chasing him.
I started running again. Harder this time. Not toward anything. Just away from the ache in my chest and the part of me that still wanted to hear from him.
It didn’t mean anything, I told myself.
But my heart was still hammering.
~~~~~~
I wasn’t supposed to be this close. I’d mapped my route wide around the gym—cut behind the school, up toward the community center. But my feet betrayed me.
The sun was still high, the light sharp. I turned the corner into the park and there he was.
Zack.
Leaning back against a low wall near the gym path, one leg bent, the other stretched out like he owned the space. His tank—same one he wore at my condo—clung damply to his chest. He looked pumped, like he’d just finished a workout. His thighs were spread, arms resting casually at his sides, and his head was tilted slightly to the sun.
He looked incredible. Like a sculpture that somehow breathed. Every inch of him thick and defined. Veins trailed down his arms. His shoulders rounded out like they’d been inflated, the kind of size that only came from years of work. That tank had no business staying on him—it didn’t hide anything. Not his width, not the cut of his abs, not the roll of his pecs when he shifted.
I froze. My breath hitched. I was too far to turn back without being obvious. So I walked. Head down. Hoodie up. Pretending not to see him while still drinking him in.
He ran his hand down his bicep, slow and deliberate, the skin shifting over thick, rounded muscle. Then gave his tricep a squeeze, fingers digging in briefly like he was confirming what was still there. The movement made his shoulder swell while his chest rose with a quiet breath.
Then he looked up and saw me.
Zack tilted his head a little. No smile. Just a quiet flicker of recognition. His fingers flicked once, subtle. A quiet “come here.”
My jaw clenched. Bastard. I cursed him silently and changed course, angling right toward him.
He didn’t speak. Just let me close the distance. His gaze was steady. Calm. He let me get close enough that I could smell the sweat drying on his skin, the sun-warmed fabric of his tank.
I stopped a few feet away, heart thudding, unsure where to look. His chest? His arms? The sweat at his collarbone? I couldn’t decide what was worse, meeting his eyes or getting caught staring at his body.
He finally spoke. Voice low. Even.
“Did I misread something?”
It was just a question. But it punched the breath out of me. I hadn’t prepared for this. My brain scrambled, heat rushing to my face, my thoughts snagging on the memory, the thickness of his muscles under my hand, his cock swelling as I held him. I was flustered. Cornered. So I did the only thing I could. I pushed back.
“Look, I don’t…” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you think that was, but it’s not happening again.”
The words came out brittle. Too fast. I wished they carried more weight.
Zack didn’t blink. Just held my gaze. Not even a flicker of surprise.
“You never responded to my text,” he said.”
My eyes widened. It was true. I’d been avoiding him for days—rerouting my whole life like he was some kind of threat.
And here I was. Standing in front of him again.
“Yeah,” I said finally, folding my arms. “Whatever. It was a mistake.”
Zack scratched lazily at his stomach. The hem of his tank lifted just enough to reveal two rows of hard, defined abs. They tightened when he shifted his weight. The lines deep, symmetrical, cut like grooves into stone.
My eyes were drawn to him. Locked in. I didn’t even pretend to look away.
Of course he noticed. And when our eyes met again, he gave me the faintest smirk. It wasn’t as though I had intended to hand him that victory. But that’s how it went down. I wasn’t myself around him and we both knew it.
Zack let the tank drop and smirked—barely. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t be a stranger, Simon” he said.
Then, he turned and walked toward a woman stretching a few yards away. Said something casual. Light. Easy. She laughed.
I stood there, still hard, humiliated, and burning.
There was nothing more I could say. I just turned.
As I walked away, I heard her giggle behind me. I pictured her reaching out, fingers gliding along his arm—those thick, perfect muscles always on display.
I picked up my pace.
~~~~~~
By the time I got home, I kicked the door shut behind me and yanked off my hoodie, barely registering where it landed. My breath came in short bursts—not from the walk home, but from everything Zack had just done to me, without raising a finger.
I paced the living room. Jaw tight. Palms flexing at my sides. I told myself it wasn’t real. That it didn’t mean anything. Just some weird reaction I couldn’t explain. But the way I’d felt around him, the way my body responded without permission… I couldn’t stop seeing it. Reliving it. Like he’d left something in me I couldn’t shake.
I grabbed at my shirt. Even that—just cotton brushing across my chest—felt like too much. I peeled it off and sat on the edge of the bed. My legs were spread, hands braced on my knees. My head dropped back, jaw tight, chest rising in shallow bursts.
I stayed like that for a second, trying to breathe through it. But the heat wouldn’t fade. My fingers slid up over my chest, absently at first, just trying to ground myself. But then I brushed across my nipple, and my whole body jolted.
I stared at the ceiling.
Just to take the edge off, I told myself. Nothing more. Just enough to function.
My hand was already moving lower.
The second I touched myself, I could see him, feel him.
That smirk when he caught me looking. The way he held it, sure as fuck. Like he already knew what I was feeling. There was this quiet certainty about him, like he’d never had a single doubt about what he could do to me.
His arms were still in my head. Round and full, the kind that stayed pumped long after the workout. He’d stroked his bicep while watching my reaction. The way his forearm thickened when he reached up, the veins tight under his bronzed skin. The thickness of his chest behind the stretched tank, pecs bunching as he shifted his stance, teasing definition that dared me to remember more.
And then his abs—cut so deep they looked etched. He’d flashed them, effortlessly, deliberately. Like it was just part of his routine. I knew he’d seen me freeze. Knew exactly what that one move would do.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, my grip tightening. “You don’t get to do this to me.”
I stroked slow, trying to hold the moment, to stay on that edge just a little longer. The buzz, the burn, the throb in my palm—it was hotter than release. I didn’t want it to end.
But then, my imagination took over.
Zack standing over me, shirtless. Watching. Smirking. Savoring the grip he had on me, my hand stroking furiously even as I cringed in frustration, even as I struggled to deny what was happening. Standing there, knowing I wouldn’t last. That my attempts to rebuff him were, at best, a poorly executed bluff.
I moaned, falling back on the bed, thrusting urgently into my hand. I couldn’t will him away. He still stood there in my head, watching me come undone—because of him.
“You can’t hold it,” he said, voice low and certain. “You think you can resist me?”
In my mind’s eye, he slowly, wickedly, stroked his arm—wrist to shoulder—tracing the thick line of veins all the way.
It made me jealous. Even in this messed-up fantasy, I wanted to be the one touching him.
My hips started moving. I tried to fight the rhythm, tried to loosen my grip, but it didn’t matter. My body was already gone, clenching with every stroke. The tension coiled high in my chest, my thighs, my abs.
And when it hit, it wasn’t release. It was a convulsion—sudden, brutal. My whole body locked, hips thrusting as the first rope shot across my stomach, then another, harder, higher. I moaned through clenched teeth, jerking with every pulse, every wave that tore through me before I could stop it.
When it finally ended, it didn’t leave me calm and content. I lay there—wrung out and empty, chest smeared with cum, lungs burning, the taunting echo of him still in my head.
I looked down and winced. My cock was still hard, still twitching with aftershocks, a drop of slick pooling at the tip like nothing had been resolved. I’d just unloaded everything I had, but it hadn’t touched the place where the ache lived.
I let my head fall to the side, body limp, chest rising too fast. I was flushed and aching, slick with sweat and cum, but none of it brought relief.
I had been seeking release. Needed to take control of what he was doing to me.
Instead, I got this—this wrecked, restless version of myself that still wasn’t free of him.
I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. Not after what just happened.
He was in my head, threaded through the mess he’d made of me, and no matter how much I tried to pull back, I could still feel him under my skin.
And part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to get him out.
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