Chapter 1: The Neighboring Table
The downtown steakhouse was a riot of noise, packed wall to wall with visiting families, wide-eyed freshmen, and parents nursing big glasses of red wine like they were lifelines.
From Matt’s spot at the far end of the long wooden table, his brain was catching every channel at once: the sharp hiss of meat sizzling on cast-iron, the clink of silverware, and a dozen overlapping conversations trying to out-shout each other.
He had taken the outside aisle seat, giving him a good view of the room and a space for his knee to bounce without bothering anyone. Across from him, Erin and Sarah were recapping the morning’s campus tours, swapping notes on the dining halls and how quickly the boys were already burning through their prepaid meal plans.
Beside Matt, Caleb was keeping his restless fingers busy, juggling three sourdough rolls—much to Hayden’s grinning amusement.
“It’s all in the wrists, man,” Caleb bragged, tossing a roll a little higher. “Dinner and a show.”
“You’re gonna drop one in the butter,” Hayden laughed.
Across from Hayden, Chloe was completely distracted by the young server with floppy hair and a crisp white apron who’d just set down their water glasses.
She leaned in, batting her lashes.
“So, like, what’s your honest take on the Porterhouse versus the New York Strip?” she asked, hanging on every word of his polite, practiced recommendation.
“Well, the Porterhouse is actually two steaks in one, so it’ll definitely fill you up if you’re hungry,” the server said with a charming, customer-service smile. “But if you want something a little leaner, the Strip’s your best bet.”
Once he smiled and walked away to grab their drinks, Caleb paused his juggling and stared across the table. “Chloe, you don’t even eat meat.”
She sighed, her gaze still tracking the server across the busy dining room. “I could start.”
Matt chuckled, slowly sipping his ice water. He kept one ear on Erin’s updates, but his eyes scanned the packed room. The tables were jammed tight, practically glued side by side to maximize Parents Weekend business. That HVAC must be working overtime just to keep the air moving.
Sitting still for long was torture for Matt. A phantom static buzzed just under his skin. If his brain didn’t have a task, he had to give his body one. He started to isolate and flex his muscles under the table to burn off the restless energy.
He tensed his core, tightened his abs. He even flexed his toes inside his shoes, one through ten. He rotated his shoulders, one and then the other.
That was when he bumped someone sitting just across the narrow aisle in the next row.
“Ope, pardon me,” he said, flashing a friendly, mustached smile.
He turned to the man seated beside him. He looked to be about the same age as Matt, but built like a brick wall. He had a corded, powerful neck, and a head shaved down to a bare shadow. His shoulders were so broad, biceps so big, and a chest so massive he made Matt’s own statuesque build look almost slight. That wasn’t something Matt saw every day.
“Don’t sweat it,” the man replied. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that effortlessly cut through the clutter and talk and ambient noise. “I thought this was a steakhouse, but we’re the ones squeezed in like cattle.”
Beside Caleb, Hayden upped the ante, tossing a fourth roll into Caleb’s juggling act. It immediately threw off his rhythm, launching one roll off Caleb’s palm. Hayden’s attempt to catch it sent it further down the line. Matt’s dad-reflexes kicked in—only a distracted microsecond too slow—deflecting the roll off his fingertips. It dropped unceremoniously between Matt's and his neighbor’s chairs.
“Darn it,” Matt muttered.
He held the cloth napkin on his lap with one hand and ducked down into the narrow aisle to grab the runaway roll, his messy blond hair falling forward. A second later, a white cloth napkin fluttered down, landing beside the roll.
It was followed by the big man at the neighboring table, leaning down to feel for it on the floor.
They found themselves face to face in that tight, shadowed space.
“Imagine meeting you down here,” Matt quipped with a grin, feeling a sudden, unexpected rush of blood warm his cheeks.
The man chuckled back. “Tight parking spot,” he murmured.
Their eyes locked for a beat, and the dad-joke suddenly felt loaded.
“Ain’t it?” Matt winked as they both straightened up together, sliding back up shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight aisle.
Matt held the roll in one hand and extended the other. “I’m Matt.”
The stranger’s hand dwarfed Matt’s when they shook.
His sharp eyes took their time sizing up Matt’s broad shoulders and the hard, high shape of his chest that pushed against his plaid shirt.
"Tyson," the big man grunted, with a short, respectful nod. He took his hand back and gestured across his own table. "This is my wife, Elise, and our daughter, Maya."
Matt took them in. Elise wore her hair in a very short, elegant afro that framed her beautiful face, and Maya had neat braids. A striking family. They offered polite smiles.
Matt tipped his chin deferentially, his free hand flying up to quickly brush back his messy blond hair, trying in vain to tamp down his stubborn cowlick.
"Evening, ma'am," he said warmly.
With introductions made, Tyson and Matt slipped fully back into their respective family tables. They settled into the confined space, but now their broad shoulders rested a little closer—a gap that neither man made any effort to increase.
Matt set down the runaway roll and picked up his leather-bound menu. His eyes skimmed over the bold fonts and the expensive cuts of meat.
Chloe had the right idea. A massive Porterhouse definitely seemed to be in order.
Chapter 2: Male Company
As waiters descended to take drink and appetizer orders, the din of the steakhouse turned into a steady background hum. The moms—Erin, Sarah, and Elise—were in a passionate debate over ordering the crab cakes or the loaded potato skins. Chloe leaned forward to wave past the moms to catch Maya’s eye, yelling, “I love your earrings!” She tucked her hair behind her ear and tapped her lobe to illustrate her point.
Caleb and Hayden were off in their own world in a deep dive about the latest video game release. Caleb completely tuned out the loud restaurant the second he had a topic he could hyperfocus on.
Matt leaned back in his wooden chair. With the tables pushed so close together, his left shoulder pressed against Tyson’s right. Neither man made a move to reclaim their personal space.
Matt took a sip of his water, pitching his voice so low that only Tyson could hear. “You played ball, right? Defensive tackle?”
Tyson chuckled. The sound vibrated through the point where their shoulders touched.
“Guilty,” he said. His eyes crinkled. “Played for State back in the day. Blew out my knee junior year, so the pro dreams got shelved. I still love the game.” He took a slow sip of his bourbon. His bicep flexed under his polo. “What about you? You’re not bodybuilder big, but the way you’re put together… damn.” His gaze trailed from the broad shoulders to Matt’s wrists. “Even your forearms.”
Matt’s fingers curled into a loose fist reflexively. The carved muscle of his tan forearm tensed and released, the little blond hairs standing at attention under Tyson’s gaze.
A slow smirk pulled at Tyson’s mouth. “You move way too easy for a guy with that kind of horsepower."
“Just a dedicated gym dad,” Matt smiled, his golden-retriever charm fully engaged. “Gotta keep the engine running, y’know?”
“Engine looks like it’s firing on all cylinders,” Tyson agreed. “Seriously though... where do you find button-downs that actually fit? Because those buttons are putting in serious overtime.”
Matt let out a low laugh, his chest rising under the scrutiny. “I can’t take credit. My wife handles the logistics. I wear whatever she puts me in. Happy wife, happy life.”
“Man, I hear that,” Tyson groaned, shifting his weight in his seat. He tipped his glass toward Matt in a silent toast, spreading his broad legs under the table. His knee brushed Matt’s under the table, but he didn’t move it. He let it rest there. “Department stores think ‘Big and Tall’ means round. If I find a shirt that fits up top, the waist’s big enough to smuggle a watermelon in. Try finding an off-the-rack suit jacket when your neck is twenty inches and your shoulders are three feet across.”
“It’s a burden,” Matt joked quietly, leaning into Tyson’s space, matching the pressure of the other man’s solid knee against his. “Takes a lot of work to keep us looking decent.”
“You guys here for Parents Weekend too?”
Matt nodded toward his side of the table, gesturing with his chin. “That’s my son, Caleb. The one officially retired from sourdough juggling.”
Tyson’s eyes flicked to Caleb for a second, then back to Matt. “Good-looking kid,” he murmured. “I see where he gets it.”
Matt felt a pleasant heat pool in his chest, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips, just under his mustache.
“Maya’s a freshman,” Tyson said, nodding across the table toward his daughter. “It was a dead heat between here and Howard, but Elise is an alum here, so you know how that tiebreaker went. Which is fine by me, but...” Tyson leaned in a bit closer. “After twelve hours of matching bedding sets, listening to sorority rush strategies, and liberal arts tours... I’m damn grateful for some male company.”
“I hear you loud and clear,” Matt said. He raised his glass to tap Tyson’s bourbon with a sharp clink.
Chloe pushed her chair back, breaking the moment. She picked up her purse and grabbed her phone.
“I’m going to the restroom to fix my makeup,” she announced. “If that cute waiter comes back while I’m gone, do not order without me. And Caleb, do not say anything embarrassing.”
“I literally don’t have to say a word,” Caleb muttered around a mouth full of sourdough. “You embarrass yourself just fine.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. As she passed him, she casually swung her purse, letting it thwack against the back of Caleb’s head.
Caleb let out a squawk and pushed his chair back to retaliate.
Matt reached out and clamped a hand squarely on Caleb’s. He let it rest there, tamping the restless energy.
"Easy, buddy," he warned quietly.
The sudden spike seemed to dissolve under the pressure of Matt’s hand. Caleb exhaled a long breath and settled back into his chair with a grumble. Crisis averted.
Tyson watched the exchange. "Good block, coach," the big man finally said, low enough for only Matt to hear.
Matt chuckled. "Comes with the territory."
Tyson shifted his weight, and this time, the pressure of his knee pressed deliberately against the outside of Matt’s thigh.
Matt inhaled deeply. A second ago, his brain had been tracking a dozen loud channels at once—the clatter of silverware, the moms debating appetizers, the chaotic steakhouse chatter. But someone, somewhere, hit the mute button on the room. Every ounce of buzzing, restless energy zeroed in on that single point of contact.
Matt set his water glass down and settled into his wooden chair, firmly pushing his leg right back against the big man's knee.
He was more than ready to see where the rest of the evening would go.
Chapter 3: Out of Order
Less than five minutes after Chloe left, she squeezed back through the tight dining room, dropping into her seat with an exasperated huff.
“Heads up,” she announced, taking a frustrated sip of water. “The bathroom situation is a disaster. The men’s room is out of order, so everyone’s stuck in one ginormous line for the women’s.”
Matt’s ears perked. He set his glass down. “Is there water pooling under the door?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “What? I don’t know. I didn’t do a plumbing inspection, Dad. There’s just a sign.” She sighed dramatically.
Matt nodded. “If it’s just a stuck flapper valve causing an overflow, I can fix that in ten seconds. Save them a plumber’s emergency call on a Saturday night.”
Erin raised a hand before he could even finish the sentence. “Matthew, you don’t work for the steakhouse. We’re about to order. Please do not go fixing their plumbing.”
Matt was undeterred.
“I’m just gonna take a quick peek,” he assured her, rising up and tossing his napkin onto his chair.
At the neighboring table, Tyson set his bourbon glass down with a decisive clink. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.
“I’ll back you up,” he volunteered, hiking his chinos by the belt. “Four hands are better than two.”
His wife Elise shook her head, sharing a commiserating, hopeless look with Erin across the tables. “Put two dads in a room and suddenly they’re a general contracting firm,” she laughed.
Matt flashed his most earnest smile. “Ladies, you don’t want to spend all night waiting for restrooms, do you? Let us fix it.”
Erin cracked first. “Go. Do what you need to do,” she sighed, resigned to her husband’s quirks. “But try to be quick. Appetizers are coming.”
Elise waved dismissively at Tyson with one hand, bringing her red wine up in the other. “You too. But if those potato skins get here before you’re back, we’re eating your half.”
“Ten seconds, ma’am,” Matt promised her. “Maybe a little more.”
He turned, navigating down the narrow aisle. Tyson fell right into step behind him.
As they reached the dim hallway marked Restrooms, the space squeezed tighter. With every step, the distance between them shrank until Matt could almost feel Tyson’s heat at the back of his neck. The sensation made his mouth twitch under his mustache.
They saw the bottleneck Chloe had complained about: a line of disgruntled diners snaked out from the door to the women’s room, leaning against the red wallpaper, thumbing through their phone screens in the dim light. Right beside it was a door marked Men’s Restroom.
A bright yellow plastic Out of Order sign sat on the floor, squarely in front of it.
Matt looked down at the sign, then up at Tyson. He turned to the tired-looking woman at the head of the line and flashed a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, folks. We're just going to check out the situation," Matt announced warmly. "We'll get this second lane opened up for you in a jiffy."
He stepped around the yellow sign, turned the brass knob, and walked into the men’s room. Just inside, his fingers found the switch and flicked the lights on. Tyson followed, pulling the solid wooden door shut behind them. Matt could hear the deadbolt clicking shut.
Click.
Matt went straight to the toilet, lifted the porcelain lid off the tank, and peered inside.
“Yep,” he murmured. “Chain’s caught under the flapper seal. That’s a quick fix.”
He set the lid on the toilet seat and plunged his fingers right into the cold water of the tank. He untangled the metal chain and reseated the rubber valve flush against the drain. The hissing sound of running water stopped instantly.
Matt pulled his dripping hand out, gave it a quick shake, and picked up the porcelain lid.
Tyson’s voice dropped behind him. “How much time do we have before those appetizers hit the table?”
As the lid slid securely back into place, Matt felt a warm rush bloom in his chest. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and raised his arm to check his dive watch.
“Twelve minutes on a Saturday night.” He turned to face Tyson, grinning. “We can work with that.”
“Good.”
Tyson’s gaze was locked on the V of Matt’s shirt, taking in the way the plaid spread across his shoulders, and the tuft of blond fur poking out from his open collar. He stepped closer—as close as they’d been at the table, though there was no reason for the proximity now, except one. He let his broad hands rest on Matt’s hips. “Because I’ve been waiting for this since you dropped that damn roll.”
At six-three and built the way he was—broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, statuesque—Matt rarely felt smaller than anyone else. But against Tyson’s brick-wall shoulders and sprawling chest, he did. It was a strange, heady feeling.
He reached up, his thumb pressing into the dense flesh at the base of Tyson’s skull, and pulled his face closer. Their lips brushed, dry at first but parting quickly, tongues pressing into a hot, open kiss.
Matt’s fingers pulled the fabric of Tyson’s polo shirt into a fist, and Tyson’s hands slid up under Matt’s shirt, palms gliding over his abs and up to the muscle of his pecs and the dense blond fur covering it.
“Didn’t think we’d get out of here,” Matt breathed between smacking kisses, ending with a hungry lip bite.
Tyson groaned into Matt’s mouth as Matt reached around with both hands to grab the taller man’s glutes, hauling him flush. The hard line of Tyson’s cock pressed through their pants to meet Matt’s. Matt rolled his hips forward, the heady feeling increasing as he let Tyson feel just how hard he already was.
When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily. The tiled room felt ten degrees hotter.
Tyson’s large hands slid down, wrapping around one side of Matt’s ass, squeezing hard through the cargo shorts, testing the shape and fitness of it. It seemed to pass the test. Matt always did.
He gave an almost fond peck to Matt’s mouth and growled with a smirk. “Flip for it? Heads I top, tails you bottom.”
Matt had to raise his head slightly to meet his eyes. “Tails. I already know how I want it. Only question is where you want me.”
Tyson’s eyes darkened with a sharp intake of breath. “Turn around.”
Matt turned between Tyson’s arms. He planted both hands flat against the cool tiles of the sink counter. He spread his stance wider, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking against the floor, and deliberately pushed his ass back.
Tyson’s hands returned to Matt's lean hips, then slid down to cup and spread his glutes through the fabric. He squeezed hard, clearly cataloguing what he was about to get.
“Drop the shorts,” Tyson ordered, his thumbs still kneading Matt’s ass. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Chapter 4: Single Occupancy
Matt reached down and unbuckled his cargo shorts, shoving them and his white cotton briefs down to his ankles. He kicked the bunched fabric free of one sneaker-clad foot so he could spread his legs. He secured his grip on the porcelain sink and widened his stance, arching his back to present himself.
Behind him, Tyson was doing the same—belt undone, chinos dropping low.
Tyson’s voice dropped to a low, rough tone. “God damn. That ass, Matt.”
He clamped one huge hand onto Matt's hip, his dark fingers sinking into the pale muscle, pressing into the fuzzy globes that ran down the backs of Matt's thighs. He stroked his own erection as he sank a thumb into the tight cleft, pressing into the meat.
Matt gave a slow, easy grin under his mustache, looking into the mirror over the sink. “Been working on it.”
He turned to glance over his broad shoulder just in time to see Tyson spit a wet glob into his free hand and stroke it down his cock. It stood straight up—seven inches by Matt’s estimate, and uniformly thick from base to tip.
"That is a serious piece of hardware," Matt breathed. "That’s all going in me?"
"I think you’ll take it just fine," Tyson growled in response.
Those slick fingers slid between Matt’s cheeks, pressing into the tight, blond-fuzzed ring, working the spit in with firm, steady pressure. "Just breathe and relax that muscle for me, Matt. Let me in."
Matt groaned, his fingers tightening on the edge of the sink. The preparation was quick and efficient—not gentle, but it got the job done. Tyson spat again to lube his massive cock a second time, leaving it wet and shining under the harsh fluorescent men's room light.
With Tyson’s height, the bigger man had to bend his knees and widen his stance so his thighs clamped securely against the outsides of Matt’s, locking him in place. He lined up, one hand pulling Matt’s cleft open, and pushed.
The spit offered only the barest lubrication. The tight, almost dry resistance made both of them gasp as Tyson forced his thick cock up and in, totally filling Matt’s insides in one push. Matt’s breath punched out of him. “God damn!”
He gripped the sink hard as Tyson’s hips clapped heavily against his ass.
“Fuck,” Tyson groaned, dropping down so his massive chest neared Matt's spine. “You feel so fucking good… Jesus!”
“Keep going,” Matt urged, his voice already rough. “Ten minutes.”
Tyson drew almost all the way out and drove back in, followed by another and another as he quickly found his rhythm. He fucked with deep, powerful thrusts, shoving Matt forward against the sink. Matt dug in his heels, braced himself, and pushed his solid ass back to meet the slams.
The sensation shifted from splitting Matt open to a pure electrical pulse as the prick hit every nerve ending inside him. He dropped his head, his blond hair swaying with every hit. Sweat began to build along his spine and under his arms. One of Tyson’s hands anchored on his hip, the other running aggressively over Matt’s broad back as he fucked him harder, turning the small bathroom humid almost immediately.
“Fuck, look at you,” Tyson grunted, keeping his punishing pace. “Didn’t know if you’d bottom, but that ass was made for this.”
Matt engaged his core and clamped down hard on the cock filling him on the outstroke, right when it would feel best. He held it tight and then released it.
A startled breath punched out of Tyson. “Oh fuck—do that again.”
Matt did, bearing down to increase the intense drag on the way out, opening again for the brutal drive in.
“Jesus Christ,” Tyson growled. “You’re gonna make me nut right now if you keep milking me like that.”
Matt only tightened again and released, fully savoring the pressure of Tyson’s big prick deep in his gut.
Tyson’s hands wrapped all the way around Matt’s chest, his large palms locking over his shoulders from the front like a tight harness. He used the grip to haul himself up and in with every drive, the new, steeper angle forcing his cock to hit a spot that made Matt’s breath break.
“Christ,” Tyson panted against the side of his neck. “If I had to look at one more campus map without this, I was gonna lose it.”
Matt’s own head was swimming, bobbing as he surrendered to the sensory overload.
“Fuck—I could do this with you all night,” Tyson growled, his hips slamming in hard. “But those appetizers are gonna hit the table any second. We gotta wrap this up.”
“Yeah,” Matt managed, his voice a rough growl, sweat dripping from his face onto the porcelain sink. “Give it to me.”
Tyson’s arms stayed locked securely around Matt’s chest, his hips hitting the pale, fuzzy ass, thick thighs pressed tight. The spit had thinned to nothing, making the drag of skin on skin rough and incredibly intense. Sweat ran in sheets down Matt’s sides and the backs of his thighs now.
He gave one last, agonizingly tight squeeze—milking hard and holding it.
Tyson’s whole body locked.
“Matt—fuck—take it—”
He drove in as deep as he could and stayed there, his face buried in the side of Matt’s neck, open-mouthed and panting as he came in hard, completely uninhibited pulses. “Take that nut—fuck—”
Matt felt every hot throb of cum easing the drag inside him just enough. With Tyson's arms still locked around his chest supporting his weight, Matt finally let go of the sink with his right hand.
He reached down, his calloused fingers wrapping tightly around his own stiff, leaking erection. The fullness in his gut combined with the frantic friction of his own fist pushed him to and over the edge quickly.
Matt groaned low as his cock jumped in his hand, shooting thick streaks into the porcelain basin. Tyson kept him pinned and completely full, short jabs driving the last of the cum straight out of Matt and into the sink.
The blinding rush of dopamine flooded Matt's system like it always did, instantly silencing the restless static in his brain.
They stayed exactly like that for a minute—Tyson’s arm wrapped tight, hips pressed flush, and cock buried deep—breathing hard in the sweltering little room. Sweat dripped from Matt’s nose onto the sink.
His whole body felt beautifully used.
Chapter 5: All Clear
Tyson was the first to pull away. He stepped back with a long exhale, his cock pulling free with a tacky snap. There was a streak of milky postcum that came with him. His massive chest expanded as the cool, air-conditioned air rushed into the space between them.
Matt let out a long, grounding breath too, bracing his hands on the sink for just another second before straightening up. He reached down, stepping his sneakered foot back into the leg of his grey boxer briefs and wrangled the cargo shorts before hauling them both up over his thighs. His belt buckle clinked as he fastened it.
Matt took a half-step back, shaking his head to clear it.
Tyson stepped over to the toilet, letting out a heavy sigh as he took a long, steady leak to clear out his pipes. The sound of his piss against the porcelain was thunderous in the small, tiled room. He flicked the last few drops off the blunt head and hit the chrome handle.
The toilet flushed with a satisfying swoosh, the tank filling quietly and shutting off right on cue.
Leaving the newly repaired toilet, Tyson stepped right up to the sink, pushing his hip flush with the edge of the porcelain to run warm water over his softening dick. Then he used his hand to redirect the flow of water to rinse Matt's load down the drain.
Behind him, Matt finished buckling his belt. Tyson tore off a few dry paper towels from the dispenser and handed them over.
“Look at that,” Tyson chuckled, his deep voice rich and relaxed as he zipped his pants. "You fixed the restaurant’s plumbing and mine too. Efficient man."
Matt grinned, taking the rough paper. "A good project manager always meets his deadlines."
Tyson shook his head once, still looking a little wrecked. “How the fuck did you do that? With your… you know.”
Matt wadded up the paper towel and tossed it into the open wastebasket. “Kegels. Ten minutes a day on the morning commute. Good for the prostate.”
Tyson reached out, his massive hand ruffling Matt’s damp, blond hair in a rough, affectionate gesture. “Good boy,” Tyson murmured, his deep voice rich with satisfaction.
Matt leaned into the heavy petting for a split second, an easy grin spreading under his mustache.
When he was ready, Tyson rested a large hand on the brass doorknob. The stifling tension he wore earlier was completely gone, replaced by the ease of a man who had finally gotten exactly what he needed.
"You saved my weekend, Matt," Tyson murmured, offering a short, deeply appreciative nod.
"Happy to help," Matt replied with a wholesome smile. "You go on ahead. Give it a minute here."
Once the door clicked shut, Matt reached over and slid the brass deadbolt right back into place.
He turned to the newly repaired toilet, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his cargo shorts and boxer briefs straight down. He sat down on the porcelain seat and bore down, pushing his abdominal muscles to clear out the mess Tyson had left inside him. He hummed a familiar tune to himself—"And I'll be takin' care of business... every day..."
A couple of wet plops echoed in the bowl.
Matt let out a deeply satisfied breath. Between the heavy lifting that morning and the rough release against the bathroom sink, he felt thoroughly emptied out.
He reached for the toilet paper, wiped efficiently, and stood up.
When he flushed the toilet, he watched the water swirl cleanly down. Everything worked exactly the way it should.
Stepping over to the sink, he ran wet paper towels under his plaid shirt to get the worst of the sweat, washed his hands thoroughly, and splashed cold water on his flushed face. He finger-combed his blond hair, trying in vain to tamp down the stubborn cowlick.
He grabbed a few extra brown paper towels from the dispenser and methodically wiped down the entire porcelain vanity, making absolutely sure there were no water droplets, sweat, or any other lingering evidence left behind.
Always leave a place cleaner than you found it.
Good manners were just good manners, and there was no reason the next person in line should have to deal with a mess.
Checking the mirror, he made sure his plaid shirt was tucked properly into his cargo shorts, just the way Chloe hated. She liked to have something to complain about.
He unlocked the door, stepped out into the hallway, and reached down for the bright yellow Caution: Wet Floor sign. He folded it flat and leaned it harmlessly against the flocked wallpaper to signal that the restroom was back in business.
When he looked up, Hayden was standing just a few feet away, leaning quietly against the dim corridor wall.
"H-bomb!" Matt called out brightly. “All clear in there!”
The teenager had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. His gaze drifted from Matt's flushed face, tracking slowly down to the damp sweat spots on Matt's plaid shirt. In the tight confines of the hallway, Matt suddenly realized that the air was absolutely dank with the pungent, undeniable musk of his and Tyson's sweat.
"Wooo," Matt smiled, sliding right back into wholesome dad-mode. "Worked up a sweat in there. But it’s all cleared out now."
He opened the door behind him.
Hayden didn't immediately move.
"Right," the kid said, his voice quiet but incredibly perceptive. "Thanks, Mr. D."
Matt held his wholesome smile steady, even if his heart gave a hard thud against his ribs. "Good as new."
"Cool. Thanks."
Hayden pushed off the wall and walked past Matt.
"Don't take too long in there, partner," Matt added warmly as the kid passed, letting the sweat hang in the air between them. "Appetizers should be hitting the table right about now."
Matt let the solid door swing shut, the brass latch clicking firmly into place behind the teenager.
Alone in the quiet hallway, Matt took a deep breath. His stomach gave a loud, demanding rumble.
By the time he navigated back to his seat, Tyson was already comfortably seated, and the loaded potato skins were nearly decimated.
Chloe let out a dramatic groan. "Dad, you were gone forever. We literally ate everything without you."
Erin just took a calm sip of her wine, waving off her daughter's complaint. "Oh, let him be, Chloe. Remember Orlando? Your father went down the hall to get ice and didn't come back for an entire hour because he ended up helping the hotel maintenance guy fix the pool pump. Ten minutes is practically a new record for him."
"Ran into a tricky flapper valve," Matt beamed, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Erin's hair for the defense, before nabbing a remaining potato skin. "But we got it fixed, easy peasy."
END, BOOK THREE OF FIVE
Thanks for reading. Boo Four of Parents Weekend will be out next week, in which a jog in the residential area turns out to be a way for Matt to meet new friends.
If you enjoyed this story, consider visiting the author's website.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
