They stood there, breathing hard, until the spray turned icy without warning. Mac cursed, slapping the knob off with a decisive twist. Steam curled around their legs as they stepped onto the bathmat, dripping and spent. Ben tossed Mac a towel—threadbare and fraying at the edges—and watched as the man scrubbed it over his head, sending water flying in droplets. “You’re a fuckin’ animal,” Ben muttered, though there was no heat in it. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw from panting.
Mac grinned, tousling his damp curls. “You loved it.” He chucked the towel back, hitting Ben square in the chest.
The living room air was marginally cooler, the ceiling fan doing little more than pushing the heat around. Ben collapsed onto the couch, the leather sticking uncomfortably to his damp back. Mac flopped beside him, sprawling with his legs spread wide, one arm slung along the backrest. “So,” Mac said, scratching idly at his chest hair. “Do you compete?”
Ben snorted, grabbing a second towel to toss over his lap more out of habit than modesty. “I used to, back in the ’90s. Masters division now—when my knees cooperate.” He eyed Mac’s thick thighs. “You?”
“Powerlifting, mostly. Some strongman shit in my 40s.” Mac stretched, his biceps bulging. “I tore my rotator cuff last year benching 405. Fuckin’ humbling.”
Ben winced in sympathy. “Been there. I tore my pec doing incline in ’08.” He gestured vaguely at his left side. “Still clicks when it rains.”
Mac barked a laugh, rubbing at his own shoulder absently. “Ain’t aging grand? Woke up last month with my back locked up because I slept funny.” He shook his head, then glanced around the apartment—the dumbbells stacked near the TV, the whey powder tubs on the kitchen counter. “You train clients?”
“Couple old-timers.” Ben smirked. “Mostly teaching ’em not to blow out their hips doing deadlifts wrong.”
“Christ, don’t get me started.” Mac rolled his eyes, stretching his legs until his knees popped like gunshots. “Had a client last month swear sumo deadlifts were cheating. Nearly threw my clipboard at him.” His fingers drummed against the couch arm, still faintly dusty from the HVAC work.
Ben chuckled, watching the way Mac’s forearm flexed—the veins standing proud under sweat-damp skin. “Bet you still cleaned him up, though. I saw those trophies on your truck’s dash.”
Mac’s grin was wolfish. “Damn right. Nationals ‘17, ‘19.” He flexed reflexively, his bicep swelling like a split melon. “Woulda had ‘21 too if my hamstring hadn’t said fuck you mid-lift.” His hand slid down to massage the back of his thigh, fingers digging into the scar tissue with practiced pressure.
Ben mirrored the motion without thinking, kneading his own left quad where the muscle still twinged in cold weather. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—just the easy quiet of two men who’d spent lifetimes punishing their bodies for the sake of iron. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring the humid air but doing fuck-all to cool it.
Mac’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up with a text. He snatched it up, thumb swiping grease-smudged glass. “Unit’s downstairs,” he announced, tossing the phone back. “Lou’s kid’s bringing it up.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. “The kid’s not gonna faint seeing you like that, is he?” He gestured at Mac’s sprawled nudity—the thick thatch of chest hair still damp from the shower, the spent cock resting heavy against his thigh.
Mac snorted, slapping his palm against his stomach with a wet smack. “Nah, Ricky’s seen worse. He walked in on me fucking his dad in the supply closet last Thanksgiving.” He levered himself up with a groan, cracking his neck side to side. “Gimme that—” He snagged Ben’s discarded towel off the floor and knotted it loosely around his hips. The terry cloth did nothing to hide the bulge underneath.
Ben stood too, rolling his shoulders until the vertebrae popped. The movement made Mac’s gaze drop to his pecs—lingering on the stretch marks webbing his skin. Ben didn’t bother hiding them. Trophies, in their own way.
The doorbell rang.
Mac smirked, adjusting his cock under the towel with deliberate casualness. “Showtime.”
Ben snorted and padded barefoot to the door, flexing his shoulders just to watch Mac’s gaze darken in his periphery. The peephole revealed a scrawny teenager juggling a capacitor box, his face slick with sweat. Ben yanked the door open with deliberate abruptness—letting the kid get an eyeful of two naked, muscle-bound men bracketing the threshold.
Ricky’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His grip on the box faltered. “Uh,” he managed, eyes darting between Mac’s casually knotted towel and Ben’s unabashed nudity. “Capacitor. Dad said—”
“Christ, kid. Breathe.” Mac snatched the box with one hand, ruffling Ricky’s sweaty hair with the other. The motion made his towel slip dangerously low. “Tell Lou I’ll invoice him Tuesday.”
Ricky’s cheeks burned crimson as he stammered, “Y-yeah. Sure.” His gaze flickered to Ben’s still-hardening cock before darting away like it had scalded him. He nearly tripped over his own feet backing toward the elevator.
Mac chuckled, kicking the door shut with his heel. “Kid’s gonna need therapy.” He tossed the capacitor onto the kitchen counter with a clatter, the towel around his hips giving up entirely and dropping to the floor as he stretched. Sunlight caught the dust motes swirling around his flexed biceps.
Ben leaned against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re a menace.” His cock twitched against his thigh—half-interest, half-habit. The living room still stank of sex and lemon soap, the ceiling fan just pushing the smell around.
Mac snorted and popped the capacitor box open with his thumbnail. “Cooler means more energy.” He waggled his eyebrows, flexing his biceps as he lifted the new unit like it weighed nothing. “I bet you could go another round if we weren’t stewing in our own juices.”
Ben smirked, watching the way Mac’s forearms corded as he unscrewed the old capacitor. “Just fix it before I melt into a puddle of horny old man.”
Mac snorted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “You’d just reform into a hornier puddle.” He jerked his chin toward the open toolbox. “Hand me the needle-nose pliers. And try not to drool on my tools.”
Ben passed them over, his fingers lingering just long enough to brush Mac’s calloused palm. The contact sent a jolt up his arm—stupid, really, after everything they’d done, but his body didn’t seem to care. Mac’s smirk said he knew it too.
The old capacitor hissed as Mac yanked it free, its casing streaked with corrosion. “Yep. Fried to hell,” he muttered, tossing it into the toolbox with a clatter. His biceps flexed as he threaded the new unit into place, the muscles in his back shifting like tectonic plates under sweat-slick skin. Ben caught himself staring at the way Mac’s shoulders rolled—the familiar, efficient movements of a man who’d done this a thousand times before.
The apartment’s heat wrapped around them like a second skin, the stagnant air thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Ben wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, watching a bead of sweat trace the groove of Mac’s spine before disappearing into the crack of his ass.
Mac twisted the last wire into place with a grunt, his shoulders bunching. The new capacitor hummed to life, quiet but promising. “Should kick in soon,” he said, slapping the panel shut with a metallic clang. His knuckles were grease-streaked, a smear of dirt across his ribs where he’d absently wiped his hands earlier.
Ben leaned against the counter, letting his thigh brush Mac’s bare hip. “Still hot as balls in here,” he muttered, though the first whisper of cool air was already ghosting up from the vent near their feet.
Mac wiped his hands on his discarded towel, smearing grease into the fabric. “Give it ten minutes.” He straightened with a series of spine-cracks, rolling his neck until the tendons popped. Sunlight caught the silver in his chest hair, the sweat still beading along his collarbones. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, lazily half-hard—reacting to proximity more than intention.
Ben watched a droplet trace the curve of Mac’s ribcage, catching in the scar tissue above his hip. “Ten minutes, huh? Long enough for round four.”
Mac smirked, swiping the sweat from his upper lip with his thumb. “You’re gonna kill me, old man.” But his hands were already sliding around Ben’s waist, grease-streaked fingers splaying across the dimpled skin above his ass. The first puff of cool air from the vent ruffled the hair at Ben’s nape as Mac backed him against the fridge—its metal door blissfully cold against his overheated back.
The contrast was electric. Ben groaned, arching into the press of Mac’s chest, their sweat-slick skin catching and dragging like coarse sandpaper. Mac’s mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue licking into Ben’s mouth with a filthy possessiveness that made Ben’s knees weak. He could taste the cheap coffee Mac had chugged earlier—bitter and acidic under the salt of sweat.
Mac’s calloused palm slid between them, rough fingers wrapping around both their cocks in a tight, twisting grip that had Ben seeing stars. The friction was brutal—dry and searing—until Ben spat into his own hand and slicked them up, the slide turning filthy-wet. Mac growled approval, his hips stuttering forward to fuck into the makeshift tunnel of their joined fists. Their foreheads knocked together, breath mingling in ragged bursts as their pace turned frantic, desperate.
Precum smeared in shiny streaks across Ben’s abs, mixing with sweat and the occasional cool gust from the struggling AC. Mac’s free hand pawed at Ben’s pec, thumb rubbing rough circles over a nipple until Ben hissed and bit Mac’s shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make Mac’s rhythm falter. “Fuck—” Mac gasped, his biceps trembling as he redoubled his efforts, his strokes turning punishing.
Ben’s vision whited out when he came, his back slamming against the fridge hard enough to rattle the condiment bottles inside. Ropes of sperm splattered across their bellies, hot and thick, as Mac milked him through it with ruthless efficiency. Mac followed seconds later with a choked curse, his thick semen painting Ben’s thighs in sticky stripes. They slumped against each other, panting, as the AC finally wheezed to life properly—cold air billowing around their spent bodies.
Mac chuckled, swiping a thumb through the mess on Ben’s sternum and licking it off with exaggerated relish. “Told you it’d kick in.”
Ben shoved him half-heartedly, his limbs still jelly-weak. The fridge door was icy against his overheated skin, the AC’s breeze raising goosebumps along his flanks. “You should’ve fixed it before you fucked me into next week,” he muttered, though his lips twitched.
Mac wiped his hands on the ruined towel, his grin unrepentant. “Speaking of next week—” He hooked a thumb toward Ben’s sweat-stained couch, the cracked leather barely fitting his own bulk. “How the fuck do you live like this? Place is smaller than my squat rack.” His knuckles brushed Ben’s hipbone as he gestured—casual, proprietary. “Move in with me.”
Ben blinked, the post-orgasm haze clearing just enough to process the words. He snorted, swiping at the cooling mess on his stomach. “You’re high on refrigerant fumes.”
Mac’s grin didn’t waver. He nudged the toolbox shut with his foot, the clang loud in the suddenly cooler air. “I got a garage gym,” he said, like that settled it. “Rack, platform, monolift—the works. Even a goddamn reverse hyper.” His thumb brushed Ben’s hip again, this time lingering. “Bet your knees wouldn’t bitch so much with one of those.”
Ben arched an eyebrow, swatting Mac’s hand away half-heartedly. “You’re serious?” The AC vent above them rattled to life, blasting air cold enough to raise goosebumps on his still-damp skin.
Mac shrugged, scooping a glob of cooling semen off Ben’s abs with two fingers and flicking it into the sink. “Dead serious. This place is a shoebox. You gotta squat in the goddamn hallway.” He leaned back against the counter, biceps flexing as he crossed his arms. “My place has vaulted ceilings. Plus,” he added, nodding toward the dumbbells stacked like firewood near the TV, “you wouldn’t have to bench press your coffee table.”
Ben snorted, swiping a hand through the mess on his thighs. The AC’s chill was finally cutting through the apartment’s swampy heat, raising gooseflesh along his arms. “You forget I’ve seen your truck. Laundry pile’s got its own zip code.”
Mac grinned, unrepentant, nudging a stray dumbbell with his bare foot. “Garage has a clothes washer and dryer. And a sauna.” His thumb hooked toward Ben’s whey-stained kitchen counter. “Bet your protein shaker’s never seen daylight.”
Ben snorted, swiping at the drying mess on his stomach. The AC’s chill was finally cutting through the lingering heat, raising goosebumps along his flanks. “Sauna’s cheating,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. His knees had been singing hymns to the idea of a reverse hyper for years.
Mac shrugged, tossing the ruined towel onto the counter with a wet slap. “So? Where would I sleep?” Ben asked, half-joking, gesturing vaguely toward his own cramped bedroom—the one they’d already wrecked twice today. “You got a guest room or am I bunking with your gym equipment?”
Mac rolled his eyes, stepping close enough that his sweat-slick chest brushed Ben’s shoulder. “Jesus, old man. You’d sleep with me, obviously.” His fingers traced the divot of Ben’s hip bone, grease and dried semen smearing a faint trail. “It's a king bed. Memory foam. Custom frame to hold two meatheads.” His grin turned wolfish. “Though we might test its limits.”
Ben exhaled through his nose, the cool air from the vent raising gooseflesh along his arms. It wasn’t the worst idea. Mac’s calloused thumb was circling the old scar on his ribs—the one from ’03 when his bench press spotter had blinked at the wrong moment. The touch wasn’t gentle. It didn’t need to be. “Is the sauna hooked to the water main?” he asked, like that was the dealbreaker.
Mac’s grin was all teeth. “Gas line.” His knuckles brushed the stretch marks webbing Ben’s flank. “Weights don’t rattle the pipes when I deadlift.”
Ben snorted, watching sweat drip from Mac’s collarbone onto his own thigh. The AC’s hum was finally drowning out the apartment’s swampy silence. “Fine,” he muttered, swatting Mac’s hand away half-heartedly. “But I’m bringing my rack.”
Mac’s grin was obscenely smug. He pinched Ben’s nipple—hard—just to hear him yelp. “Damn right you are.” His palm smacked against Ben’s ass, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles. “We’ll load your shit tonight. Lou’s got a flatbed.”
Ben arched an eyebrow, swiping cooling sweat from his temple. “You planned this.”
Mac shrugged, bending to retrieve his grease-streaked overalls from the floor. The movement made his hamstrings ripple like cables under sun-darkened skin. “Maybe.” He tossed the crumpled fabric onto the counter, revealing fresh marks along his inner thigh—Ben’s handiwork. “You gonna bitch about a free moving crew?”
The first real gust of AC hit Ben’s back like a slap, raising goosebumps across his shoulders. He watched Mac’s thick fingers fumble with his phone, grease smudging the screen as he thumbed a contact. The damn thing looked tiny in his grip, like a toy.
“Lou,” Mac barked into the receiver, stretching the cord of his neck until tendons popped. “Yeah, still at that penthouse job.” His smirk at Ben was all teeth. “Need the flatbed tonight.” A pause, then a gruff laugh. “No, dipshit, not for scrap—guy’s upgrading.” His free hand landed possessively on Ben’s pec, kneading the muscle with a familiarity that should’ve felt absurd after six hours. “Whole rack setup. Yeah, plates too.”
Ben swatted him away, but his pulse jumped when Mac’s thumb swiped deliberately over his nipple. The AC vent above them exhaled properly for the first time all day, crisp air threading through the sweat drying on their skin.
Lou’s tinny voice crackled through the phone: “What the fuck kinda HVAC job takes all day?”
Mac chuckled, rolling his shoulder until it popped loudly. “The wet kind.” His free hand traced the marks along Ben’s collarbone—fresh evidence glistening under the AC’s new airflow.
Ben snatched the phone midair when Mac tossed it, catching Lou’s squawking protest: “—Christ, Mac, tell Ricky to hose down the flatbed before—” He killed the call with a thumb and lobbed the phone onto the couch, where it bounced off a dumbbell with a dull thud. The silence that followed was broken only by the AC’s steady hum and the faint drip of the leaky showerhead they’d ignored.
Mac scratched his pec, dislodging a flake of dried sweat. “Gotta swing by my place first,” he mused, nodding at the toolbox. “Grab my impact driver for the rack bolts.” His fingers lingered on the crescent wrench, thumb rubbing absently over a chip in the chrome—a decades-old souvenir from some forgotten job. Ben recognized the motion; he’d seen guys stroke trophies the same way.
The fridge compressor kicked on, vibrating faintly against Ben’s still-leaning back. He rolled his shoulders to pop the tension, watching Mac’s gaze drop to the movement. “What’s the catch?” Ben asked, swiping at a streak of grease Mac had smeared across his ribs earlier. “You hate doing laundry. Bet your place smells like a jockstrap factory.”
Mac snorted, hooking a thumb toward Ben’s dumbbell-strewn living room. “Says the guy using his fucking couch as a plate tree.” He stretched, the motion making his abs ripple. A drop of sweat slid down the valley between his pecs—Ben tracked its progress instinctively. “No catch,” Mac continued, scratching at his beard. The stubble made a sandpaper sound that somehow carried over the AC’s hum. “Just figured if we’re gonna keep fucking like this, might as well save on gas.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. The fridge’s chill was finally sinking into his skin, raising goosebumps along his forearms. “That’s it? Convenience?” He nudged the toolbox with his foot—the crescent wrench clattered against a screwdriver.
Mac grinned, flexing his pectorals deliberately. The motion made sweat drip from his collarbone onto the tile floor. “And the sauna.” He stretched again, his biceps obscuring his face as he laced fingers behind his head. The display pulled his abs into sharp relief—each ridge shadowed in the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds. “And my reverse hyper’s got lumbar support yours could only fucking dream about.”
Ben snorted, swiping at the cooling mess on his stomach. “Bullshit reasons.” He watched Mac’s grin falter—just for a heartbeat—before the older man turned to rummage through his toolbox. The sudden quiet stretched between them, broken only by the AC’s steady hum and the metallic clink of wrenches being sorted.
Mac’s shoulders tensed when Ben stepped closer. “Out with it,” Ben muttered, nudging Mac’s bare hip with his knee. “You don’t invite guys home for reverse hypers and sauna access.”
The toolbox lid slammed shut with a metallic clang. Mac’s thumb rubbed at a decades-old grease stain on his wrist—a nervous tell Ben had clocked hours ago. The AC’s hum filled the silence until Mac exhaled hard through his nose. “Fine,” he growled. “You lift like a fucking poet.”
Ben blinked. “What?”
Mac’s fingers tightened around the toolbox handle, his knuckles whitening. “You heard me.” He didn’t look up, just kept staring at the grease-streaked floor like it held the secrets of the universe. “You move weight like it’s fucking ballet. All control. No ego.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Makes me wanna bench press the moon just to impress you.”
Ben’s breath hitched. The AC’s hum filled the silence, cooling the sweat on his back. He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in Mac’s stubble where sunlight caught it. “That's why you buried your face in my ass earlier? Artistic appreciation?”
Mac’s laugh was rough, but his fingers trembled slightly as he palmed the crescent wrench. “Yeah. And ’cause you taste like victory.” He finally looked up, his gaze catching Ben’s like a barbell mid-catch. “And ’cause I’m fucking gone for you, alright? Wanna wake up to your snoring. Wanna fight over the last protein shake. Wanna—” He stopped, jaw working. The wrench clattered into the toolbox.
Ben’s pulse hammered in his throat. The AC’s breeze ruffled the hair on his arms as he stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of rust on Mac’s collar where sweat had oxidized the metal. “Say it slower,” he murmured, pressing his palm over Mac’s thundering heartbeat. “I’m old. Hard of hearing.”
Mac’s laugh was rough, but his hands settled on Ben’s hips with a gentleness that belied the morning’s brutality. “I’m in love with you, you stubborn bastard.” His thumb traced the stretch marks along Ben’s flank—the ones from ‘98, when he’d ballooned up to 280 for that ill-advised strongman phase. “I wanna spot you at 5 AM. Wanna argue about knee wraps.” His grip tightened. “Wanna grow old and disgusting together.”
Ben’s throat clicked when he swallowed. The AC’s chill raised goosebumps along his arms, but Mac’s palms were furnace-hot against his skin. “That all?” he rasped, flexing his pec deliberately under Mac’s touch. The movement made sweat drip from his collarbone onto Mac’s thumb.
Mac’s grin was wolfish. “Nah.” He leaned in close enough for Ben to taste the salt on his breath. “Wanna watch you grumble through morning mobility drills.” His calloused thumb pressed into the old tear in Ben’s rotator cuff—the one that still ached before rain. “Wanna hear you bitch about my snoring when your hip’s acting up.”
Ben scoffed, but his fingers curled into the sweat-damp hair at Mac’s nape. The AC’s breeze skimmed his overheated skin, raising fresh goosebumps where Mac’s stubble scraped his throat. “You’re a sap,” he muttered, but his pulse jumped when Mac’s teeth grazed his earlobe.
Mac chuckled, the vibration humming against Ben’s sternum. “Damn right.” He palmed the curve of Ben’s ass, fingers digging into muscle still tender from their earlier rounds. “Gonna make you say it back while I spot you on incline.”
Ben huffed, swatting at Mac’s wrist halfheartedly. The fridge compressor buzzed against his back, its chill a sharp counterpoint to the heat radiating off Mac’s chest. “Tell me you didn’t fry my capacitor on purpose,” he muttered, catching a bead of sweat rolling down Mac’s temple with his thumb.
Mac’s grin was unrepentant. He rocked forward, pressing Ben harder against the fridge until the metal creaked in protest. His knee slotted between Ben’s thighs with practiced ease. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His breath was hot against Ben’s lips, smelling of stale coffee and the protein bar they’d split earlier—peanut butter grit still caught in his molars when Ben licked into his mouth.
The AC vent above them groaned, spitting out a burst of icy air that raised goosebumps along Ben’s sweat-slicked spine. Mac’s fingers traced the ridges of his lumbar vertebrae, lingering on the scar tissue from ‘07’s slipped disc. “You’re gonna love my heating pad,” Mac murmured, nipping at Ben’s jaw. “Japanese tech. Vibrates.” His hips rolled forward, the rough drag of his pubic hair against Ben’s oversensitive cock drawing a hiss.
Ben grabbed a handful of Mac’s ass—the left cheek still faintly pink from where he’d bitten it in the shower—and squeezed hard enough to make Mac grunt. “Thought you hated gadgets.” His thumb found the dimple where Mac’s glute met a hamstring, pressing into the knotted tissue with clinical precision.
Mac shuddered, his cock twitching against Ben’s thigh. “Fuck...your magic fingers...” he growled, but arched into the touch like a cat. The fridge door creaked as he pinned Ben harder, their sweat making a suction sound when their chests pulled apart.
Ben smirked, pressing his advantage—digging his thumb deeper into that stubborn knot until Mac’s hips jerked involuntarily. “Gadgets don’t fix everything, old man.” He exhaled sharply when Mac retaliated by sucking his trapezius, the scrape of teeth sending sparks down his spine. The AC’s icy blast hit his wet skin, raising goosebumps where Mac’s calloused palms weren’t branding him.
Mac pulled back just enough to meet Ben’s gaze, his pupils blown wide despite the daylight streaming through the blinds. “Move in with me,” he repeated, hoarse but unwavering. His grease-stained thumb traced the crow’s feet at the corner of Ben’s eye—gingerly, like he was handling vintage barbell plates. “Not for the sauna. Not for the rack.” His voice cracked. “Just... be there when I wake up.”
Ben’s chest tightened. The AC’s chill raised goosebumps along his arms, but Mac’s hands anchoring his hips were furnace-hot. He exhaled sharply through his nose—a habit from decades of bracing under heavy squats—before gripping Mac’s beard. “Only if you stop leaving protein shakers in the goddamn truck,” he muttered, yanking Mac into a kiss that tasted like sweat and stolen years.
The toolbox clattered when Mac shoved it aside, pinning Ben against the fridge with enough force to make the condiment bottles rattle. His laugh vibrated against Ben’s lips. “Deal.” He nipped at Ben’s jaw, hands already mapping familiar territory—the old bench press tear near Ben’s armpit, the stretch marks webbing his flanks from that disastrous bulk in ‘99. The fridge compressor kicked on, its hum syncing with the thud of Ben’s pulse where Mac’s teeth grazed his carotid artery.
*****
Six months later, Ben’s rack stood sentinel in Mac’s garage beside an ever-growing pile of chalk-stained laundry. The sauna’s cedar scent couldn’t mask the musk of two aging lifters, but the memory foam bed frame—reinforced twice already—held firm under their shared weight. Mac’s snoring rattled the windows whenever Ben hogged the heating pad, but the reverse hyper’s lumbar support earned daily praise from Ben’s knees.
One frostbitten morning, Ben found Mac hunched over the kitchen counter, grease-stained fingers fumbling with a ring-sized box. "Fuckin' hinge is stuck," Mac grunted when the lid refused to budge. Ben pried it open with a butter knife, revealing a tungsten band etched with REPs—just deep enough to feel under calloused thumbs. Mac flushed when Ben slid it onto his own finger first, testing the fit with a flex that made the metal catch the light. "Should’ve known you’d steal my damn proposal," Mac muttered, but his grin widened when Ben tackled him onto the piled gym bags.
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