Roadside Service
Dylan was stretched out on the couch with Jack lying on top of him, both of them still warm and lazy after sex. The TV was on low, some documentary neither of them was really watching. Jack’s cheek was resting on Dylan’s chest, and every so often Dylan would run his fingers slowly through Jack’s hair or trace lazy circles on his back.
Jack let out a small, content sigh and nuzzled closer.
“You’re gonna put me to sleep if you keep doing that,” he mumbled.
Dylan smiled, his voice low and fond. “That’s kind of the point. You’ve been running around all day. Figured you could use a break.”
Jack tilted his head up just enough to look at him. “You’re good to me.”
“Yeah, well.” Dylan gave his back a gentle pat. “You’re good to me too.”
Jack made a small, reluctant noise and pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m kinda hungry. We should probably eat something.”
Dylan opened his eyes and looked down at him. “You offering to cook?”
Jack gave him a sleepy little smile. “I could try. Or we could do it together.”
That was enough to get Dylan moving. He sat up with a quiet groan, keeping one arm around Jack’s waist as he did. “Alright. Come on then.”
They ended up in the kitchen together, the way they usually did when neither of them felt like putting in too much effort. Jack pulled out a pan and started heating it while Dylan dug through the fridge, pulling out what they had left — some ground beef, an onion, a half-empty jar of marinara, and a box of pasta that was probably still good.
Jack was already at the stove, humming quietly under his breath as he stirred the onions Dylan had chopped for him. He was in just his boxers and one of Dylan’s old t-shirts, the hem hanging down past his hips. Every so often he’d glance over his shoulder at Dylan with that small, content little smile he got when they were doing something domestic together.
Dylan came up behind him and rested his hands on Jack’s hips, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck.
“You’re gonna burn the onions if you keep getting distracted,” he murmured against Jack’s skin.
“I’m not distracted,” Jack said, though he leaned back into Dylan anyway. “I’m just… happy.”
Dylan smiled against his neck and gave his hips a gentle squeeze. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jack stirred the onions a little slower. “I like this. Us. Doing ordinary stuff together.”
Dylan didn’t say anything right away. He just stayed there for a moment, holding Jack from behind while the onions sizzled. Then he kissed the spot just below Jack’s ear and stepped back to start boiling water for the pasta.
They worked around each other easily after that — Jack browning the meat while Dylan drained the pasta, Jack bumping his hip against Dylan’s when he needed to get to the sink, Dylan reaching over to steal a bite of the sauce Jack was tasting straight from the spoon. At one point Jack flicked a little sauce at him in retaliation, and Dylan caught his wrist, pulled him in, and kissed him slow and warm right there in the middle of the kitchen.
Jack was still smiling against his mouth when Dylan’s phone started ringing on the counter.
Dylan pulled back just enough to glance at it, then reached over and picked it up without letting go of Jack’s waist.
“Road call,” he said after a moment, reading the screen. “Bus broke down out past the old mill. Sounds like a pretty big one — college hockey team, apparently.”
Jack looked up at him. “You want me to come with you?”
Dylan glanced down at him, thumb still resting on Jack’s hip. “You don’t have to. It’s probably gonna take a while.”
Jack shrugged, easy and sweet. “I don’t mind. I like riding with you. And if it’s a whole team, maybe I can help keep people calm or something while you work.”
Dylan looked at him for a second, then reached up and brushed Jack’s hair out of his eyes.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Come on then. Let’s go see what we’re dealing with.”
Jack smiled — that small, sweet, slightly shy smile he got sometimes — and leaned in to kiss Dylan once, slow and easy, before stepping back.
They pulled up behind the big charter bus, its hazard lights flashing weakly in the dark. The bus was angled half off the road, and a group of college hockey players were scattered around it — some sitting on their gear bags, others leaning against the side of the bus or pacing to stay warm. A couple of older men, probably the coaches, stood near the front talking to each other with their arms crossed. The mood was a mix of boredom and low-level frustration. A few of the players glanced over when Dylan’s truck pulled up, but most stayed where they were.
Dylan killed the engine and grabbed his toolbox from the back without much ceremony.
“I’ll get started on it,” he said, already heading toward the bus. “You don’t have to stand around if you don’t want to.”
Jack nodded and climbed out after him, tugging the front of the oversized work shirt he’d thrown on over his t-shirt. It was one of Dylan’s — faded navy, stained with grease and oil along the hem and sleeves, and carrying that familiar mix of petroleum and old sweat. He hadn’t thought twice about grabbing it before they left.
While Dylan got to work under the bus, Jack wandered a little closer to the cluster of players. A couple of them looked up as he approached. One of them, a broad-shouldered guy with messy dark hair and a faint bruise on his jaw, gave him a tired but friendly smile.
“You the other mechanic?” he asked.
Jack shook his head. “I’m just here with him. He’s the one who actually knows what he’s doing.”
The player’s eyes flicked over Jack’s grease-stained work shirt, and his smile turned a little more playful.
“Yeah, I can tell. You grease monkeys always smell like that.”
Jack glanced down at himself, then gave a small, sheepish laugh. “You shouldn’t talk. I’ve heard all about hockey stink.”
The guy laughed — a real, easy laugh — and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Alright, fair. It’s actually true.” He was sitting on his gear bag, and he reached down and unzipped it partway. A thick, warm wave of concentrated hockey stink rolled out — sharp sweat, old pads, and fabric that had never really been clean. He tilted the bag slightly toward Jack. “Here. Exhibit A.”
Jack leaned in without thinking and took a cautious sniff. The heavy, musky scent hit him immediately. He blinked, then gave a small, honest nod.
“…Yeah. That’s pretty strong.”
The player watched him for a second, then his smile shifted — still friendly, but a little more interested.
“Oh yeah? Well, truth is… I kinda like how you smell too.”
He took a small step closer, closing some of the space between them. His voice dropped just a little.
“I never changed out of my jockstrap after the game. It’s a superstition thing.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged them down just enough to reveal the thick, sweat-darkened elastic of a well-used jockstrap underneath. The pouch looked damp and heavy. “You wanna check if it’s as bad as the gear bag?”
Jack hesitated for half a second, then leaned in.
He took a slow, deliberate sniff of the jockstrap, right there in the open, with a few of the other players still milling around nearby.
The player let out a low, pleased sound and didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted his stance a little wider and rested a hand on the back of Jack’s head, gently but firmly keeping him there.
“Fuck, he actually likes it,” the guy said, half-laughing as he looked over at a couple of his teammates who had started drifting closer.
One of the other players — a tall, lanky guy with shaggy blond hair — stepped in on Jack’s other side, already grinning.
“Shit, let him smell mine too,” he said, and without much warning he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his own sweatpants and tugged them down just far enough to show the front of his jock. It was just as stained and ripe as the first one. He gave it a little shake in Jack’s direction. “C’mon. You said you like hockey stink, right?”
Jack hesitated for only a second before leaning over and pressing his nose to the blond guy’s pouch. The smell was even stronger up close — sharp and masculine and deeply filthy. He breathed it in, and the blond player laughed.
“Fuckin’ knew it.”
A third guy had wandered over now, and when he noticed the obvious bulge in Jack’s work pants, he didn’t even try to be subtle. He reached down and gave it a firm squeeze through the fabric.
“Jesus. This kid’s hard as fuck already.”
Jack made a small, embarrassed sound against the blond guy’s jock, but he didn’t pull away. The first player — the one who’d started all of this — watched for a moment with a crooked grin, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and shoved them down to his knees.
His jockstrap was fully on display now: the once-white fabric had gone a dingy yellow in the front, the pouch visibly damp and stretched tight over his cock and balls. The elastic was frayed in places, and the whole thing reeked of sweat, cum, and days of wear.
“Go on,” he said, voice low and amused. “Get in there.”
Jack didn’t need much encouragement. He leaned forward and buried his face right into the filthy pouch, breathing deep. The smell was overwhelming up close — thick and rank and masculine in a way that made his head spin. He opened his mouth without thinking and dragged his tongue across the damp fabric, tasting salt and old sweat.
The hockey players around him burst out laughing — not mean, just genuinely entertained.
“Holy shit, look at him go.”
“Fuckin’ greedy for it.”
Dylan had been tightening something under the bus when the laughter caught his attention. He glanced over, wiping his hands on a rag, and took in the scene: Jack on his knees with his face buried in the first player’s nasty jockstrap while two others stood close, one of them still casually groping the front of Jack’s pants.
For a second, Dylan just watched. Then a slow, quiet laugh slipped out of him.
He shook his head to himself, still smiling faintly, and turned back to the bus.
“Kid’s on his own for now,” he muttered under his breath, and got back to work.
The first guy let Jack nuzzle and lick at his filthy jockstrap for another few seconds before he reached down and hooked two fingers into the side of the pouch. He pulled the fabric aside, and his thick cock sprang out — half-hard, flushed, and already leaking. Without saying anything, he gripped the base and tapped the head against Jack’s lips.
Jack opened up immediately.
He took the cock all the way down in one swift motion, swallowing until his nose was pressed into the sweaty thatch of hair above the jockstrap. The guy groaned and rested a hand on the back of Jack’s head.
“Fuck, look at that.”
The blond guy on Jack’s other side didn’t wait his turn. He shoved his own sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock from his jockstrap and stepped in close, slapping it lightly against Jack’s cheek.
“Me next.”
Jack pulled off the first cock with a wet sound and turned his head, taking the blond guy into his mouth just as eagerly. He went back and forth between them for a minute, sucking one while he stroked the other with his hand, then switching. After a while he leaned in and tried to fit both heads into his mouth at the same time, stretching his lips wide around them. The two players laughed, low and filthy, as they watched him struggle to take both at once.
By now a couple more guys had wandered over to see what was happening. That made five of them total, all standing around Jack in a loose half-circle while he knelt there with his face and hands full.
One of them glanced toward the road and jerked his head toward the bus.
“Come on. Let’s get him inside before someone drives by.”
Nobody argued. They hauled Jack to his feet and herded him toward the open door of the charter bus. A few players were already sitting in the seats near the front, scrolling on their phones or talking quietly. They looked up as the group came aboard, but nobody told them to stop.
The five guys didn’t bother finding a private spot. They just moved Jack a few rows back and formed a loose circle around him in the aisle. One by one they shoved their sweatpants down and pulled their cocks out through the sides of their stained, sweaty jockstraps. The smell of unwashed gear and dick filled the small space immediately.
Jack dropped to his knees again without being told.
He started working his way around the circle, sucking each cock in turn while using both hands to stroke the guys on either side of him. Every time he pulled off one dick, another was already tapping against his cheek or lips, waiting. The players talked over him like he wasn’t even there — casual, amused, and clearly enjoying the show.
Jack didn’t resist when they started pulling at his clothes. If anything, he helped — lifting his arms when they tugged Dylan’s work shirt over his head, shifting his weight so they could yank his pants and underwear down. Within seconds he was naked on the floor of the bus, on his hands and knees, while the five guys around him laughed and made crude comments about how easy he was being.
One of them — the same broad-shouldered guy who’d started everything — turned around and bent over, bracing his hands on the back of a seat. He reached back and pulled one cheek aside, showing off a sweaty, hairy, deeply rank ass.
“Get in there,” he said over his shoulder.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and buried his face between the guy’s cheeks, tongue working eagerly over his hole. The taste and smell were strong — sharp sweat, musk, and a game's worth of hockey stink. Jack moaned softly into it and kept licking.
While he was occupied, the others started taking turns behind him.
The first one to fuck him was rough and fast, gripping Jack’s hips and driving into him with short, heavy thrusts. After a minute he pulled out and another guy took his place, then another. They each didn’t last long — just enough to get a few good strokes in before trading off. Jack stayed right where he was, face buried in the first guy’s ass, taking whatever cock was pushed into him without complaint.
A few of the players who’d already been sitting on the bus had turned in their seats to watch. Some were openly rubbing their bulges through their sweatpants. One had his cock out, stroking it slowly as he watched Jack get used.
After several minutes of being passed around, the guy whose ass Jack had been eating finally straightened up and turned around. He grabbed Jack by the hair, pulled his face up, and shoved his cock straight into his mouth.
“Fuck— gonna cum,” he grunted, and a few seconds later he was unloading down Jack’s throat with a low, satisfied groan. Cum started spilling out the corners of his mouth and running down his neck.
That seemed to break whatever restraint the watchers had left.
Two of the guys who’d been sitting nearby stood up and moved in. One of them took the spot behind Jack and pushed into his ass while the other fed his cock into Jack’s mouth the moment the first guy pulled out. Jack was quickly getting spit-roasted in the aisle, one cock in his ass and another in his mouth, while the remaining guys in the original group took turns swapping places.
It didn’t take long after that.
One of the guys fucking Jack’s ass let out a sharp grunt and buried himself deep, pumping jet after jet of cum into him in what seemed like a never-ending orgasm. The second he finally pulled out and gobs of sperm fell out of Jack’s hole and splattered on the bus floor, the rest of the group — and most of the guys who’d just been watching — let out a loud, rowdy cheer.
“Fuck yeah!”
“Breeding the little mechanic!”
The noise carried. A few seconds later, the bus door opened again as more players who’d been standing outside wandered in to see what all the cheering was about.
More guys kept filing onto the bus, drawn by the noise and the unmistakable smell of sex and sweat already thick in the air. The aisle quickly became too cramped, with bodies pressing in from both sides. Someone eventually barked out a suggestion, and the group shifted.
They started claiming the seats.
One by one, the players dropped into the rows, yanking their sweatpants down and peeling off their filthy, sweat-stained jockstraps. The smell that came off them was sharp and overwhelming — concentrated hockey musk that had been accumulating for weeks. They didn’t bother being neat about it. They just kicked the straps aside or held onto them as they sat back and spread their legs.
Jack was pulled up off the floor and manhandled into the first lap.
Strong hands gripped his waist and dropped him down onto a thick cock without ceremony. Jack gasped as he sank all the way down, but he didn’t fight it. He braced his hands on the seat in front of him and started riding, rolling his hips as the guy beneath him groaned and gripped his ass.
When that guy was done — or got close — they didn’t even let Jack fully stand up. They just lifted him off and passed him to the next seat over, where another player was already waiting with his cock out. Jack was dropped onto him just as easily, and the process repeated.
Every time a guy finished with him — whether he came inside Jack’s ass or pulled out at the last second — he took his putrid jockstrap and looped it around Jack’s neck like a trophy. By the fourth or fifth one, Jack had a heavy, stinking collar of used jockstraps hanging around his throat. The stink was intense. Every time he breathed in, he got a thick lungful of concentrated sweat, cum, and unwashed gear. The whole bus was starting to reek of it.
Jack kept going without complaint, letting them move him from lap to lap like he was just there for their use. His cock was hard and leaking between his legs, bouncing every time he was dropped onto another cock. Sperm squirted out of him as each cock entered, coating the seats and floor and the thighs of the hockey stud whose pole Jack had just slid onto.
Some of the guys who were still waiting couldn’t be patient.
While Jack was riding one seated player, another guy climbed up onto the seat beside them, grabbed Jack by the hair, and shoved his cock into his mouth. A third player did the same from the other side a minute later, standing on the seat so he could feed Jack his dick while the guy beneath him kept fucking up into his ass. Jack was getting used from both ends at once again, this time with a growing collection of filthy jockstraps around his neck and the heavy, overwhelming stench of hockey gear filling every breath.
Dylan wiped his hands on a rag as he straightened up beside the bus. The repair had taken longer than he expected, but the engine was running smooth again. He grabbed his toolbox and climbed the steps, expecting to find the driver so he could give him the all-clear and collect payment.
What he walked into instead stopped him in his tracks.
The entire bus was thick with the smell of sweat, sperm, and rank hockey gear. Every seat was occupied. Players, coaches, and even a couple of the managers were packed in, some standing in the aisle, others leaning over seats. In the middle of it all was Jack — completely naked, covered in sweat and cum, with a heavy collar of filthy jockstraps hanging around his neck.
They were passing him around like a toy.
Jack was currently straddling one of the bigger defensemen in a window seat, getting bounced on his cock while another player stood on the seat beside them and fucked his mouth. Every few minutes someone would pull him off and move him to the next lap, or push him down onto his knees in the aisle so another guy could cum on his face. The rest of the bus watched and cheered, most of them stroking their own cocks while they waited their turn.
Dylan stood there for a long moment, toolbox still in his hand, just taking it in.
Then a slow grin spread across his face.
He set the toolbox down on the nearest seat, raised his voice over the noise, and called out:
“Why’d you start without me?”
A few heads turned. Jack’s eyes flicked up toward him, glassy and fucked-out, but he didn’t have a chance to answer before another cock was pushed between his lips.
The players closest to Dylan didn’t hesitate. Two of them reached for him at once, laughing as they grabbed at his belt and started yanking his pants down. Someone else pulled his shirt over his head. Within seconds they had him stripped, and before Dylan could even say anything else they were manhandling him toward an empty seat near the middle of the bus.
A stocky forward already had his cock out, thick and flushed. They pushed Dylan down onto it without ceremony, one of them gripping the back of his neck while another spread his ass. Dylan let out a low groan as he sank down onto the cock, hands bracing on the seat in front of him.
The guy beneath him laughed and slapped his hip.
“Welcome to the party, mechanic.”
Once Dylan was in, the team didn’t slow down.
Both of them were passed around relentlessly. The second one guy finished with either of them, another was already pulling them onto the next lap or dragging them into position. Cocks were shoved into their mouths, into their hands, and even into their armpits while they were held in place. The smell of sweat and dirty jockstraps was overwhelming now, thick enough that every breath felt heavy.
Every time a guy came inside one of them or pulled out to finish on their skin, he added his rancid jockstrap to the growing collection around their necks. Dylan’s was starting to match Jack’s — a heavy, stinking collar of rancid yellowed straps that reeked of days-old sweat and piss and dried cum. Every time Dylan moved, the smell hit him fresh.
Cum was everywhere. It leaked out of their asses, dripped from their chins, and streaked across their chests and backs. Neither of them had a moment to catch their breath before another cock was pushed into their mouth or another guy was hauling them onto his lap.
Dylan kept glancing over at Jack whenever he could.
Jack was getting it worse.
They stood him up in the aisle and bent him over between two seats. One guy immediately pushed into his ass while another stepped up in front of him and fed his cock into Jack’s mouth. Then a second player crowded in behind Jack, pressing close and working the head of his cock against Jack’s already stretched hole. It took a few rough tries, but he eventually forced his way in alongside the first cock.
Jack made a choked, overwhelmed sound around the dick in his mouth as his ass was stretched wide around two thick cocks at once.
The two guys in front of him didn’t wait. One pulled out of his mouth just long enough for another player to shove in beside him, and suddenly Jack had two cocks stretching his lips at the same time while his ass took two more. The guys fucking him didn’t go easy — they pounded into him hard and fast, using his hole like it was just there for them to wreck.
Dylan watched every time he had a clear line of sight, his own cock buried in some guy’s lap or his mouth full of another player’s dick. Every time he saw Jack getting DP’ed in both holes, his expression tightened with heat. He didn’t look away.
Dylan was mid-thrust on some guy’s cock when the first warm stream hit him across the face.
It came from the side — sudden and hot — splashing over his cheek and into his open mouth before he could react. He flinched, but the guy fucking him just gripped his hips tighter and kept going. A second later another stream joined it, this one from above, soaking into his hair and running down his neck.
It didn’t stay isolated for long.
Once the first couple of guys started pissing, it spread fast. More players stood up around them, cocks in hand, and let loose. Hot piss rained down over both Dylan and Jack as they were passed from lap to lap and used in every hole. It soaked into their skin, ran down their chests, and mixed with the cum already streaking their bodies. The smell on the bus shifted — sharper, more acrid, layering on top of the already overwhelming stench of sweat, dirty jockstraps, and sex.
Someone peeled off his disgustingly rank socks and shoved them against Dylan’s face, clamping them over his nose and mouth with a firm hand. The smell was thick and sour — concentrated foot sweat and old fabric that had never been washed. Dylan’s eyes watered, but he kept breathing through it as another cock was pushed into his mouth alongside the sock.
Jack didn’t get spared for long.
Another player yanked off his own filthy sock and pressed it over Jack’s face the same way, holding it there while someone else fucked into his ass. Jack made a muffled, overwhelmed sound but didn’t fight it. Within minutes both of them had multiple rank, sweat-soaked socks clamped over their faces whenever they weren’t actively sucking cock. Every breath was thick with the stench of unwashed hockey gear, piss, and cum.
The bus was a haze of it now — hot, humid, and overpowering. The windows had started to fog. Jack and Dylan were both soaked, dripping, and getting passed around like cheap sex toys. Every time one of them was moved to a new lap or a new position, another guy was already stepping up to add more piss or shove another filthy sock against his face.
The two of them were barely recognizable now.
Dylan and Jack were both on their knees in the aisle, side by side, getting passed between whoever wanted them. Every time one of the players grew tired of a hole, they’d shove whichever one of them was closest onto the next cock without ceremony. Piss kept coming in short bursts — sometimes aimed at their faces, sometimes down their backs or across their chests. The floor of the bus was wet under their knees.
Thick, rank, sweat-stiffened hockey socks were clamped over their noses and mouths, forcing them to breathe through the rank concentrated stench while cocks were shoved into whatever hole was available. Every few minutes a fresh sock would replace the old one, the new one even riper than the last. The entire bus reeked of it — piss, cum, dirty gear, and unwashed bodies all mixing into something thick and oppressive.
Jack was getting it especially rough.
They had him bent forward between two seats again, one guy buried balls-deep in his ass while another stood on the seat in front of him and fucked his throat. A third player had climbed up behind the one fucking Jack’s ass and was working his cock in alongside the first, stretching him wide open again. Jack’s hands were braced on the seat, his body jolting every time they thrust into him, muffled sounds escaping around the cock in his mouth and the putrid sock pressed over his face.
Dylan was only a few feet away, currently on his back across one of the seats with his legs held open. One of the coaches — an older, stocky man — was pounding into him while another player knelt over his face and fed him his cock. Every time Dylan managed to turn his head, he could see Jack getting used. The sight made his own cock twitch where it lay hard and leaking against his stomach.
Another stream of piss hit Dylan across the chest and face. He didn’t flinch this time. He just opened his mouth and let it run in while the guy above him kept fucking his throat.
The energy on the bus slowly shifted.
The fucking became less frantic and more deliberate. The remaining guys started pulling out and finishing on them instead of inside — thick ropes of cum streaking across Dylan’s chest, Jack’s face, their backs, and their asses. Every time one of them came, they added one last piss over the mess before zipping up and heading for the door. Some of them muttered crude comments under their breath. Others just laughed quietly and gave them a slap on the ass or the back of the head on their way out.
One by one, the players, coaches, and managers filed off the bus.
Eventually the noise faded. The door hissed shut behind the last few guys, and the bus went quiet except for the low rumble of the idling engine and the wet sounds of Dylan and Jack still being used by the final few stragglers.
When even those last guys were done, they left without ceremony — one more heavy splash of piss across both of them and then they were gone.
The bus was suddenly, strangely still.
Jack and Dylan were the only ones left.
They were both wrecked — soaked, covered head to toe in cum and piss, with filthy jockstraps and rank socks still looped around their necks and faces. The smell inside the bus was thick enough to choke on.
Dylan reached for Jack first.
He pulled him in and kissed him hard, messy and desperate, not caring about the taste of cum and piss on both of their mouths. Jack kissed him back just as fiercely, hands gripping Dylan’s cum-slick shoulders. They licked at each other’s faces, tongues dragging through the mess, swapping spit and cum between them as they panted into each other’s mouths.
Neither of them said anything. They just jerked their cocks while they kissed and licked, fast and rough, until Dylan came first with a low groan, shooting across Jack’s stomach and cock. Jack followed seconds later, adding his own load to the mess already covering both of them.
When it was over, they collapsed together into one of the seats, bodies pressed close, too exhausted to move. The bus was quiet around them, thick with the overpowering stench of what had just happened.
—
By the time they made it home, it was late.
They moved slowly through the kitchen together, finishing the pasta they’d started hours earlier. Neither of them said much. Dylan stood at the stove stirring the sauce while Jack leaned against the counter beside him, occasionally bumping their shoulders together. Every movement made them both wince a little — they were both sore in places that made sitting down carefully and moving gingerly feel necessary.
They ate on the couch with the TV on low, legs tangled under a blanket. Jack sat tucked against Dylan’s side, and Dylan kept one arm around him, his thumb rubbing slow circles on Jack’s shoulder. They didn’t talk about what had happened. They just ate quietly, occasionally glancing at each other with small, tired smiles.
When their bowls were empty, Dylan set them on the coffee table and let out a long breath.
“We should probably get to bed,” he said, voice low. “Big day tomorrow.”
Jack nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. I’m wrecked.”
“Me too.”
They didn’t rush. They cleaned up slowly, turned off the lights, and made their way to the bedroom. Once they were under the covers, Jack immediately curled into Dylan, pressing close until they were face to face. Dylan wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in tighter, their foreheads resting together.
For a little while they just breathed in the quiet. Then Dylan spoke, his voice low and careful.
“You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asked. “Not going back to school?”
Jack was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing slow patterns on Dylan’s chest.
“I’m sure,” he said softly. “I thought about it a lot. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. With you. Working at the shop with Big Bill… it feels right. It feels like where I’m supposed to be.”
Dylan exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up Jack’s back.
“I’m happy you’re staying,” he admitted. “Really happy. I just… I don’t want you giving up something better for yourself because of me.”
Jack pulled back just enough to look at him in the dark.
“I’m not,” he said. “This is better for me. Being with you, building something here… this is what I want. I’ve never been more sure about anything.” He leaned in and kissed Dylan softly. “You’re not holding me back. You’re the reason I finally feel like I’m where I belong.”
Dylan was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a small, relieved breath and kissed Jack’s forehead.
“Okay,” he whispered. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Jack tucked himself back in close, nuzzling against Dylan’s neck. Dylan held him tighter, one hand resting protectively on the back of his head.
They didn’t say anything else after that.
They just stayed wrapped up in each other, warm and sore and quietly content, until sleep slowly pulled them under.
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