Brody pushed through the door of Sean’s apartment, the faint jingle of his keys mixing with the lingering buzz of his coffee shop shift. His tank top clung to his shoulders, slightly damp from the spring heat, and his jeans felt heavy after hours on his feet. The day had been a blur of steaming milk and small talk, but his mind hadn’t been at the counter—it had been with Sean, replaying every moment from yesterday like a highlight reel he couldn’t pause. The Plateaus’ first football game, the roar of the crowd, the way Sean had tackled him during practice with a grin that felt like a secret just for them. At 18, Brody was still finding his place on the team, although there were a couple other teammates his age, but Sean, at 41, was a cornerstone—steady, commanding, the kind of player everyone looked to. To Brody, he was more than that: a best friend, a mentor, the big brother he’d never had, though the feelings stirring now were so much more than that.  He knew, too, that people likely wouldn’t understand, had seen the dismissal, even disgust, at the idea of relatives being more than that.  Was that what this was?  Something wrong, even sick?  It didn’t feel that way, it felt right in a way that nothing had before.  After all, he thought, it’s not like there were genetic risks, to it.

He dropped his bag by the door, catching sight of Sean sprawled on the couch in his Plateaus hoodie, the team logo faded from too many washes. His sweatpants hung loose, but they did little to hide the strength in his frame, honed from years on the field. Brody’s pulse quickened, unbidden, as he took in the familiar sight. He was still wearing Sean’s jockstrap, the one he’d “borrowed” yesterday, its fabric a constant reminder against his skin. He hadn’t washed it, hadn’t even considered it. It was reckless, maybe even a little desperate, but Brody needed it—needed that piece of Sean close to him, like a tether to the man who’d become his world. He hoped no one at the shop had noticed, though a small, defiant part of him didn’t care. This was for him, a private claim to the closeness he craved.

His mind drifted to the gym they’d planned for later, a knot of anticipation tightening in his chest. He pictured himself spotting Sean on the bench press, standing over him, their bodies inches apart. Sean’s face would be right there, close enough to feel his breath, to catch that musk Brody couldn’t get out of his head—the same scent that had hit him at breakfast, now tied to the jockstrap and every fantasy he’d tried to suppress. He wondered if he’d be able to keep himself in check, if the jockstrap would hold back the evidence of his arousal or if his feelings would spill over, impossible to conceal. The thought sent a flush across his chest, his body betraying him even now, just imagining it.

The memory of yesterday flooded back, vivid and unrelenting. The game had been electric—the Plateaus charging across the field, Brody’s adrenaline spiking every time he caught Sean’s eye. Afterward, in the locker room, the jockstrap swap had happened, a mix-up that felt less accidental the more Brody thought about it. Sean’s teasing, the way he’d worn Brody’s jock like it was nothing, had lit something inside him, something that had only grown since. His shift at the coffee shop had been torture, his thoughts circling back to Sean no matter how hard he tried to focus. He’d fumbled an order, his mind elsewhere, and had to cover it with a quick apology. “Uh, sorry ma’am, I was just thinking about something,” he’d said, his voice catching as his brain corrected itself: someone. He’d muttered to himself after, half-exasperated, half-resigned, knowing full well who had him so distracted.

Brody had never felt like this before—not about anyone. The guys on the rugby team last year, those quick, fumbling moments in the dark, were nothing compared to this. They were boys, like him, messing around without weight or meaning. Sean was a man—stronger, more confident, his presence filling every room like he owned it. At 41, he carried an ease that Brody, at 18, could only marvel at, a steadiness that made Brody feel both safe and unsteady, like he was falling and being caught at the same time. He couldn’t deny it anymore: these feelings weren’t just friendship, not just the admiration of a kid looking up to his big brother figure. They were deeper, sharper, laced with a want that scared him as much as it thrilled him. Every thought of Sean—his voice, his body, the way he moved—sent a jolt through Brody, twitching slightly now as he stood in the apartment, still catching his breath from the walk home.

He leaned against the wall, trying to shake the images that kept coming: Sean at the gym, sweat glistening on his skin, the Plateaus hoodie tossed aside to reveal the hard lines of his chest. Brody could almost smell him already, that mix of clean sweat and something raw, uniquely Sean, that had hooked him yesterday and hadn’t let go. He imagined their workout, the clank of weights, the shared space where every glance could mean something—or nothing. Would Sean notice the way Brody watched him, the way his hands might linger when passing a dumbbell? Would he see the flush on Brody’s face and know what it meant? The thought was terrifying, but it also set his nerves alight, a reckless hope that maybe, just maybe, Sean felt something too.

“Hey, you’re back,” Sean called from the couch, snapping Brody out of his spiral. His voice was warm, easy, like nothing had changed, but to Brody, everything had. “Ready to hit the gym soon? I’m itching to lift after yesterday’s game.”

Brody nodded, forcing a grin as he kicked off his shoes. “Yeah, just… gotta change,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. He headed toward the spare room, the jockstrap shifting with every step, a secret he wasn’t ready to let go of. His shift was over, but the real work was ahead—facing Sean, keeping his feelings in check, and figuring out how to navigate this pull that was starting to feel like more than he could handle. As he closed the door behind him, he let out a shaky breath, already counting the minutes until they’d be side by side again, sweat and steel and something unspoken hanging between them.