Brody slid into a chair at the kitchen table, the scent of warm chocolate chip pancakes pulling him into the moment despite the nervous buzz in his chest. The jockstrap—Sean’s jockstrap—still hugged his hips beneath his shorts, a secret that felt louder with every second he sat there. He tried to focus on the stack of pancakes Sean had set in front of him, golden and dotted with melting chocolate, but his mind kept circling back to the night before: Sean’s body, the stolen glance, the way his own desire had spilled over in the dark. He picked up his fork, willing himself to act normal, like he wasn’t unraveling inside.

Sean plopped down in the chair next to him, close enough that Brody could feel the warmth of his presence. With a grin, Sean reached over and tousled Brody’s messy hair, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You might need a haircut, bro, or at least a comb,” he teased, his voice light but carrying that familiar edge of affection that always caught Brody off guard.

Brody ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips as he tried to smooth his hair back down. Sean’s touch, casual as it was, sent a spark through him, stirring the same confusing heat he’d been wrestling with all morning. Before he could respond, Sean leaned back, fishing a comb from his pocket. “Since we’re borrowing things, might as well let you use mine,” he said, his tone playful but with a glint in his eye that made Brody’s pulse quicken. Was there a double meaning there, a nod to the jockstrap swap from yesterday? Brody couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty only made his nerves hum louder.

Then it happened—Sean dropped the comb, the small clatter breaking the rhythm of the moment. He leaned down to pick it up, his body shifting right in front of Brody, close enough that Brody could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with something earthier, lived-in. As Sean bent over, his loose gym pants sagged slightly, and Brody’s breath caught in his throat. There, peeking above the waistband, was the unmistakable edge of a jockstrap—his jockstrap, marked with his own scrawled handwriting from some long-ago practice. The sight hit Brody like a shockwave. Sean was wearing his jock, just as Brody was wearing Sean’s. Was this intentional? Was Sean showing off, flaunting the swap like a quiet dare?

Brody’s eyes widened, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, not until Sean straightened up, comb in hand, and their eyes locked for a fleeting moment. Sean’s bright green eyes held a spark—amusement, maybe something deeper—that pinned Brody in place. The intensity of it was too much, like Sean could see straight through to the thoughts Brody was trying so hard to bury. Flustered, Brody jerked his gaze down to his plate, his heart hammering as a flush crept up his neck.

Sean handed him the comb, his fingers brushing Brody’s just enough to send another jolt through him. “Here you go, stud,” he said, the word landing like a pebble in still water, rippling through Brody’s already unsteady thoughts.

Stud? Brody’s mind reeled. Did Sean just call him that? Was he flirting, or was this just more of his easygoing charm, the kind of thing he tossed out without thinking? Brody wasn’t used to this kind of attention, not from anyone, let alone someone like Sean—older, confident, the kind of guy who seemed to know exactly who he was. The compliment, if it even was one, felt like a spotlight, and Brody’s cheeks burned as he fumbled with the comb, setting it beside his plate without meeting Sean’s eyes.

Sean got up, his movements relaxed, and tousled Brody’s hair again as he circled back to his seat. The second touch felt different—deliberate, almost possessive—and Brody’s skin tingled where Sean’s fingers had been. Sean sat down across from him now, leaning forward with that same disarming grin. “So anyway, what do you have planned for today?” he asked, his voice shifting back to something neutral, like the charged moment hadn’t just happened.

Brody swallowed, grateful for the change in topic even as his mind scrambled to catch up. He poked at his pancakes, forcing himself to focus. “Uh, not much,” he started, his voice steadier than he felt. “Got a shift at the coffee shop this afternoon, then maybe hitting the gym again if I’ve got the energy. Gotta keep up with you, right?” He managed a small grin, hoping it hid the way his thoughts were still tangled in Sean’s gaze, the jockstrap, the word stud echoing in his head.

As they ate, Brody explained the rest of his day—mundane stuff, like running errands and maybe catching up on some computer stuff he’d been slacking on. Sean listened, nodding along, tossing in a few teasing comments about Brody’s barista skills or his questionable taste in workout playlists. The conversation flowed easily, like it always did, but there was a new undercurrent now, at least for Brody. Every glance at Sean’s face—his sharp jawline, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed—felt like a risk, like he might give himself away. And beneath the table, the jockstrap clung to him, a constant reminder of the line they were dancing around.

Sean took a bite of his pancake, then pointed his fork at Brody. “You better save some energy for tomorrow’s pickup game,” he said. “I’m not carrying your ass on the field again.” His tone was light, but his eyes held Brody’s for a beat longer than necessary, and Brody felt that familiar heat creeping back.

He laughed it off, shoving a forkful of pancake into his mouth to cover the way his hands wanted to fidget. The pancakes were perfect, sweet and warm, and the fact that Sean had made them just for him—remembering his favorite from yesterday—settled into Brody’s chest like a quiet ache. Growing up, he’d never had this kind of care, not from his fractured family, not from anyone. Sean’s attention, whether it was pancakes or hair-tousling or that maybe-flirtatious grin, was something Brody craved and feared in equal measure. He didn’t know what it meant, not yet, but as they sat there, eating and talking like nothing had changed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting—something he wasn’t sure he was ready for, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from either.