They pulled into a modest two-story house, the kind that felt lived-in before you even stepped inside. Weathered siding, a wide side yard overtaken by garden beds in full rebellion, and a pole barn with half its doors stuck open. An old on/off-road motorcycle leaned against the shed like it had stories to tell, an ATV rested behind it, and a faded Yukon sat crooked in the gravel drive.

“That’s the Beast,” Sean said, pointing at the Yukon. “Reliable, terrifying, gets the job done.”

“Wow,” Brody grinned. “This place is great! You even got a bike—that’s awesome. Can I ride it?”

“Eventually,” Sean said, leading the way to the porch. “It’s probably a little big for you, but maybe I’ll give you lessons.” He tossed a wink over his shoulder. “Come on in, I’ll show you to your room.”

Inside, the house smelled like cedar and black coffee. Sean guided him down a narrow hall, past a sunlit kitchen and a wall of hooks holding mismatched jackets and tactical gear. At the end was a short wooden door with a faded sign that read The Hunting Shack burned into a pine plank.

“I call it the hunting shack,” Sean said, swinging it open. “Sometimes when my buddies come up to hunt, they crash here. It’s got a bunk bed, a desk, and just enough space to pace when you’re on the phone. One bathroom in the house, though, so we coordinate.”

Brody stepped inside and looked around. The walls were paneled in aged wood, soft light filtered through the single window. The top bunk had a camo blanket, the lower bed was bare but neatly made. A dusty floor lamp leaned beside a desk cluttered with old fishing lures, a pair of binoculars, and a cracked deer antler.

There was something cozy about it. Personal. Private. A space that hadn't seen drama—just muddy boots and late-night laughter.

He dropped his gym bag by the bed and glanced over his shoulder at Sean.

“So… this is home now?”

Sean smiled. “If you want it to be.”

Brody grinned, and for a moment, the weight of everything he’d left behind felt lighter.

They were standing in the doorway to the room—his room now. Brody bent to pick up his gym bag, and something caught Sean’s eye.

“Wait,” Sean said, squinting. “Is that… my jock?”

Brody froze mid-motion, eyes wide. The waistband of the jockstrap he was wearing was sticking out above his shorts, clearly marked with a “21” in sharpie - Sean’s number. Brody was wearing his jock.

“Uh—I must’ve grabbed it by mistake when we were changing,” he said quickly.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “From my bag?”

Brody’s ears turned pink. “They all kinda look the same, man…”

Brody replied. “Here, have mine”, he said, pulling his out of his gear bag, a #86 written on the waistband. “That way we’re even” “Man, these things are ripe,” he said, as he took them from the younger man. “Well, it’s all between brothers, right?”

The room fell silent for a moment, the awkwardness hanging in the air like a thick fog. Brody shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Sean, on the other hand, seemed almost amused by the situation, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “You know, Brody, you should really be more careful with other people's stuff,” Sean said, his voice laced with a teasing tone. “Be more careful, man. Someone else might’ve found it and thought it was your kink.”