19
RYAN
When I push through my front door, he’s doing pushups on my living room floor in nothing but the tiniest pair of gym shorts I’ve ever seen.
Well, that’s a way to come home if I’ve ever heard one.
He spots me, hops to his feet like a cat, and throws a chin-lift at me. “Welcome home, Ryan.”
Not the welcome I was expecting after the day I’ve had—and the night we had. “Uh, hey there,” I greet him stiffly, shutting the door behind me and setting my briefcase down on the wicker chair in the entryway.
Stefan’s chest is slick with sweat, glowing as if freshly oiled, and he breathes heavily from his pushups. He swipes a bottle of water off the kitchen counter and asks, “You have a good day?” before tossing back the bottle and chugging.
I stare at his throat as it bobs with his every gulp. His asking if I had a good day makes me feel like he knows everything.
Then again, I have a tendency to be a bit paranoid. “It was a Tuesday like any other,” I reply. “You?”
“Fantastic. Went for a jog, got lost in your neighborhood, and now getting a workout in. Found some weights in your garage. I put them to use.”
My eyes drift down to the two dumbbells on the floor by the couch. I haven’t seen those things in years.
“Uh, no, that’s fine,” I stammer. “You … could’ve just gone to the gym, y’know. It’s still around, believe it or not. The one we used to go to. Same guy even manages it.”
“No shit?” Stefan chuckles at that. “Good to know.”
I shrug. “Maybe tomorrow.”
We stare at each other awkwardly after that, as we likely are waiting for the other one to speak. I pray he doesn’t say anything, ask anything, or even look at me in a certain way.
He doesn’t.
Somewhere in the awkward silence swelling between us, I feel those annoying voices and doubts poking at the outer walls of my mind. They repeat the words of his little brother Rudy, who I met today for the first time as a teen.
And I feel like I’m carrying some dirty, dark secret now. I feel like Stefan would be so pissed if I didn’t tell him. But if I did, wouldn’t that be just as bad? I have a duty to Rudy to protect and respect our student-counselor confidentiality.
I feel like I’m doing the right thing.
At least, I sure as hell hope I am.
I finally give Stefan a short nod, then head for my room. As I go past him, his voice stops me by the hall. “Hey, Ryan.”
A cold front to my chest. My jaw tightens, and I turn my head. “Yeah?”
His face is frozen with something he wants to say, hovering in suspension with his lips parted, yet nothing comes out. For a hot minute, I’m terrified he’s finally about to voice his deep objections with what went on last night, give me a long speech about how we can still be buddies, then finish with the dreaded words I’ve been waiting to hear all day: It can never happen again.
Instead, he asks me, “How’s Chinese sound?”
I blink. “Sorry, what?”
“For dinner tonight. I was poking through the take-out menus you keep stuffed in that one drawer.”
So this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to just go along like nothing at all happened last night. Chinese delivery, chilling on the couch, and no acknowledging the fact that not one tiny day ago, I had my face buried between his juicy cheeks.
I’m almost insulted at the downright lack of freaking-out from Stefan.
That’s a lie. I’m fucking relieved to play denial with him, too. “Chinese sounds great.”
“Fuck yeah.” He grabs his phone off the counter to order.
As he does, I just stand there like a specter and stare at his sweaty, muscled back. My eyes drag down his tapered form to his small waist, which then explodes with two ass cheeks that are being gloriously hugged (and cleaved) by his shiny silver-gray gym shorts that make his butt look like a Christmas ornament.
“Yeah, I’d like to place an order for delivery,” he mumbles, turning around and leaning back against the counter.
And then I’m gifted the sight of his chiseled abs, wide smooth pecs, and the bulge of his biceps as he folds his arms, the phone wedged between his neck and shoulder. My eyes trickle down his chest along with his droplets of sweat—the luckiest droplets of sweat to be existing on a body like that and tracing lazily down its shapely contours.
I’ve never wanted to be a bead of sweat so badly.
I can’t help it. I’m still charged from last night. Whether we’re going to pretend it never happened or not, I can’t calm down, not after I’ve gotten a taste. I’m going to bed with a boner every night for the rest of my life if I don’t get another.
“Sure thing,” he mutters, flips open his wallet on the counter, then pulls out his card. “Ready?”
As he spouts off his numbers, I finally peel myself away from the sight of him, taking my pervy self into the bedroom to get out of my work clothes and put something more comfortable on. I kick off my shoes by the closet, then slip off my tie. Next comes my dress shirt and undershirt, followed by my belt and slacks.
And then a voice: “Changing?”
I jump and spin to face him. “What’s with you always catching me in my bedroom in just socks and underwear??”
“It’s cool,” he mumbles with a shrug.
No, he doesn’t leave; he slouches against the doorframe as he folds his arms and stares at his phone, scrolling with a thumb.
It would be annoying and invasive if it weren’t for the fact that I’m enjoying the view. Oddly, I’m not uncomfortable around him in this state of undress. The comfort built from all of the years of us changing around each other must be fully revived, since I don’t even have an instinct to cover myself in his presence.
“Chinese is ordered,” he informs me. “Should be here in about forty minutes.”
“I guess you didn’t need to consult with me to find out what I like, huh?”
“Oh, I know what you like.” He invites himself in, plopping down on my bed and lying back, his sweaty body spread out on my clean sheets. Not that I mind. “You’d always get the same thing.”
I smirk as I pull open a drawer to grab some around-the-house shorts. “Someone’s being a know-it-all, like always.”
“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He turns his head. “Except for when it comes to you.”
Clasping the mesh black shorts I just fished out of my drawer, I turn and peer at Stefan over a shoulder. He’s got his fingers laced behind his head while comfortably sprawled out on his back, his body somehow seeming relaxed even in its half-crunch position. Naturally, that pose accentuates every single ab he’s got. Coupled with the fact that he’s still glimmeringly slick with his own sweat, he’s pretty much two steps away from looking like a screenshot from a gym-boy porn flick.
“Take tomorrow off.”
I blink. “What?”
“Take tomorrow off,” he repeats. “You get sick days, right?”
“I … I can’t just take a day off,” I protest through half a laugh of disbelief.
“Surely you have a job where you can take sick days. I mean, you went to college and studied your ass off for ten damned years. You’ve earned it.”
“Six years. And I can’t just randomly take a sick day already. I just began my job this school year.”
“Yes, you can and will.”
I stare at him. “Why do you want me to call in, exactly?”
He sits up a bit, propping himself up on his elbows. “Because we have catching up to do. We need a bro day. Just you and me.”
“A what?”
“A bro-cation.”
“Seriously, Stefan. Just stop.”
“A bro-liday.”
“What are we even going to do?”
“What aren’t we going to do?” he shoots back. “Don’t you want to just fuck around town like the old days?”
“Uh, sure, it sounds fun, but I have a job now. A good one. A job I want that I just started. I change the lives of teenagers. I—”
“Yeah, yeah, your dream job,” grunts Stefan, “and I’m proud of you. I really am. But your dream’s missing something. The most important thing.”
“And what’s that?” I shoot back, staring at him with a touch of defensiveness.
That touch is obliterated and replaced by one of his own when he rises from the bed and slaps a hand to my shoulder.
He looks me in the eye. “A buddy to do it all with.”