I’m glad my someone is you.

Ollie’s eyes weren’t even open yet, and it was still the first thought in his head. Oh my god, did I really say that? Maybe I dreamed it.

The headache he could feel building behind his eyes worsened as he lay there taking stock of the hangover he was in for. It wasn’t the worst he’d had by a mile but opening his eyes and facing the day still sounded like the worst idea ever.

He barely even remembered stumbling up the stairs the previous night. After Dagen had won yesterday, Rory had insisted they go celebrate. Which apparently meant drinking. So much drinking.

A noise from the kitchen had him opening his eyes to a slit and he inhaled at the sight of a bottle of water and Tylenol on the nightstand. He hadn’t dreamed it. Dagen really had tucked him in and Ollie really had said what he thought he said. Another noise sounded from the kitchen. He was positive Dagen had had more to drink than him, but he was always up early. Ollie supposed a hangover didn’t offer an exception. Hell, maybe Dagen didn’t even get hangovers. Maybe his giant muscles just ate all the alcohol.

Ollie took a breath as a little wave of nausea washed over him. The scent of coffee reached him and nausea or not, he stumbled out of bed and to the door. Coffee would help. Coffee fixed everything.

“Oh god,” he gasped and threw an arm up over his eyes at the blinding light coming in through the kitchen windows.

“Mornin’.” someone grunted at him from the direction of the counter where the coffee pot lived, and he scrunched up his face. That didn’t sound like Dagen.

Carefully lowering his arm, he found Rory leaning back against the counter, coffee cup in hand. The man’s red hair was sticking up in a billion directions and he was shirtless, his pale muscled torso on full display in the morning light.

Ollie opened his mouth to respond when the door to the bathroom opened behind him and he looked over his shoulder only for his brain to short circuit.

Holy hell.

Dagen walked out in a cloud of steam with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was in a similar state to Rory’s, dark tufts sticking out every which way, but damp and soft and Ollie wanted to feel it between his fingers. A few stray drops of water escaped his hairline and ran down over sculpted shoulders to disappear in the thatch of dark hair spread over the prominent curves of his pecs. Ollie’s mouth went dry. The man was a masterpiece. All solid muscle and achingly beautiful tattoos mapping the contours of his perfect skin.

“Vi wants us in the gym in thirty minutes to get it set back to normal.” Rory said to Dagen and Ollie startled, having completely forgotten he was there.

Ollie’s eyes snapped to Dagen’s and he found the big man watching him closely. An ugly, creeping sensation started in his belly. He looked from Rory’s half dressed, tousled state to Dagen fresh from the shower, in only a towel, and felt himself flush. “Oh…” He was surprised he could hear himself over the roaring in his ears. He was such an idiot. Spouting off sappy bullshit to Dagen while Rory had been waiting for him.

And what the ever-loving fuck? After yesterday, he thought Rory was hung up on Magnus, not Dagen. A stab of hurt punched through him so solidly he was surprised he kept his feet and he cleared his throat preparing to run. “I’ll just get out of your hair.”

Dagen sent him a questioning look, before his eyes widened and Rory chuckled.

“It’s not like that, lad,” Rory said, taking a gulp of coffee before stepping around both of them and shutting himself in the bathroom, coffee cup and all.

Dagen stepped toward him, towel parting around one thick thigh and slipping dangerously low on the dark trail of hair leading beneath it. Ollie swallowed and almost ran into the island in his haste to turn around and escape the sight before the boxers he was wearing revealed how much he wanted to do exactly the opposite. His eyes landed on the coffee pot and he yanked open a cabinet door to rummage for a cup.

“Ollie.” Dagen’s voice came from right behind him.

“I’m sorry, alright?” Ollie said without looking at him. He grabbed a cup and reached for the pot. “I didn’t mean to imply that you and Rory had...” His voice faltered. “That you’re…”

“Gay?” Dagen asked. “You don’t have to imply it. I am. And I thought maybe you’d picked up on that by now and…” Dagen paused for a moment before sucking in a breath. “Definitely not interested in Rory. He’s like my brother.”

Ollie stilled, coffee pot in his grasp. He set it back on the burner and his cup on the counter before turning to face Dagen and meeting his eyes.

“He had too much last night like all of us, I think, and crashed on the couch.”

“Oh,” Ollie said, eyes losing the battle of focusing on Dagen’s face rather than letting them trace his muscular torso. He wanted to run his fingers through the dark hair covering Dagen’s chest. Would it be soft?

“Ollie…”

“Maybe, uh, maybe clothes.”

“Am I distracting you?” Dagen asked, stepping a bit closer. The counter dug into Ollie’s lower back as he leaned against it. He was basically eye level with Dagen’s collarbone and that beautiful fucking rose tattoo that was finally bare to him, and he couldn’t help thinking that if Dagen hugged him how he’d fit perfectly under his chin. How amazing would it feel to have all that strength wrapping him up? Holding him tight? He had a brief flash of being cradled against Dagen’s chest. It felt like a memory. Had Dagen carried him last night? “You know I could say the same to you.” Dagen’s voice pulled him back out of his thoughts.

“What?”

Dagen’s eyes dropped to Ollie’s chest. Ollie’s bare chest. Shit. He’d forgotten he’d neglected to put on a shirt in his quest for coffee and he felt himself flush all over again and wished he had something to cover himself with. “Oh, uh, it’s not really the same, but right. Clothes.” He started to slide away and escape back to his bedroom when Dagen’s hands landed on the counter on either side of him, caging him in. Dagen leaned down so that he and Ollie were eye level.

“Ollie.” There was so much in that one softly spoken word—command, question, request. Ollie stilled and met Dagen’s eyes, waiting. “I meant what I said last night.”

Ollie licked his lips. “So did I.”

Dagen let out a breath and his eyes dropped back down to Ollie’s naked torso and hardened when they landed on the last of the bruises still lingering on his skin. Almost instinctively, Ollie brought his hand up to try to cover the weak spot, but Dagen’s touch landed there first, just the barest trace of fingers against his still healing flesh.

Ollie shuddered as their eyes met and held. He swayed forward without meaning too, leaning into the simple touch of Dagen’s hand against him. The moment stretched between them, taunt like string and he had no doubt Dagen was feeling the same heat he was. The coffee pot let out a gurgle behind him and they both jumped.

Dagen pulled his hand back and grasped his towel like he thought it might abandon him and turned toward his room. “Clothes.”

“Yep,” Ollie croaked, adjusting himself quickly before heading to his own room, slamming his door a second after Dagen’s slammed down the hall.

“Ack.” Rory’s voice rang out from the bathroom. “You’re both hopeless.”

It was nearly dark by the time Dagen made it outside to work on his kettlebell throw. The evening air around him was cool and he was thankful the humidity of summer was still a couple weeks away. He much preferred spring and fall. Cool, crisp mornings and damp days that didn’t make you feel like you were melting.

He pulled all the equipment he’d need from the shed they stored all his strong man training gear in and began to set up the toss. Two twenty-foot steel poles would stand vertical holding up a five-foot horizontal pole stretched between them at the very top. The point was to toss the kettlebell so that it sailed over the horizontal pole suspended in the air. The kettlebell weighing fifty pounds.

As he worked to put the frame together, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying to Ollie and the conversation they’d had that morning. He’d done his best to put Ollie in the back of his mind all day as they worked to get the gym back in order after having to re-arrange for the competition.

Vidar had only mentioned the deadlift once, but Dagen knew that his brother was concerned he wouldn’t be able to make the cut for Nationals this year. A local lift and a state lift were in totally different leagues and Nationals was in another galaxy altogether. Maybe he was rushing himself, but he felt like he’d already wasted so much time being injured that he just wanted to get back in the game. Winning yesterday had felt good. Having Ollie in the crowd cheering for him? Even better.

He gave the frame he’d just assembled a shake to make sure it would hold then grabbed the kettlebell up off the ground. This was a nice easy workout to stretch his already sore muscles without taxing them, and honestly, he just really liked it. There was still the slightest pull in the back of his leg from the injury as he settled himself into position—feet shoulder width apart, knees bent, and kettlebell held with both hands in front of him with his back to the frame he’d just erected—and began swinging the bell, up over his head and then down between his legs, gaining momentum. Once he felt he had it, on the upswing he released the bell and stepped forward, turning to see it sail over the horizontal bar and land with a thunk, creating a divot in the grass beyond the lot. He’d set up the frame right on the edge of the asphalt just for that reason.

“Wow. How much does that thing weigh?” Ollie’s voice called from closer to the building near where the back stairway led up to their door. He was partially obscured in shadows as the sun continued its descent, but Dagen could still see the dark spots under his eyes. The pale pallor of his skin. It looked like the hangover hadn’t been so easy for Ollie to shake and reminded Dagen of the way he’d looked that second night, standing in the kitchen, hurting and unable to sleep.

“It’s fifty pounds.”

Ollie let a low whistle from between his teeth. “Jesus, and you just chuck it around like that?”

Dagen felt his chest swell at the praise but tried to keep the silly grin he could feel pulling up the corners of his mouth off his face. “It’s, uh, it’s one of my best events.”

Ollie walked closer and inspected the kettlebell where it lay among the old divots from Dagen’s many training sessions. “Maybe not as impressive as you pulling that truck across the parking lot yesterday with nothing but some rope, but it’s pretty cool.”

Dagen noticed Ollie hadn’t really looked him in the eye and stepped closer. His skin was even paler from less than a foot away, pulled tight around chapped lips, and his normally smooth forehead was creased with tension. “Ollie.”

“You keep doing that,” Ollie said with a little shake of his head.

“What?”

“Saying my name... like it’s something else. Something... I don’t know, like it means more than it does.”

Dagen opened his mouth to tell him it did. That to Dagen it was coming to mean everything, but something held his tongue. Before he could think of anything less revealing to say, Ollie was waving him off.

“Don’t mind me, man, I’m out of my head. This hangover has kicked my ass today. I was gonna go get some food, but I think I might just go back to bed.”

He turned sideways like he might head back to the stairs but didn’t take a step in their direction. He looked smaller than Dagen had ever seen him. This was more than hangover tired. It was like more of the tired that Ollie had shown up with, clinging to him like smoke from a campfire. Once it’s on you, in your clothes, in your hair, only a good scrubbing will wash it away. Dagen wondered what Ollie needed to scrub him clean, to help him shed this layer of exhaustion and doubt that had its teeth sunk into him.

Dagen didn’t know, but he did know of one thing he could offer, and something told him Ollie would even accept it. Darkness was folding around them, the cool breeze turning colder, and Ollie shivered. Dagen stepped forward, right up into Ollie’s space and opened his arms. Ollie stepped into them with no hesitation and tucked his head right under Dagen’s chin like he’d been there all along.

Wrapping his arms around Ollie, Dagen pulled him close, and held him tight. Ollie, in turn, wrapped his long arms around Dagen’s waist, hands fisting in the material in the back of his shirt.

They stood there for several minutes and Dagen drank in the feel of Ollie pressed against him. Reveling in how right it felt to have him there.

It had gone full dark when Dagen dropped his cheek to rest against the side of Ollie’s head and moved his lips so close they brushed his ear as he spoke. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll fix you dinner and we can watch a movie. What do you say?”

Ollie shuddered against him before squeezing his middle one more time, taking a step back, and nodding his head.