Page 8 of The Jock Next Door

Why is he so damn nice? Why can’t he be a jerk so I can hate him instead of wanting to drop to my knees in front of him?

Trey dries off fast, wraps the towel around his waist, letting it hang dangerously low on his hips, and scoops up his clothes. We walk back down the hall together, flip-flops squeaking on the carpet. My shoulders are so tense they’re practically touching my ears. At my door, I’m fumbling with my key, hands still wet and shaking.

“Alright, well. See you around,” I say, trying to slip inside.

“Nico.” He’s right behind me, leaning against the wall next to my door, arms crossed over his bare chest. “You’re not getting out of it. I wanna see your work. Just a peek. Otherwise you’re never gonna show me.”

My stomach drops. If I let him into my room, he’ll see everything. The wall of drawings. Him, half-naked, rendered in graphite over and over. Every confused, horny, obsessive thought I’ve had over the last few days, pinned up for display.

“I…” There’s no excuse good enough. He’s been kind. He’s been open. I can’t shut him down without being an asshole. But I can’t let him in here. I can’t. A cold sweat prickles my skin. “My room’s a mess right now and⁠—”

“Have you seen mine? I live in a landfill.” He reaches past me and pushes the door open. “Just a quick look.”

“Wait—”

But he’s already through, those long legs carrying him into my room before I can stop him. I follow, heart hammering, dread rising in my throat.

This is where it all falls apart.

6

Trey stands in the middle of my room, towel around his waist, water dripping from his skin onto the floor. He’s staring at the drawings.

I close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot.

He stays quiet, head tilted slightly as he takes in my wall of shame. A dozen sketches of his face, his torso, his eyes. And on the easel, the big one. Trey in his gaming chair, leaning back in those gray boxer briefs, every muscle shaded in painstaking detail, the outline of his cock front and center.

His last neighbor might’ve been a narc. His new one is a full-blown stalker. A creep. There’s no other way to see it.

The silence drags on, and with every second, I want to disappear a little more. If I were Alice, I’d shrink to the size of a teacup and hide behind the leg of my desk.

I should say something. Explain. Apologize. But my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I’m waiting for the punch. For him to turn around and ask what the fuck is wrong with me. For the curiosity on his face to turn to disgust. For him to shove me against the wall and tell me to stay the hell away from him.

Why did I pin the sketches to the wall in the first place? A sane person would’ve kept them in a folder. Hidden them. But I’ve been so consumed by it all that being discreet never crossed my mind. I’ve been living in my own world, and now the subject of my obsession is standing in the middle of it, dripping on my floor.

Trey steps closer to the easel. Stares at the big drawing. Reaches out, then stops, fingers hovering above the paper.

“You’re really good,” he says quietly.

I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Being talented?” He leans closer to the easel, studying the drawing, a crease between his brows. “You got me down, man. This is... holy shit. Even the little scar above my eyebrow.”

“Trey, I should explain. This is weird. I know it’s weird.”

“Yeah, it’s a little fucked up,” he says, and turns to look at me. There’s an intensity in his eyes that pins me to the spot. “But I’m not gonna lie, it’s flattering. You must’ve been looking at me pretty close to get this right. You got a photographic memory or something?”

“I guess I’m… observant.” When it comes to certain people.

“Observant,” he repeats. The towel is barely hanging on, and my eyes drop to the sharp V-lines disappearing under the fabric. “So why me?”

Because you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I listened to you through the wall and got so hard I could’ve cut glass with my cock.

“Your face,” I say. It’s the truth. Just not all of it. “You’ve got a great face for drawing. Strong features. Good bone structure.”

“Good bone structure.” His mouth twitches. “You sound like my barber.”

My eyes keep darting to the towel. It’s so loose. One good tug and it would fall.