Page 32 of The Key Holder

I cracked open the door and accepted the neatly folded pile of clothes from Ford. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need a hand.”

“This part I can manage.”

I placed the pile on the vanity next to the sink and dropped my towel. The shirt was the easy part; it was the shorts that’d be tricky.

Oh God.

He didn’t.

Folded neatly on top of my shorts was a purple Andrew Christian jockstrap. Ford had opened my underwear drawer and selected this pair. The idea that he’d know exactly what I was wearing underneath my clothes was arousing to say the least. Even though we had just spent almost the entirety of yesterday wearing barely there swim briefs by the lake.

This was a little different.

With great care not to fall on my ass, I pulled the jock on, followed by the track shorts. After hanging the towel to dry, I made it to the door where Ford was still waiting for me.

He said nothing about the jockstrap. I could’ve sworn he was going to—especially after last night and the note this morning—but he didn’t. As requested, he helped me down the stairs and to the couch, since he was going to be finishing my shower repairs today.

I couldn’t handle another day of staring at him.

My poor dick needed a break.

8

Ford

It was a little surprising how easily Dylan and I settled into a shared rhythm.

What was supposed to be a summer of solitude and reflection had turned into one about reconnecting…and having fun. I was thankful; being here with him was like pressing pause on my pre-mid-life crisis. Future meltdowns still weren’t an impossibility, but I felt better about my life after a couple weeks with him than I had in a while.

Dylan had seemingly avoided edibles since hurting his ankle the second time. Either that, or he’d become better at containing his silliness. With the absence of injured ankles and substance-fueled hysterics, an enjoyable sort of domesticity formed between us.

Mornings began one of two ways; either I decided to go for a run and came home to find Dylan making us breakfast, or I opted to forgo long-distance exercise for a quick HIIT workout and make him breakfast instead. Lately, it had mostly been the latter. Predictably, I liked having someone to take care of.

When I was married, I let Melissa take the lead. It wasn't something I had thought about then, which made me sound inconsiderate, but my relative inexperience had a few consequences. Not feeling useful was one of them.

It also became clear that Dylan was a much faster reader than me. Despite my enjoyment of the book he handed me weeks ago, I always became too turned on by the sex scenes to push through them without handling myself.

And after that, I always wanted to fall asleep.

Lately, I had taken to reading while eating, like Dylan, because when I became aroused, I wasn’t about to whip it out under the table and jack it. At moments I needed to cool down and let things settle, I watched Dylan’s face while he read. Who knew someone’s expressiveness could be so entertaining? Eventually, I’d grow restless—and soft—enough to start tidying up the kitchen or washing the dishes.

Most afternoons, we relaxed in a companionable silence; Dylan continued whatever he was reading from breakfast, and I checked in with my clients and their progress. As an NSCA-certified personal trainer, I had a few folks that I worked with exclusively online. Most of my in-persons understood my need for a break; they'd be there after the summer or they wouldn't be. I wasn't too worried. There were always people looking for a trainer.

We’d make dinner together most evenings. It was something that happened organically: a short conversation about what to make, followed by an easy-going dance around the small kitchen, our movements almost synchronized. It was the kind of easy companionship I knew I was missing, the kind I had been looking for. My brain was telling me it had only been a short time, but the joy I felt deep down wasn't subtle, and the other moments weren't either.

Glances that lasted just a second too long. Charged silences that took my breath away. An accidental touch that made Dylan's gaze practically burn through me. It was hard to blame them on my imagination.

I often caught Dylan looking at me. Sometimes, it was barely noticeable—just a quick flick—when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Other times, like when he decided to help me with the dishes, out of the corner of my eyes, I'd see him turn his head slowly, his gaze lingering, as if I wouldn't notice.

Tonight, something made me react and I decided to match his movement, and for longer than we should've, we just...looked at each other. It felt like a challenge. Who would look away first?

There was almost an unspoken question in his gaze, an intensity that made me feel…appreciated?

Dylan broke first, turning away with a smile, his cheeks growing pinker by the second.

I wondered what he was thinking, what he was trying to decipher in my expression. Was it more than that?