Page 64 of The Key Holder

Trying it, anyway.

It was so new, but fuck, I hoped it lasted. Sure, we were getting our fill of each other’s bodies. The desire he had for me was almost primal and I certainly appreciated his eagerness. But even I could tell that underneath the cocky optimism there was a fragility, and it was something I was already fiercely protective of.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

While I gathered ingredients, my thoughts had wandered. I had almost forgotten River was there. “No problem.”

“Save me one of whatever you’re making there.”

I grunted in a positive way, then started measuring. My coaching days had ingrained a certain meticulousness in me, a need for precision. It had served me well on the mat, and my guys as well. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me baking kept me grounded. It was a way to control something, anything, when other parts of my life felt like freefall.

And I hadn’t baked a single thing all summer.

Because of Dylan.

A loud clang from outside startled me. I looked out the open door and found tools on the ground and the boys in a wrestling match. My confidence in the repair was plummeting, but River seemed sure they were close to being done.

Heading back into the kitchen, a glance up the stairs told me Dylan hadn’t heard the commotion and he was hopefully still asleep. After the last few days, he deserved the rest.

Mixing the wet ingredients into the dry, the mixture slowly came together. As I stirred the batter, the key bounced against my chest and my thoughts drifted to imagining what it was for. Why had it shown up in the kitchen out of nowhere? Maybe someone had hidden it in the kitchen or above the door? Honestly, I had thought about tossing it, but remembered that Dylan said he liked it on me, and I certainly wasn’t going to get rid of it now.

The sun was higher now, streaming through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. As I slid the tray into the preheated oven, I heard a creak from the stairs. My heart gave an involuntary lurch.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I called out, trying to sound casual, my back to the stairs.

He didn’t answer. Just the soft padding of feet on the wooden floor. I turned, coffee cup back in hand, and my breath hitched.

Dylan stood at the bottom of the stairs, completely naked. His hair was a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. His body was a work of art, and there, nestled in between his legs, was the chastity cage.

Just as he noticed the open front door, the dawning realization spreading across his face, I said, “Dylan, the roof⁠—”

But before I could finish, a shadow fell across the room, and Axel, carrying a fresh sheet of drywall, walked into the room. His eyes, initially concerned with navigating the large panel, drifted up, then widened as they landed on Dylan.

“Shit,” Dylan whispered, his voice barely audible, his face instantaneously red, and spun on his heel, a blur of pale skin and panic. He scrambled back up the stairs, his feet thudding with each stride, and only after I heard the bedroom door slam shut did I take a breath.

“Damn, you guys are kinkier than I thought. Bro’s all caged up,” Axel said, giving me a leer, before continuing into Dylan’s former bedroom.

My cup clattered against the counter, sloshing hot coffee onto my hand, but I barely noticed. My mind was racing, a chaotic jumble of concern, embarrassment, and fury. The only solace was that I don’t think Dylan heard what Axel said.

Even so, this was exactly what Dylan didn’t need. He was already so vulnerable, so insecure about his past struggles. I made a conscious effort to relax my jaw and take a breath. As much as I wanted to storm back there and…and what? Defend our sexual choices? It would be pointless, drawing more attention to it, and making things even more uncomfortable. If Axel were smart—slim chance of that—he’d keep his mouth shut about it.

My first priority was Dylan. I knew he was hurt, and he was hiding.

I took the stairs, two at a time. The door to my bedroom was indeed shut, but not quite latched. I pushed it open gently, the old wood groaned softly.

He was on my bed, buried under the blankets. Only the top of his head was visible, his hair a dark blotch against the white sheets. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight. “Dylan?” I said softly, my voice low and calm, despite my skyrocketing blood pressure.

He didn't move.

“Hey, it’s okay.” I reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently resting my hand on the lump that I thought was his shoulder. “He’s just…he’s just a random guy. He's a baboon. He's nothing.”

The lump shook with a silent sob.

“Dylan, look at me.” I tugged gently on the blanket and he let me pull it down. Slowly, his face was uncovered. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears, and his cheeks were flushed and wet.

“He saw.” His voice was hushed, barely above a whisper. “He saw everything.”

“I know,” I said, my thumb stroking the fabric over his shoulder, trying to comfort him. “I know he did, and I know it's embarrassing and it sucks. It really does, but it doesn’t change anything. Not about you…and not about us.”