Chapter 1: I Shouldn’t Be Looking at Dylan Like That

I’ve never been great at looking people in the eye when i like them.

It’s stupid, I know. But when I feel too much, my body does this thing where it’s like ... nope, you’re good, let’s just admire from the side and pretend none of this is happening. So if you’re wondering how this all started, how a perfectly normal year ended up getting very not normal, I guess it starts with a glance. A long one. At the wrong person.

Well. Not wrong. Just ... not meant for me.

It was Jake’s fault, really.

He was the one who talked me into spending the weekend at his parents’ place. “We’ll chill, hit that wings place you like, rewatch The Prestige, destroy each other on FIFA ... just like old times.”

And it did feel like old times. Which was maybe the problem.

Jake and I had been friends since high school, tight in the way that comes from late-night study cramming, shared cafeteria trauma, and one too many “is this outfit okay?” mirror checks before parties. Somewhere between sophomore gym class and graduation, I told him I was gay. He took it in stride, like I’d just told him I liked blueberry Pop-Tarts. That was Jake. Easy with everything.

He was also the only one who knew.

We were both 19 now.

So when we rolled up to his place for the weekend and I saw Dylan’s truck in the driveway, I didn’t think much of it.

Just figured he was visiting. Passing through.

But then we walked inside, and there he was.

Like he’d never left ... but somehow looked nothing like how I remembered.

Dylan had been gone for three years. Moved out right after college to do some post-grad certification thing in health and fitness. Built a client base, trained influencers, launched an online program. Jake said he was doing well. He was 23 now.

I didn’t realize how well until I saw him again.

Dylan used to be fit. The kind of lean, athletic that came from high school football and cocky energy. But now?

He looked like he’d been sculpted out of pure gym obsession. Broad shoulders. Thick arms that tested the seams of his cutoff. A chest so solid it made his shirt hang off him like it was afraid. Abs like a catalog photo, only real. And his thighs—Jesus—pushed out from his gray shorts like they were fighting for space. Veins ran down his forearms. His jawline was sharper, a little scruffier, and his voice had dropped just enough to make it feel ... dangerous.

He walked past me with that massive water jug in one hand that typical gym bros carry, gave a lazy “yo,” and kept going downstairs.

I swallowed hard. Pretended it was just dry air or something.

Jake and I followed him down to the basement, same as old times. Beat-up couch, ancient PlayStation, random half-deflated yoga ball in the corner with a treadmill on the side. Jake tossed me a controller. I flopped onto the rug. We queued up FIFA.

A few minutes in, Dylan joined us. Didn’t sit ... just leaned against the treadmill like it was part of his throne.