Jake had been crashing in his childhood bedroom in Westover Heights for three months, and he was beginning to think boredom might actually be lethal.

At twenty-one, he’d expected to be building a life of his own, not retreating to his parents’ house after a messy breakup. Moving home had made financial sense. He could save money, keep his freelance graphic design business running, and figure out what came next without worrying about rent. At least, that was how he’d justified it to himself.

The reality was less appealing.

His parents’ upper-middle-class split-level sat on a quiet, tree-lined street, surrounded by tidy lawns, well-maintained gardens, and neighbors who seemed to have their lives considerably more organized than Jake felt his was. His childhood bedroom remained largely untouched, right down to the old desk he’d used in high school. These days, it held two monitors, a drawing tablet, and enough computer equipment to support his design work.

It was a comfortable arrangement. Too comfortable, perhaps. There was something uniquely frustrating about being a grown man who could manage his own clients and pay his own bills but still had to consider whether his father might wander down the hallway at an inconvenient moment.

Beacon provided a welcome distraction.

Jake had spent the better part of the evening scrolling through profiles, occasionally tapping a heart, sending a message, or swiping past someone who looked promising until he read their bio. His own profile was refreshingly straightforward.

Vers bottom. Can host, but keep it chill—dad’s home.

He’d added that last bit because honesty seemed preferable to awkward explanations later. Unfortunately, it also seemed to function as an exceptionally effective way to discourage potential hookups.

Plenty of guys were interested right up until they discovered he lived with his parents. Some stopped responding altogether. Others tried negotiating for a hotel or suggested meeting at their place, which wasn’t necessarily a bad idea but wasn’t what Jake was looking for that evening.

He wasn’t embarrassed about living at home. He simply didn’t want to spend his limited free time explaining that his current circumstances were temporary.

With another sigh, Jake continued scrolling.

Then Ryan’s profile appeared.

Jake stopped.

Thirty-five, a mechanic, and built like a man who spent his working hours doing considerably more than sitting behind a desk, Ryan was an absolute stud. Thick shoulders, heavily muscled arms, a broad chest, and a solid, rugged build made him stand out from the parade of carefully posed selfies Jake had been browsing. In one cropped photo, Ryan wore a tank top that revealed a dense trail of dark hair running down his stomach.

The man looked strong, masculine, and entirely comfortable in his own skin.

Jake took another look at the pictures before opening the profile.

There wasn’t much written there. A few details about his work, some basic preferences, and a general indication that he wasn’t interested in endless conversations with strangers.

Honestly, Jake could appreciate that.

He tapped the message icon.

Hey. You look like my kind of trouble.

Jake considered the line for a moment, then sent it before he could overthink things.

Ryan replied a few minutes later.

That so?

Definitely.

What are you looking for?

Jake settled back against his pillows, smiling at his phone as he typed. They exchanged a few brief messages, enough to establish mutual interest without turning the conversation into an interview. Ryan was direct, confident, and apparently just as interested in getting together as Jake was.

Then came the obvious question.

You free tonight? Ryan asked.

Jake glanced toward his closed bedroom door.

Yeah. I can host.

Send me the address.

Jake hesitated, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. This was usually the point where things fell apart. He’d learned not to get too excited until the other person knew the full situation.

Just so you know, my dad’s home.

He waited, watching the little indicator beneath Ryan’s name.

The reply came back almost immediately.

Okay?

Jake blinked at the screen.

As in, my parents’ house. I’m staying with them right now.

You said you could host.

I can. I just need you to understand that we have to be quiet.

For a moment, there was no response. Jake braced himself for the familiar excuse, the sudden change of plans, or the polite disappearance that followed his explanation.

Instead, Ryan wrote:

Quiet’s easy. Address?

Jake read it twice, a grin gradually spreading across his face.

You’re actually okay with that?

Why wouldn’t I be?

It was such a simple answer that Jake almost laughed. Apparently, not everyone considered his living arrangements a dealbreaker.

He sent the address, followed by a final message with the necessary instructions.

Back door’s unlocked. Second room on the left. Don’t make noise.

Got it. See you soon.

Jake set his phone on the desk and looked around his childhood bedroom. The familiar furniture, the old posters he’d never bothered taking down, and the computer equipment scattered across his workspace suddenly seemed a little less depressing.

For the first time in days, he had something to look forward to.

And judging by Ryan’s pictures, it promised to be a considerably more interesting evening than another few hours of scrolling through Beacon and wondering when his life would finally move forward.

Tom and Jake had always been close. That hadn’t changed when Jake left for college, and it hadn’t changed when he returned to Westover Heights three months ago, twenty-one years old and supposedly an independent adult. To Tom, his son might have grown taller, developed his own opinions, and started making decisions Tom didn’t always understand, but some part of him would forever be the little boy who’d followed him around the house looking for attention.

He still ruffled Jake’s hair whenever he passed him in the kitchen. He called him buddy or little man, sometimes without even realizing he was doing it. He asked whether Jake had eaten enough, reminded him to take a jacket when the evenings cooled, and occasionally knocked on his bedroom door just to check whether he needed anything.

It wasn’t smothering. Tom didn’t demand to know Jake’s every move or insist on approving his choices. He simply had a habit of looking after his son, a quiet, steady protectiveness that had survived every growth spurt, school milestone, and attempt at independence.

Jake found it endearing most of the time. Occasionally, it drove him crazy.

He was twenty-one, after all. He could manage his freelance business, pay his bills, and navigate the complications of adult relationships. He didn’t need his father reminding him to eat a proper lunch.

Still, there was something reassuring about knowing that, no matter how badly things went elsewhere in his life, Tom would always be there.

It was just that tonight, Jake needed his father to remain blissfully unaware of what he was getting up to.

Twenty minutes after Ryan had agreed to come over, Jake’s phone gave a soft ping.

Here.

Jake was out of his chair almost immediately.

He’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips and an ultra-short black crop tee that ended just beneath his pectorals. It was a deliberate choice, more revealing than anything he’d wear around the house during the day. The outfit suited his lean frame, emphasizing his slim waist and narrow shoulders.

Jake had always been on the slender side. Compared with many of the guys his age around the valley, he had a distinctly twinkish build, light on bulk and muscle, with a youthful face that often made strangers assume he was younger than twenty-one. He didn’t particularly mind. It was simply how he looked, and he knew how to dress in a way that suited him.

He checked his reflection in the darkened computer monitor, ran a hand through his hair, and listened.

Downstairs, the television was still playing. He could hear the faint murmur of a program coming from the living room, accompanied by the occasional clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Tom was home, exactly as advertised.

Jake eased open his bedroom door and slipped into the hallway. He knew every creak in the old house, having spent most of his childhood learning which floorboards announced your presence to everyone downstairs. He avoided the third step on the staircase, placing his weight carefully on the edge of the next one.

At the bottom, he paused to listen again.

Nothing unusual. No footsteps approaching, no sudden call of his name.

He crossed the kitchen, reached the back door, and turned the lock as quietly as he could. A narrow crack of cool evening air slipped inside when he opened it.

Ryan stood on the back step.

Up close, he was every bit as imposing as his pictures suggested. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, and his workman’s build gave him a solid, substantial presence that made Jake acutely aware of the contrast between them. Ryan’s gaze flicked over him, taking in the crop tee and sweatpants, and a faint, appreciative smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jake returned it, suddenly less concerned about the house’s creaky floorboards than he had been thirty seconds earlier.

He stepped aside and motioned Ryan in.

Then he eased the door shut behind them, careful not to let the latch click too loudly.

Ryan was even bigger in person than he’d looked in his pictures. He was thicker through the chest and arms, with dense, work-hardened muscle beneath a layer of rugged bulk that made him seem almost too solid for the narrow kitchen doorway. His cropped tank stretched tightly across his pecs, while short black athletic shorts emphasized his heavy, muscular build and barely covered the curve of his heavy ass. The outline of his cock was already obscene even in the dim kitchen light—long, thick, and hanging heavy.

He carried the unmistakable presence of a man who spent his days working with his hands. The faint smell of motor oil clung to him, mixed with an inexpensive body spray that couldn’t quite mask it. Somehow, that suited him better than anything polished or expensive might have.

Jake had to remind himself to stop staring.

He’d known Ryan was muscular. The pictures had made that obvious. But seeing him standing in his parents’ kitchen, filling the space with his broad frame, was an entirely different experience. Jake was lean and narrow by comparison, and the difference between them was impossible to ignore.

“Hey,” Ryan murmured.

“Hey.”

That was the extent of their greeting.

Jake glanced toward the living room, where the television continued to murmur, then gestured toward the stairs. Ryan followed without asking questions, moving quietly enough to suggest he understood the importance of not attracting attention.

Jake took the steps carefully, avoiding the familiar creaky board. Behind him, Ryan’s footsteps were heavier, but measured. Every sound seemed louder than it should have been in the otherwise peaceful house.

At the top of the stairs, Jake looked back to make sure Ryan was still following.

He was.

And suddenly, the short walk to Jake’s bedroom felt considerably longer than it had when he’d made it alone.

The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling the television downstairs.

Ryan’s attention settled on Jake, and the easygoing patience he’d shown over their messages gave way to a more assertive confidence. He stepped closer, leaving Jake suddenly aware of just how much space the older man occupied in his small childhood bedroom.

Jake barely had time to turn before Ryan guided him backward onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath him, and his crop tee came off in one quick motion, leaving him momentarily disheveled and grinning at the sheer decisiveness of his visitor.