It all happened way too fast. My landlord knocked at 8 a.m. sharp, holding a letter and wearing that weird fake-sympathy look people make when they’re about to screw you over. His daughter was moving back in, he said. A bad breakup. He needed the room.

I had to be out by that night. No warning. No plan. Just a bag, a panic sweat, and a list of contacts I barely had the guts to message. I had only just moved to this city three weeks ago. I barely knew anyone.

Except Brad.

He was the only person I could think of. A guy I knew back in high school; older by a year, total jock, cocky smile, gym rat. We hadn’t talked a ton after graduation, but I’d seen him pop up on my Instagram a few times flexing or lifting or shirtless on a beach. I remembered him being surprisingly chill when I came out, too. No weird energy. Just some dumb jokes and a wink.

So I sent him a Hail Mary text, not expecting much.

He responded in under a minute.
"Bro. Crash here. I got space. Pull up anytime."

That’s how I ended up standing in front of his apartment with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder and absolutely nowhere else to go.

Brad opened the door in joggers and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair messy like he’d just rolled off the couch. “Damn,” he said, pulling me into a one-armed bro hug. “You really got booted that fast?”

I nodded. “It’s been a day.”

“Then you definitely need a place with sick vibes and better protein powder.” He smirked and stepped back. “Come in.”

The place was… well, not what I expected.
The living room didn’t have a couch. Or a table. Or anything, really. Just gym mats on the floor, dumbbells, a bench press, a pull-up bar in the doorway, and a full-length mirror with a ring light in front of it.

“You live in a gym now?” I asked.

“Basically,” he said proudly. “If I’m home, I’m working out.”

He waved me toward the hallway.

“Your setup’s in here.”

Brad’s bedroom was huge. Bigger than my old studio, honestly. A full-size bed, blackout curtains, fan in the corner. A little messy but not gross. The mattress I was supposed to crash on was rolled up under his bed.

“Should fit perfect right there,” he said, pointing to the open space beside his bed. “It’s comfy once you blow it up.”

“Cool,” I said, crouching to pull it out. “Where’s the pump?”

Brad paused.

Then scratched his head. “Shit… I think I left it in my car. Or maybe I loaned it to my friend at the gym.”

I looked up at him. “So…?”

He shrugged. “You can just blow it up. You got lungs, right?”

I gave him a look.

He laughed. “Come on, Cody. You’ve blown harder things, I'm aware.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Yup.” He grinned and flexed, totally unserious. “Anyway. I was about to do a quick ab burner before bed. Twenty minutes tops. You get that air mattress going,.”

“Guess I don’t have a choice.”

He smirked again. “Make yourself at home.”

Brad left the room, and I sat back on my heels with the deflated mattress in front of me. The thing looked sad. I searched for a pump anyway - under his bed, in the closet, drawers, nothing. He wasn’t kidding. I was going to have to blow this thing up the old-fashioned way.

I took a deep breath.

Then started.
It was harder than I expected. The valve was stiff, my jaw started to ache, and the plastic made my mouth taste like dust. The air mattress barely held shape after five minutes. I kept blowing, getting lightheaded. I could hear Brad in the living room; grunts, deep breathing, the sound of him hitting the floor between reps. Every now and then, I paused to catch my breath and wondered what kind of psychopath voluntarily did ab workouts at 10 p.m.

After what felt like forever, I was on my hands and knees, dizzy, my cheeks puffed, hair falling in my face, and the mattress still looked half-dead.

Then I heard footsteps.

Brad appeared in the doorway, wiping his face with a towel.
He was shirtless now. His chest gleamed with sweat, abs flexing as he dried his neck. His gym shorts clung low on his hips—like low enough that I wasn’t sure how they were still up. His body was flushed from the workout, veins standing out along his arms, his breath still heavy.

I looked up at him.

Still kneeling. Still holding the air valve between my lips like I was in the middle of something I shouldn’t be.

Brad grinned. “Damn,” he said, his voice playful. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“I need somewhere to sleep,” I muttered, still a little breathless.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Could’ve asked to share my bed,” he said, voice casual. “Kidding.”

Then he stretched, turned around, and said, “Alright, I’m gonna shower real quick. Don’t die on that thing.”

I stayed quiet, watching his back as he walked off. The way his sweaty shorts stuck to him. The way his shorts dipped even lower when he moved.

When he disappeared into the bathroom, I finally slumped down on the half-inflated mattress and unzipped my duffel. I pulled out a hoodie, my charger, and a change of clothes. Tried to make the best of it. Tried to ignore how warm my face still felt.

I laid out my stuff next to the mattress and was scrolling through my phone when I heard the door creak open.

I glanced up and froze.

Brad stood there in nothing but a towel slung very low around his waist. His skin was still wet. Drops of water rolled down his chest, trailing over his pecs and those perfect abs that looked even sharper now. His hair was damp, pushed back messily. He looked like one of those guys in a cologne commercial, except this was real. Close. In the same room as me.

I stared longer than I should have.

Way longer.

He caught it.

Brad smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dude,” he said, cocking his head at me. “Are you seriously drooling right now?”

I opened my mouth to respond, maybe deny it, maybe make some dumb excuse but then, without a care in the world, he untucked the towel from his waist and let it fall to the floor.

Just like that. Like it was the most casual thing on earth.

I swallowed so hard it felt like my throat locked up.

He wasn’t naked, thankfully or not thankfully, depending on how you looked at it. He had on a pair of tight, black boxer-briefs that hugged every inch of his thighs and package like they were sprayed on. His dick clearly had room to grow, and the outline left very little to the imagination. He turned slightly, grabbing his phone off the dresser, and I saw the way his ass shifted, jiggled, flexed.

My cock twitched instantly.

Brad glanced at me over his shoulder. “I sleep in my underwear,” he said casually. “If you drool on the floor again, you’re cleaning it up.”

He didn’t even wait for a reaction. He just started walking around the room, checking his phone, sipping from a protein shaker, totally unfazed. He bent to plug his charger into the outlet by the bed, and his ass popped up so high I had to pretend I was busy on my phone just to survive. I flicked through TikToks, pretending to be fully engaged while my eyes betrayed me every five seconds.

I peeked again. His cock bounced slightly when he moved. He really was packing. Like, a lot. I shifted on the half-inflated mattress, trying to adjust myself without looking like I was adjusting myself.

What the hell was I doing? Was this a mistake? Moving in with Brad; the same Brad who apparently walked around in skin-tight underwear without a second thought? Who looked like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Health? Who was straight? And chill about me being gay? And just… shirtless. All the time, apparently.

Because right before he climbed into bed, he turned to me and said, “Oh, heads up. I’m usually shirtless. Like, 90% of the time. Hope that’s not a problem.”

I blinked. “Yeah, cool. No problem.”

It was a problem.

I lay back down, heart still racing, and pulled my hoodie over my lap just in case. Brad turned off the lamp on his nightstand, the room dimming to a faint blue glow from outside. The bed creaked when he flopped into it. I didn’t dare look over.

Instead, I opened Instagram.
And, yeah.
I scrolled through Brad's profile.

This absolute thirst trap of a man was five feet away from me, sleeping in tight black underwear, and I was on his grid, pretending it was totally normal to be deep-diving his shirtless gym selfies at 1 a.m.

I saw one where he was flexing in front of a mirror in a hotel bathroom. Another where he was shirtless in the snow, like a psycho. Then one in neon pink underwear—abs sharp as knives, bulge very prominent.

I dropped my phone on my chest.

This was going to be a long stay.

The next morning, I woke up to sunlight cutting through the blackout curtains. The bed across from me was empty. Sheets messy, pillows shoved to the side. Brad was already gone: either at work, at the gym, or doing one of those random things jocks do without telling anyone.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and looked around the room.

Jesus Christ.

His room was a disaster.

There were shirts on the floor, empty shaker bottles on the nightstand, socks that had clearly been kicked off mid-sleep. I found one gym shoe under the bed, the other near the wall. A protein bar wrapper. A tangled phone charger. Just complete chaos.

And maybe it was the gay in me or just my need to not live in a war zone but I couldn’t take it.

So I stood up, cracked my neck, and started tidying. I folded shirts into a semi-neat pile. Gathered bottles and wrappers. Lined up his shoes. Even fixed the curtain so it actually blocked the sun properly.

Then, when I was reaching under the bed to adjust the storage boxes, I spotted something crumpled near the edge of the frame.

Hot Red. Strappy.

My hand froze.

It was a jockstrap.

Just… tossed under the bed. Not hidden. Not carefully folded. Just thrown there like it was any other pair of underwear.

I blinked down at it. My heart thudded.

What the hell was Brad the straight jock doing with a jockstrap? He didn’t play sports anymore. Not the kind that needed those. And this didn’t look like a functional one. It looked… hot. Like something you’d see on some guy’s NSFW page.

I picked it up carefully, like it might explode.

And of course, that was the exact moment the front door creaked open.

Footsteps.

Then Brad’s voice. “Yo, I got some PopTarts from Target. ”

I turned just in time to see him walk in, freeze in the doorway, and look straight at me. Me, crouched in his room, holding his jockstrap like it was sacred.

Brad grinned, eyes flashing with amusement.

“Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t know you were into laundry foreplay.”