20. Dante
DANTE
Eli’s apartment looks the way I’d pictured it before I ever crossed the threshold. Clean lines. Sparse furniture. A bookshelf alphabetized. Even the air smells controlled, like cedar and laundered cotton, nothing denoting a life lived messy.
Cruz whistles low beside me, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Damn, Coach. Place looks like a magazine threw up tasteful.”
“Shoes off.”
Eli’s voice comes from the kitchen, dry, and Cruz grins at me before toeing his sneakers off and kicking them against the wall, deliberately crooked.
Dakota’s already in the kitchen, a wine glass in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, leaning against the counter like she’s been here a thousand times. She’s wearing one of Eli’s shirts knotted at her waist, jeans, hair loose. She lifts the glass in greeting.
“You’re early.”
“Cruz drove like he had somewhere to be.”
“I did. Here.”
Cruz crosses the kitchen and presses a kiss to the top of Dakota’s head, then loops an arm around Eli’s shoulders from behind, smacking a kiss to his cheek that makes Eli go rigid before he relaxes into it.
“Hey, Coach.”
“Hey.” Eli’s voice softens. “Wine’s open. Help yourselves.”
I pour two glasses, hand one to Cruz, watch the way Eli’s shoulders sit higher than usual. Not unhappy. Exposed. The careful architecture of his apartment is hosting people who’ve seen him come undone, and I can read the line of his jaw like a fight tape.
I touch his elbow as I move past. “Place looks good.”
Brady arrives twenty minutes later carrying a six-pack and the expression of a man walking to his execution. He hovers at the threshold like crossing it might commit him to something he can’t undo.
“Get in here, Williams.” Cruz throws it over his shoulder from where he’s leaning into the fridge. “You’re letting the cold out.”
Brady steps into the kitchen. Sets the beer on the counter with both hands like it’s an offering.
Dakota crosses to him without hesitation, rises on her toes, kisses him. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He doesn’t look at any of us directly. His eyes track the room instead. The bookshelf. The kitchen tile. Eli’s hands as he uncorks another bottle. My mouth as I sip. Cruz’s forearms as he chops an onion.
Cruz hands me a knife. “Garlic. Mince it fine.”
“Yes, chef,” I reply.
Cruz smirks. “Don’t make me hit you.”
“Promises. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Cruz laughs, low, and his palm finds the small of my back when he reaches past for the olive oil. He lets it rest there a beat longer than necessary, and I see Brady’s knuckles go white on the bottle of beer he’s opening.
Eli moves between everyone like he’s coaching a sparring round. Checking Dakota’s wine. Bumping Cruz’s hip with his own. Asking Brady if he wants something stronger than beer. Brady shakes his head no. His voice still hasn’t shown up to the party.
Dakota plants herself next to Brady at the cutting board, takes the knife gently out of his hand, redirects his grip. “Like this. Curl your fingers.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Breathe.” She touches his forearm. His shoulder. The back of his neck when she leans past to grab the bell pepper.
By the time we sit down, the chicken is roasted and the table is set with five plates and a candle.
Dinner is good. The food, the wine, the noise we make trying to fill the silence with something other than what we all know is coming. Cruz tells a story about Victor that has Dakota laughing into her napkin to avoid choking on what she was chewing.
Brady barely eats. Pushes his food into geometric arrangements. His wine glass empties faster than his plate, and I watch his eyes track Cruz’s throat as Cruz swallows, watch them dart away when Cruz looks up.
The living room is dim by the time we drift to it. Eli pours more drinks. We end up arranged around the couch and the floor, wine in hand, the conversation finally tipping from surface to something less formal.
“It feels strange.” Eli’s the one who finally acknowledges it. He’s seated in the armchair, elbows on his knees, glass held thoughtfully between his hands. “Having all of you here. In my space. I keep this place... contained. For a reason.”
“For what reason?” Dakota’s voice is gentle.
“Because if no one comes in, no one sees what’s inside.”
Cruz speaks first, his voice rough around the edges. “We see you, Coach.”
“I know. That’s the strange part.”
Dakota stretches her legs across my lap from where she’s curled against Cruz on the couch. Her toes find Brady’s thigh on his other side, press lightly.
“I want to be there for everyone’s firsts,” she says, looking around at us. “Whatever that means for you.”
“Sweetheart.” Cruz catches her hand, kisses her knuckles. “You already are. I want to watch my family become more of themselves.” He says it offhand, the way Cruz says things that gut me. His eyes catch mine and hold. The man has no filter. He’s either balls-out crass as hell, or earnestly gentle.
I take a slow breath. “I want to be there for whoever needs it.” My voice comes out lower than I meant it to. “I’ve been where some of you are. The fear of wanting something you were taught was wrong. The terror of being all the way seen.”
Brady’s hands tighten around his glass.
I run a hand through my hair. “I want to give what I needed back then. Acceptance. No conditions on it.”
Brady’s eyes lift to mine for half a second. Drop again.
“Brady.” Dakota’s voice. Soft. “What do you want tonight?”
The silence stretches.
He turns the wine glass in his fingers. Once. Twice. “I need to watch. I need to see it with my own eyes. Need to know it’s real, that it’s… ” He swallows. “That it’s allowed. Before I can. I just need to see it first.”
“Okay.” Dakota’s voice doesn’t change. “Then that’s what tonight is.”
“That’s it?” Brady asks.
“That’s it. You watch. No one is going to bind you to expectation, this is where you’re free. Where you can be you without label or limit.” The soft smile on her face as she speaks to Brady is everything. And if I’m being honest, it makes my chest ache just a little.
Brady’s chin drops to his chest. Cruz reaches across Dakota and squeezes the back of Brady’s neck. Brady leans into it before he catches himself and pulls upright.
Eli sets his glass down. “Bedroom?”
Everyone moves, following Eli’s lead in silence to his bedroom. The overhead light goes off. The lamp by the bed comes on, painting everything in hues of gold. Eli’s bed is enormous and looks like it’s never had anyone in it but him.
We’re going to fix that.
Dakota goes to Eli first. Slides her hands up his chest, rises to her toes, kisses him slow. Grounding. He sighs into it like she’s the first deep breath he’s had all day.
Cruz finds me. His mouth is familiar, warm, his hand cupping my jaw the way he does. I let myself sink into it for a second before I open my eyes and look past him.
Brady’s against the wall, hands curled into fists at his sides, watching.
I kiss Cruz again, harder this time, give Brady something real to see.
The configurations shift. Eli draws Cruz toward him and kisses him with a tentativeness that disappears about two seconds in. Dakota’s hands find my waist from behind, her mouth between my shoulder blades. I turn and catch her lips, taste wine and her.
Clothes start to go. Cruz peels his shirt over his head and tosses it. Eli unbuttons his. Dakota strips down to nothing without ceremony, comfortable in her body.
I pull my shirt off, drop my jeans. When I’m naked, I feel the weight of Brady’s eyes like a hand against my skin. I don’t look at him. Don’t give him reason to flinch, I just let him look, find his footing in his own time.
We end up on the bed. Eli’s hands on Dakota’s hips. Cruz’s mouth on my neck. Dakota’s fingers in my hair, then in Eli’s. Everyone touching, kissing, the heat building graduallly—inevitably.
I observe the way Eli’s body moves with Dakota. Sure. Possessive. The way he touches Cruz, slightly more careful, learning. The way his eyes keep flicking to me. Curious. Uncertain.
I shift, kneel up, find Eli’s gaze. “Take me first.”
His eyes go dark. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I let my mouth curve. “Show us who you are, Daddy. Be yourself.”
The relief that crosses his face is so immediate, so naked, that I have to look away for a second.
He didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know it was an option.
Asking him to surrender his autonomy, to make himself wholly vulnerable his first time with a man would’ve been like asking him to step off a cliff with no idea what lay at the bottom.
His hand comes up to my jaw. Gentle. Certain. “You’d let me?”
“I want you to.”
“Dante.”
It’s just my name. The way he says it.
“Wait.” Dakota’s voice. We both turn. She’s up on her knees in the middle of the bed, blonde hair loose around her shoulders, naked and gorgeous and thinking.
“We don’t have to do this in pieces.”
“Sweetheart?” Cruz.
“All of us.” Her eyes move around the bed. “Chain. Eli takes Dante. Dante takes me. Cruz… ” Her mouth curves into a mischievous smile. “Cruz gets my mouth. We connect. Everyone. Together.”
The room goes quiet.
“And Brady… ” She looks past me to where he’s still against the wall. “Brady gets to see the whole chain. How we all fit.”
Brady makes a sound, low and bitten back.
Cruz laughs, breathless. “Sweetheart, your brain is a goddamn weapon.”
“Yes or no, gentlemen?”
I look at Eli. He’s already nodding.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes,” Cruz echoes.
“Yes,” Eli says, and the way he says it is rough already.
“Brady?” Dakota’s voice gentles. “You okay with where you are? You can watch. You don’t have to do anything.”
Brady nods. His voice is barely a thread. “I want to. I want to touch myself. While I watch.”
“Perfect.” Dakota’s smile is so warm it hurts.
We arrange ourselves carefully.