20. Nate - Sin Routine
Sunday morning light filters through the cream linen curtains with a golden ruthlessness, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the still air of my apartment.
I wake slowly, with that heavy muscle ache that follows a deep sleep, but something is different.
This isn't the clinical silence I've been accustomed to for fifteen years.
There's a soft noise coming from the kitchen: the metallic clatter of a whisk against a ceramic bowl, the muffled whistling of someone trying to remember a pop tune, and suddenly, the pungent scent of burnt flour.
I prop myself up on my elbows, pushing back the rumpled sheets.
I'm naked, my skin still sensitive from the light scratches Leo left on my back last night.
I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants, the ones he says he loves because they "leave nothing to the imagination", and walk toward the living area.
The scene before me is a disaster of epic proportions.
Leo is standing at the stove, wearing only my black boxers, which are too loose on him, and a cloud of flour has whitened his blonde hair and muscular shoulders.
Anarchy reigns on the black granite counter: shattered eggshells, a smear of milk dripping toward the edge, and a stack of deformed pancakes, some too pale, others charred.
"Leo, what the hell are you doing to my kitchen?" I murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He spins around, spatula in hand like a weapon. A guilty, radiant smile lights up his face. "Morning, Nate. I was trying to make you a breakfast of champions. TikTok made the recipe look a lot simpler, I swear."
I step closer, navigating the culinary battlefield. I take the spatula from his hands and set it on the counter, then draw him to me by the waist. The contrast between his cool skin and the heat radiating from the stove is intoxicating. I kiss his temple, tasting the flour on my lips.
"Champions don't usually die of smoke inhalation before hitting the track," I tease.
But as I hold him tight, watching my apartment invaded by his chaotic energy, a shiver of pure terror slides down my spine.
It's not fear of scandal, not in this moment.
It's the fear of normalcy. It feels right.
It feels natural for him to be here, ruining my expensive pans, leaving floury fingerprints on my minimalist furniture.
This domestic routine is digging a grave for my old identity as a solitary, controlled man, and the worst part is that I have no desire to climb out of it.
"Take the survivors to the balcony," I order with a mock-stern tone, pointing to the few edible pancakes. "I'll bring the syrup and the coffee."
The outside air is crisp, typical of a California morning preparing for intense sun.
We sit at the small wrought-iron table overlooking the silent city.
Leo shovels food in with the hunger typical of an eighteen-year-old in full training, while I sip my coffee, watching him.
He is beautiful in this harsh light; every muscle in his chest is defined, the line of his abdomen contracting with every movement.
I grab the bottle of maple syrup—, he dark, thick kind I save for special occasions. "Want some extra sugar to mask the burnt taste?"
"Drown them," he jokes, leaning toward me.
As I pour the syrup, Leo decides it's time to provoke me.
He reaches a hand under the table, brushing the inside of my thigh with his cold fingertips.
The jolt makes me lose my aim. A golden, sticky thread veers from the stack of pancakes and lands right on my bare chest, oozing slowly through the dark hair, stopping right over my left pectoral.
The silence that follows is charged with an electricity I could reach out and touch. Leo stares at the amber stain on my skin, his pupils dilating instantly under the sun.
"Oops," he whispers, but there's no trace of an apology in his tone. It's an invitation—brazen and wild as only he can be.
He rises slowly from the chair, circling the table. I remain motionless, my breath hitching, watching the drop of syrup continue its journey toward my navel. Leo kneels between my legs, placing his hands on my knees. The heat of his palms seeps through the fabric of my sweats.
"It would be a shame to waste it, Daddy. It's top-shelf stuff, right?"
I don't wait for an answer. I sink my fingers into his blonde hair, tilting my head back against the chair.
When his tongue touches my skin, warm and rough I feel an electric shock rattle me from my toes to the back of my neck.
Leo savors the syrup with a methodical, almost ceremonial slowness.
I feel the contrast between the sticky sweetness of the sugar and the heat of his mouth surrounding my pectoral.
He bites me lightly, right where the muscle is tightest, and I let out a stifled groan that dissipates into the morning wind.
I don't care if the neighbors in the buildings across from us can see through the glass railings.
In this moment, nothing exists but the sensation of his mouth exploring my body, of his sheer nerve demolishing my every defense.
His hands slide up under the waistband of my sweats, gripping my glutes with a force that makes me arch toward him.
I want him. I want him with a desperation bordering on physical pain.
I lift him by his armpits, seating him astride me.
The iron chair creaks under our combined weight, but it's a distant sound.
We kiss with a hunger that tastes of syrup and coffee, a collision of tongues and teeth that is anything but gentle.
His hands explore my back, my arms, as if he wants to memorize every fiber.
I pull him close, feeling the hardness of his erection pressing against mine through the few layers of cloth between us.
"Bedroom, Leo. Now," I pant against his lips.
What follows is a sensory explosion that cancels out the outside world.
The bed becomes our battlefield and our sanctuary.
Leo is a force of nature; he moves above me with an agility that reminds me why he's the best athlete I've ever coached, but there are no stopwatches here.
There is only the sound of skin on skin, the syncopated rhythm of our breathing, and the scent of sex mingling with the honeyed syrup left on my skin.
I take him with a ferocity that surprises me.
I flip him, pressing him into the sheets; I want to feel every reaction, every shiver.
When I enter him, time stops. The pleasure is so sharp, so deep, that I feel I am losing the boundaries of my own body.
Leo screams my name, his voice raw, fingers clawing the pillow as I drive him toward the peak with a relentless rhythm.
We reach the finish line in a tangle of limbs and sweat, as the Sunday sun hits its zenith.
We lie still for an indefinite time, hearts beating in unison against our ribs, the air in the room heavy and saturated.
There is no shame, no guilt. There is only this routine of sin that is becoming my only religion.
A few hours later, the house has returned to a semblance of order, though the scent of burnt pancakes lingers like a warning.
We are on the sofa, wrapped in a light blanket despite the heat.
Leo's head is resting on my shoulder, his legs entwined with mine.
An old recording of the Beijing Olympic finals plays on the TV; we're analyzing the stride of a legendary middle-distance runner, but it's just an excuse to stay close.
"Watch how he keeps his center of gravity low on the curve," I murmur, distractedly stroking his arm. "It's pure mechanical poetry."
"Yeah, but look at the drive of the left foot," he counters, his voice sleepy and satisfied. "He loses a tenth of a second because he doesn't fully extend the ankle."
I laugh softly, kissing the top of his head.
I feel at peace. For the first time in years, I'm not thinking about what the department will say, I'm not thinking about Vanessa or my reputation.
I feel happy. A dangerous happiness, fragile as blown glass, but real.
I feel like this house finally has a soul—that it's no longer just a shell for a man who's afraid to live.
Leo's phone, abandoned on the glass coffee table, begins to vibrate with an annoying buzz.
He huffs, reaching out a lazy hand. "Who's bothering us at this hour on a Sunday?"
He looks at the screen, and his expression changes instantly. The relaxation vanishes, replaced by a rigidity that sets off my internal alarm.
"It's Tyler," he says, his voice flat.
"Don't answer. It'll just be another photo of a beer mug or a challenge to some video game."
But Leo doesn't put it down. He opens the message that just arrived as a pop-up notification. I see him turn pale beneath his tan.
"Nate..."
"What is it?" I sit up straight, feeling the cold begin to slide back into my veins.
Leo hands me the phone. It's an iMessage.
There's a screenshot of an Instagram story—a photo Leo must have taken this morning while I was still in the shower: an artistic shot of the light hitting the living room floor, with his gym bag in the foreground.
But in the top left corner, half-hidden by the shadow of the sofa, a pair of white cotton briefs with a blue waistband are clearly visible.
His underwear. The ones he had left there last night in his desperate haste.
Below the screenshot, Tyler's message is a bullet straight to the heart:
"Nce filter. But am I crazy, or is that underwear on the couch? I saw the story before you deleted it. Why the fuck were you guys without your underwear, Sinclair?"
The silence that falls over the room is deafening. I look at the sofa, then I look at Leo. The routine of sin has just been interrupted by the sound of a falling guillotine.
"I deleted it right away, Nate. I thought I'd checked the background..." Leo's voice is trembling.
I can't speak. Panic—the real kind, the kind that steals your breath and clamps your stomach in a steel vice—has returned. Tyler suspects. And our perfect Sunday has just become the first day of the rest of our ruin.
I feel the weight of the silver whistle under my shirt. It feels like it weighs tons.