8. Ford
Ford
It was a little surprising how easily Dylan and I settled into a shared rhythm.
What was supposed to be a summer of solitude and reflection had turned into one about reconnecting…
and having fun. I was thankful; being here with him was like pressing pause on my pre-mid-life crisis.
Future meltdowns still weren’t an impossibility, but I felt better about my life after a couple weeks with him than I had in a while.
Dylan had seemingly avoided edibles since hurting his ankle the second time. Either that, or he’d become better at containing his silliness. With the absence of injured ankles and substance-fueled hysterics, an enjoyable sort of domesticity formed between us.
Mornings began one of two ways; either I decided to go for a run and came home to find Dylan making us breakfast, or I opted to forgo long-distance exercise for a quick HIIT workout and make him breakfast instead.
Lately, it had mostly been the latter. Predictably, I liked having someone to take care of.
When I was married, I let Melissa take the lead. It wasn't something I had thought about then, which made me sound inconsiderate, but my relative inexperience had a few consequences. Not feeling useful was one of them.
It also became clear that Dylan was a much faster reader than me. Despite my enjoyment of the book he handed me weeks ago, I always became too turned on by the sex scenes to push through them without handling myself.
And after that, I always wanted to fall asleep.
Lately, I had taken to reading while eating, like Dylan, because when I became aroused, I wasn’t about to whip it out under the table and jack it.
At moments I needed to cool down and let things settle, I watched Dylan’s face while he read.
Who knew someone’s expressiveness could be so entertaining?
Eventually, I’d grow restless—and soft—enough to start tidying up the kitchen or washing the dishes.
Most afternoons, we relaxed in a companionable silence; Dylan continued whatever he was reading from breakfast, and I checked in with my clients and their progress.
As an NSCA-certified personal trainer, I had a few folks that I worked with exclusively online.
Most of my in-persons understood my need for a break; they'd be there after the summer or they wouldn't be.
I wasn't too worried. There were always people looking for a trainer.
We’d make dinner together most evenings.
It was something that happened organically: a short conversation about what to make, followed by an easy-going dance around the small kitchen, our movements almost synchronized.
It was the kind of easy companionship I knew I was missing, the kind I had been looking for.
My brain was telling me it had only been a short time, but the joy I felt deep down wasn't subtle, and the other moments weren't either.
Glances that lasted just a second too long. Charged silences that took my breath away. An accidental touch that made Dylan's gaze practically burn through me. It was hard to blame them on my imagination.
I often caught Dylan looking at me. Sometimes, it was barely noticeable—just a quick flick—when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
Other times, like when he decided to help me with the dishes, out of the corner of my eyes, I'd see him turn his head slowly, his gaze lingering, as if I wouldn't notice.
Tonight, something made me react and I decided to match his movement, and for longer than we should've, we just...looked at each other. It felt like a challenge. Who would look away first?
There was almost an unspoken question in his gaze, an intensity that made me feel…appreciated?
Dylan broke first, turning away with a smile, his cheeks growing pinker by the second.
I wondered what he was thinking, what he was trying to decipher in my expression. Was it more than that?
Yes.
It felt like it anyway. Like more than just a former stepson looking at his stepfather. His attention made me feel both exposed and intrigued. His flustered reaction made me want to push, to ask, to see how far I could go before he told me what he was thinking about just now.
I had to admit my attraction to Dylan was growing into something I hadn't anticipated, something far more complex than just physical lust. Sure, his lean body moved in a way that made me want to see it writhing on a bed getting absolutely wrecked, and his sudden, dazzling smile he'd flash gave me butterflies, especially if it was because of something I did or said.
But it was the quiet intensity I saw in him when he was engrossed in a book that really mattered.
The vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his past, the ease I felt just being around him.
I was becoming desperate to understand him, to ask questions every time he used self-deprecating humor as a shield.
And the thing I spent the most time thinking about—other than his beautiful ass—were the nuggets he’d drop about his past relationships.
I had half a mind to look up some of these guys and go kick their ass…
or at the very least, sign them up on one of those websites that inundates the target with telemarketers.
The urge to smooth his anxieties that were so clearly still lingering was strong. Even I could see the irony in the situation. I was no longer his stepfather and now was when genuinely paternal instincts were awakening inside me.
I wanted to protect him, but it was also something undeniably more.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to know another man in a way I hadn't ever come close to before.
In my free time, I found myself dissecting his words, his expressions, trying to piece together what he was really thinking, what he truly needed.
Later one afternoon, I was stretched out on the living room rug, slowly working through a series of complex stretches. My mind was half-on my muscles, half-on the muted documentary playing on the television.
“I hadn’t realized it was going to rain today,” Dylan said, walking past me to look outside and open the window. “I love the rain.”
I watched him as he stood there, his face virtually glued to the window. He seemed almost relaxed at that moment, content even. It was a stark contrast to the restless energy he almost always vibrated with.
For a little while, the only sounds were my labored breathing, the distant rumble of thunder, and the gentle patter of rain against the roof. I could feel the air growing cooler as the fresh scent of wet earth and pine drifted in.
Dylan turned towards me, his eyes darting to my chest.
I couldn’t believe he was checking out my body with such brazenness but what else could he be looking at?
With a few steps, he picked up the book he’d been reading on the coffee table and slipped out onto the porch, settling into one of the old Adirondack chairs. In another few seconds, he had turned his first page and was fully engrossed.
It wasn’t lost on me that I was basically watching Dylan’s every move.
How had it come to this?
I smiled and leaned back, lowering my head to the floor.
With my stretching done, I laid there quietly, listening to the rain.
In the stillness of the cabin, the sound was soothing.
I closed my eyes, focused on steady breathing, and let my thoughts drift, imagining an invisible wave of relaxation wash down my body.
This is truly peace.
Another breath.
Are you wearing a jockstrap?
A jockstrap.
The words from the other week repeated themselves until all I could think about was Dylan checking me out. The image of him resting on his bed, watching me, invaded my brain until he became the only thought in it.
Was I reading too much into things because it would make my newfound feelings easier to swallow? Or was Dylan truly interested in me?
The way he’d been so unguarded just now, talking about loving the rain.
Despite his reasons for being here this summer, he still radiated a sweet sort of playfulness.
My rather hastily crafted reasons for resisting my attraction to him were slowly unraveling as I became more and more fascinated with all he hadn’t yet shared with me.
I moved to the couch and turned the volume back on, hoping to focus on something else. Something other than Dylan, wet, naked, and covered in soap.
Fuck.
My cock was rock hard again.
After all the sour hookups and paltry “relationships”, this summer at the cabin with Dylan was a pleasant reminder that my sex drive hadn’t disappeared.
Outside, the sky had begun to darken. I would’ve thought the sun had gone down, but a glance at my watch told me it was much too early for that. I leaned forward, trying to see Dylan through the window, but he must’ve moved.
The wind began to pick up, kicking up enough to pelt debris at the windows and to make the cabin creak as some parts shifted. The rain intensified, drumming harder against the roof, and a minute or so later, I heard the door open then slam shut.
“Shit! That was the wind!” Dylan yelled. He came into the living room, shaking his head. "It's getting blustery out there," he said, rubbing his arms. "I’m all moist.”
I chuckled. “Nobody likes that word.”
“Moist moist moist.”
“Oh wow, after that, it’s definitely grown on me.”
It was Dylan’s turn to laugh.
“Your book make it?” I asked.
He glanced down at at. “It’s a little…wet”—he gave me a big goofy grin—“but it should be fine. What are you watching?” He sat at the other end of the couch.
“Something about Alexander the Great.”
“Oooh, the finest bisexual in history.”
“Are you a fan of Macedonians?”
Dylan shrugged. “If you’re asking what time period I’d want to live in other than now, it would definitely be with him or the Greeks. I think their morals align well with mine.”
“You have morals?” My remark got me a pillow in the face but I didn’t care.