SHORT STORIES 10
I sat in the conference room flipping through yet another stack of headshots, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent headache. As the art director at a mid-sized corporate communications firm, my job often involved writing and directing these promotional videos and live events. Most days it meant casting middle-aged everymen to drone on about software updates or productivity tools. Today was different. We were shooting a high-energy commercial for a new sports drink aimed at young professionals, and the pay was low enough that it was non-union. That meant a parade of actors who were either too old, too inexperienced, or just not right.
I had already sat through a dozen auditions, and the day was dragging. The latest guy, a slightly pudgy actor in his thirties pretending to be twenty-seven, wrapped up his lines with a forced smile. I thanked him quickly and sent him on his way, my eyes already drifting to the next photo in the pile.
It was a Polaroid. Actual Polaroid film. Most headshots were glossy eight-by-tens taken by professionals, but this one was a selfie-style snap, a bit blurry around the edges. The name "Kyle" was scrawled in blue ink at the bottom. The kid in the picture looked barely out of his teens, with messy light brown hair falling over bright green eyes and a lopsided grin that screamed small-town charm. He was cute in an unpolished way, but I chuckled to myself. This one had to be a long shot.
The door opened softly, and I looked up. There he was. Kyle. The unkempt hair and those striking green eyes matched the photo perfectly, but the rest of him hit me like a quiet thunderbolt. He stood about five foot seven, slim and toned at maybe one hundred twenty-five pounds. A simple gray t-shirt clung to his frame, hinting at flat pectorals and the subtle lines of a developing six-pack. His jeans were fitted but not tight, and his posture had this natural confidence, hips shifted forward just enough to draw the eye. His skin was smooth and fair, like it had never seen a harsh winter.
"Hi, um, I'm Kyle," he said, his voice carrying a soft Southern drawl. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly nervous but trying to hide it. He extended his hand.
I stood up to greet him, towering over him at six foot three. At forty-four, I kept myself in shape with regular workouts, broad shoulders, and a solid build. My dark hair had a few silver strands at the temples, and a short scruff covered my jaw from skipping a shave. I shook his hand firmly, noting how warm and slightly damp his palm was. "I'm Rafael. Nice to meet you, Kyle. Have a seat and tell me a bit about yourself."
He sat across from me, eyes wide as he took in the room. "I'm from a small town in Tennessee. Moved to the city about two weeks ago. Always wanted to act, but college wasn't in the cards right away. Saved up from waitressing and odd jobs after high school. Figured real experience beats theory any day. I really need this gig, sir. I mean, Rafael."
His sincerity was disarming. I smiled. "Call me Rafael. Let's see what you've got. Grab one of those drink cans from the cooler over there. There's a cue card on the easel. Read the lines naturally, then pop the can, take a swig, and sell it like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. Even if it isn't."
Kyle nodded eagerly, grabbing a can. He positioned himself in front of the easel and began reading. To my surprise, he was good. Really good. His delivery had energy and charm, the Southern lilt adding a fresh appeal to the scripted hype about electrolytes and focus. He moved with natural gestures, his body language open and engaging. I found myself leaning forward, not just evaluating the performance but noticing the way his t-shirt rode up slightly when he gestured, revealing a sliver of toned midriff.
Then came the moment to open the can. Kyle gripped it confidently at first, but his fingers slipped on the tab. He tried again, and with a sharp pop, the can jerked in his hand. It flew from his grasp, tumbling to the floor. Fizzy liquid exploded everywhere in a wild spray, the can spinning like a miniature tornado across the tile. Yellow foam splashed across his shirt, jeans, shoes, and even his face and hair.
"Oh no! Shoot!" Kyle yelped, chasing the can in a frantic little dance, his arms flailing. Bubbles dripped from his chin as he finally stopped it with his foot. He straightened up, soaked and wide-eyed, looking like a drowned puppy. "I am so sorry. I ruined it."
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, the tension of the long day melting away. "Don't worry about it. That was more entertaining than anything else today." I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the table and stood up, moving around to help him. "Here, you're drenched."
Kyle stood still as I approached, his chest rising and falling quickly from the adrenaline. I started blotting his shirt, right over his stomach. The fabric was soaked through, clinging to every ridge of his abs. He tensed under my touch, muscles rippling subtly. I moved the tissues upward, across his chest. His nipples hardened visibly against the wet material when my fingers brushed over one accidentally. Or maybe not so accidentally.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his breath hitched. Those green eyes locked onto mine, searching. I dabbed at his neck, then his cheek, the closeness making the air between us feel charged. He smelled like fresh soap mixed with the sweet tang of the energy drink.
"You've got some on you too," Kyle murmured softly. He reached up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing the corner of my mouth where a stray splash had landed earlier. His thumb traced my lower lip slowly, tentatively. My pulse hammered. I dropped the tissues and cupped the side of his face, my larger hand easily cradling his jaw. His skin was impossibly smooth.
For a long moment, we just stood there, inches apart. His hand pressed flat against my chest, feeling the heat through my button-down shirt. I could see the rapid beat of his pulse in his neck. My body responded instantly, a rush of desire tightening low in my gut. At twice his age, I knew I should step back, keep it professional. But the way he looked at me, hungry yet shy, made it impossible.
"You're really good, Kyle," I said, my voice lower than intended. "The reading, I mean. But this... this is something else."
He swallowed hard, his lopsided grin returning faintly. "I felt it too. From the second I walked in. Is that... weird?"
Before I could answer, the door swung open. Miranda, my assistant, poked her head in. "Last one for the day, Rafael. Everyone else canceled. Need anything else before I head out?"
Kyle jumped back like he'd been burned, his face flushing deep red. He mumbled something about needing to clean up and grabbed his bag, slipping out the door before I could say another word. The sudden absence left the room feeling colder, emptier.
Miranda surveyed the mess on the floor. "What happened here? Looks like a disaster zone."
"Just an audition gone fizzy," I replied, trying to sound casual even as my heart raced and my pants felt uncomfortably tight. "I'll handle the cleanup."
She shrugged and left, closing the door behind her. Alone again, I sank into a chair, replaying every second. Kyle's touch, his eyes, the undeniable spark. Twenty-plus years between us, and yet it felt electric. I needed to find him, or at least process this. But for now, the image of him soaked and wanting lingered, stirring thoughts I knew would keep me up tonight.
Chapter 2
I sat there for what felt like an eternity after Miranda left, staring at the sticky mess on the floor. The conference room smelled like artificial citrus and regret. My mind replayed the moment Kyle's thumb had traced my lip, the way his body had leaned into my touch. At forty-four, I had learned to keep fantasies separate from reality, especially with someone so young. But something about him broke through that wall. His innocence mixed with that quiet hunger. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and started wiping up the spill. The janitor could handle the rest, but I needed something to occupy my hands.
Just as I tossed the last soggy tissues into the trash, the door creaked open again. Kyle stood there, hesitant, his shirt still damp and clinging to his torso. He had tried to dry off in the bathroom, judging by the paper towel bits stuck to his sleeve.
"I... I forgot my phone," he said softly, though his eyes told a different story. They flicked to mine, then away, then back. "And I didn't want to leave things like that. I probably messed up the whole audition."
I straightened up, my pulse kicking up again. "You didn't mess anything up, Kyle. The reading was solid. The spill was just bad luck. Come in for a second."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have. We stood a few feet apart, the air thick with unspoken tension. I could see the outline of his body more clearly now, the wet fabric leaving little to the imagination. His jeans had dark patches where the drink had soaked through, accentuating the subtle bulge at the front.
"I meant what I said earlier," I continued, keeping my voice steady. "You're talented. And that connection... it wasn't just one-sided."
Kyle bit his lower lip, that lopsided grin appearing again. "No, it wasn't. I've never felt anything like that before. Not with anyone. I'm twenty-one, Rafael. Not some kid. I know what I'm feeling." He took a small step closer. "Do you... want me to go?"
The question hung between us. I should have said yes. Professional boundaries, the age difference, the whole setup. Instead, I closed the gap and cupped his face again, this time with both hands. "No. I don't want you to go."