4. Mason #2
We head straight back into the sauna, the heat now feeling like a warm hug after the ice.
I stretch out on the bench, every nerve singing, muscles loose and buzzing with endorphins.
The contrast is addictive. My mind drifts back to Luke again, how his body would look flushed from the sauna, shivering from the plunge, how I’d wrap his body in a towel and pull him onto my lap, warming him up with my hands and my mouth.
Kaleb catches me smiling. “Still thinking about the boy, huh?”
I don’t answer. But yeah. I am.
And for the first time in a long time, the idea of four weeks in town doesn’t feel like just a short break.
It feels like the start of something I might not be able to walk away from so easily.
We stay in the sauna another twenty minutes, shooting the shit about nothing and everything. By the time we shower off and head out, the sun is dipping lower and my body feels better than it has in months.
Clean. Recharged. Ready.
Tomorrow morning I’m meeting Luke at the gym.
And this time I’m not showing up late.
This time I’m showing up ready to be exactly what he needs: a spotter, trainer… and maybe, just maybe, something more.
* * *
The drive back to my cabin takes me along the winding forest road as the sun dips behind the mountains, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples.
By the time I pull up to the sturdy log home I built with my own two hands five years ago, the chill of the evening has settled in. I kill the engine and sit for a second, listening to the quiet creak of the trees and the distant call of a loon out on the lake.
Home.
Even after all these years splitting my life between the rig and here, stepping inside still feels like the best kind of reset.
I kick off my boots by the door, hang up my jacket, and head straight for the kitchen. The big cast-iron pot of beef stew I threw together this morning has been simmering on low all day—chunks of tender meat, carrots, potatoes, and thick gravy filled with herbs from the little garden out back.
I ladle a generous portion into a deep bowl, grab a cold can of beer from the fridge, and carry everything over to the heavy leather armchair in front of the stone fireplace.
The fire’s up and running quick enough in between spoonfuls of stew.
I settle in, propping my feet up on the worn ottoman, and take a long pull from the beer. The first spoonful of stew hits my tongue and I let out a satisfied groan. Rich, savory, perfect after the sauna and cold plunge.
My body feels loose, muscles warm and recovered in that deep, satisfying way only contrast therapy can deliver.
Kaleb might be onto something with that wellness spot after all.
Not that I’ll ever admit it to his face!
An old jazz station hums softly from the vintage radio on the mantel… Miles Davis, smooth trumpet notes curling through the room like woodsmoke.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the heat from the fire soak into my skin, the stew warm my belly, and the beer take the edge off.
It’s been a damn good day. Good coffee, banter with Kaleb, pushing my limits in the ice. I feel rested. Replenished. Like the man I want to be when I’m home.
But even with all that contentment settling over me, my mind keeps circling back to one person.
Luke.
I can still see him behind that counter at the stationary store, his arms folded, that sassy little smirk, the way his eyes lit up when I handed him the notebook.
The spark between us had been real. Undeniable.
I shift in the chair, my cock stirring at the memory of his full lips forming the words We’ll see about that, mister.
Hell. That mouth. That body. The way he blushed but didn’t back down when I called him little one…
I take another bite of stew, chewing slowly as the fire pops and snaps. Luke has got me thinking things I haven’t let myself think about in years.
Not just fucking him—though God knows I’ve imagined that in vivid detail—but actually being with him. Guiding the boy. Protecting him. Being the kind of Daddy who makes sure he eats right, trains smart, and feels safe enough to let go of all that sass and melt for me.
I set the empty bowl on the side table and crack open a second beer.
The jazz has shifted into something slower, sultrier. Coltrane, maybe. My thoughts drift further.
What if I put together a real training program for Luke? Not just showing up and spotting him on the bench, but something structured. Progressive overload tailored to his goals. A plan that’ll smash his contest with Milo and leave him stronger, prouder, glowing with achievement…
I can already picture his face when he hits that new PR: eyes shining, throwing his arms around me in excitement, pressing that proud chest against mine while he thanks his Daddy for helping him win.
A low growl rumbles in my chest.
Yeah. That sounds fucking perfect.
I finish the beer, stand up, and stretch my arms overhead until my shoulders pop. The cabin feels warmer now, cozier. I head over to the big oak desk in the corner by the window, fire up my laptop, and pull out a fresh legal pad.
It’s time to get to work.
For the next hour, I lose myself in it. I map out a four-week program, exactly the length of my leave.
Bench press progressions with built-in spotter safety cues.
Accessory work for his glutes and posterior chain because I noticed how he’s been building that incredible ass.
Mobility drills at the end of every session so he doesn’t get tight.
Nutrition notes too: protein targets, easy meal ideas he can prep around his two jobs.
I even sketch out a simple tracking sheet he can use in the new notebook.
Every few minutes my mind slips back to Luke. The way he’ll look doing hip thrusts under my watch, sweat glistening on his skin, me standing close enough to correct his form with my hands on his hips. Telling him to push harder. Praising him when he does it right.
Good boy. That’s my little one. Again, one more for Daddy…
By the time I lean back in the chair, the fire has burned lower and the jazz has given way to a soft Billie Holiday number.
The training program looks solid. It’s challenging but smart, progressive without being reckless. I print out the first week’s details and slip them into a folder.
Tomorrow morning I’ll hand it to Luke at the gym. I’ll watch him reaction, see if that spark flares even hotter when he realizes I put real thought into this for him.
I stand and walk over to the big picture window that overlooks the lake.
The moon is out now, silver light rippling on the dark water.
Four weeks. It’s not forever, but it’s something.
If putting together this program brings us closer—if it gives him a reason to keep seeking me out, to let me take care of him even a little bit—then that’s just all the better.
I’m not promising Luke the world.
Not yet.
But I’m sure as hell not walking away from whatever this pull is between us. Not while I’m here.
I bank the fire, rinse my dishes, and head upstairs to the big king bed I built myself.
As I strip down and slide under the cool sheets, my mind fills with images of Luke curled up against me, his head on my chest, my hand stroking his hair while I tell him exactly what we’re going to do in the gym tomorrow.
Tomorrow just can’t come soon enough…