Part 1: I Shouldn’t Be Looking at Dylan Like That
I’ve never been great at looking people in the eye when I like them.
It’s stupid, I know. But when I feel too much, my body does this thing where it’s like—nope, you’re good, let’s just admire from the side and pretend none of this is happening. So if you’re wondering how this all started, how a perfectly normal year ended up getting very not normal, I guess it starts with a glance. A long one. At the wrong person.
Well. Not wrong. Just… not meant for me.
It was Jake’s fault, really.
He was the one who talked me into spending the weekend at his parents’ place. “We’ll chill, hit that wings place you like, rewatch The Prestige, destroy each other on FIFA—just like old times.”
And it did feel like old times. Which was maybe the problem.
Jake and I had been friends since high school—tight in the way that comes from late-night study cramming, shared cafeteria trauma, and one too many “is this outfit okay?” mirror checks before parties. Somewhere between sophomore gym class and graduation, I told him I was gay. He took it in stride, like I’d just told him I liked blueberry Pop-Tarts. That was Jake. Easy with everything.
He was also the only one who knew.
So when we rolled up to his place for the weekend and I saw Dylan’s truck in the driveway, I didn’t think much of it.
Just figured he was visiting. Passing through.
But then we walked inside, and there he was.
Like he’d never left—but somehow looked nothing like how I remembered.
Dylan had been gone for three years. Moved out right after college to do some post-grad certification thing in health and fitness. Built a client base, trained influencers, launched an online program. Jake said he was doing well.
I didn’t realize how well until I saw him again.
Dylan used to be fit. The kind of lean, athletic that came from high school football and cocky energy. But now?
He looked like he’d been sculpted out of pure gym obsession. Broad shoulders. Thick arms that tested the seams of his cutoff. A chest so solid it made his shirt hang off him like it was afraid. Abs like a catalog photo, only real. And his thighs—Jesus—pushed out from his gray shorts like they were fighting for space. Veins ran down his forearms. Tattoos peeked out under both sleeves. His jawline was sharper, a little scruffier, and his voice had dropped just enough to make it feel… dangerous.
He walked past me with that massive water jug in one hand, gave a lazy “yo,” and kept going downstairs.
I swallowed hard. Pretended it was just dry air or something.
Jake and I followed him down to the basement, same as old times. Beat-up couch, ancient PlayStation, random half-deflated yoga ball in the corner. Jake tossed me a controller. I flopped onto the rug. We queued up FIFA.
A few minutes in, Dylan joined us. Didn’t sit—just leaned against the treadmill like it was part of his throne.
“Damn, you guys still suck,” he said casually.
Jake didn’t look up. “Says the guy who rage quit during Mario Kart.”
“That was lag and you know it,” Dylan said, then shot a smirk my way. “What’s up, Twig?”
His old nickname for me. Classic Dylan.
I rolled my eyes. “Still calling yourself an athlete when all you do is flex for Instagram?”
He grinned wider. “Still built like a wet spaghetti noodle, I see.”
Jake laughed. I smirked. Same old Dylan.
Except… not.
He shifted slightly, stretching his shoulder, and his tank rode up, flashing the hard cut of his abs. I pretended not to see. But I saw. And I hated myself for how hard it landed. For how sharp the ache was.
We stayed like that for a while—Jake and me trash-talking on the floor, Dylan occasionally chiming in with a snarky comment, cracking open a shaker bottle, stretching like his muscles had something to prove.
He wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part. He didn’t have to.
Later that night, Jake headed out to grab snacks. Said he forgot the spicy pretzels I liked. I stayed behind, scrolling on my phone and pretending I wasn’t thinking about Dylan at all.
By then, Dylan had already gone upstairs to his room. I heard his door close a while ago.
After a few minutes, I got up to use the bathroom. The hall was quiet. Lights low.
I walked past Dylan’s room—and paused.
His door was open. Just a crack.
I don’t know why I looked. Maybe I already knew I would.
Inside, Dylan stood shirtless in front of the mirror. Just a towel around his waist. His back to me. But the mirror gave me everything.
He was flexing. Slow. Casual. Admiring his shoulder, his chest. Running a hand down his abs. Then he tilted his head slightly, adjusted the lighting, and flexed again—this time his arms, both curled in front of him. Veins popped. His body looked like it’d been hand-carved by thirst itself.
And then—he smiled.
Not at himself.
At the mirror.
My heart stopped.
Had he seen me?
Was I standing in the reflection?
I froze. Every inch of my body went still.
For a second, I swore he was looking at me.
But then he turned away, casually reached for a shirt, and my breath returned. I stepped back, barely breathing, trying not to make a sound.
I forced myself to keep walking. Down the hall. Toward the bathroom.
But I’d barely passed his door when—
“Yo Troy,” Dylan’s voice said behind me, low and close.
I stopped.
Slowly turned.
He was leaning in the doorway, now fully dressed. Almost.
He was looking right at me.
Expression unreadable.
And then he said it.
“Bro. Were you…?”
And I swear to god, my heart just stopped.
Was he about to ask if I was looking at him?
- Troy
Follow my Patreon for early access to future parts, bonus scenes, extended version and much more.
https://www.patreon.com/c/StoriesByTroy
