This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The Morning Mystery
Jase was still swaying, his balance uncertain as his mind scrambled to assemble the missing pieces of last night like a jigsaw puzzle with half its pieces missing. The room tilted slightly with each movement, his hangover manifesting not just as the merciless pounding in his skull but as a physical destabilization that made even standing an exercise in concentration. His stomach twisted with the particular nausea that comes from mixing too many types of alcohol, but beneath that familiar discomfort lurked something else—a gnawing feeling that something significant had slipped through the cracks of his memory, something crucial he couldn't afford to have forgotten.
He needed coffee. Perhaps caffeine might kickstart his brain into recovering whatever events had transpired between leaving the bar and waking up here, in a bed that wasn't his own, with only fragments of recollection to guide him.
Stumbling with the cautious movements of someone navigating an unfamiliar space in the dark, he made his way into the hallway, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through half-closed blinds. The space was becoming increasingly familiar as his brain processed his surroundings, recognition dawning as he entered the open-plan kitchen and living area.
Harry's flat.
The realization settled over him like a heavy blanket, bringing with it a complex mixture of relief and heightened anxiety. He'd been here before, of course—for pre-drinks before nights out, for lazy Sunday afternoon football watching, for post-gym protein shakes when Harry's place was closer than his own. He knew exactly where the coffee machine sat on the counter, knew which cabinet held the mugs, knew Harry's preference for absurdly strong coffee that could practically dissolve a spoon.
He shuffled across the wooden floor, his bare feet quieter than he'd intended, and flipped the switch on the coffee machine. It whirred to life with mechanical enthusiasm, the heating element beginning its work while Jase leaned heavily against the counter, his fingertips drumming an irregular rhythm on the marble surface as he tried to coax his brain into cooperation.
Last night was a blur of disconnected images and sensations. The Velvet Stag. Multi-colored drinks appearing with increasing frequency. The familiar rhythm of banter between him and Harry, perhaps more charged than usual. The taxi ride. A creeping sense of... something he couldn't quite name.
The coffee machine beeped its readiness, and Jase poured himself a mug of the dark liquid, taking it straight black. He needed the caffeine to hit his system with maximum efficiency, no cream or sugar to delay its impact. Taking his liquid salvation in hand, he wandered into the living space, rounding the sofa with the intention of sinking into its comfortable embrace.
Then he paused, the mug halfway to his lips, as his gaze locked onto something both ordinary and somehow deeply significant.
Right in front of him, sunk deep into the cushion, was the dent.
A perfect, undeniable imprint where Harry's impossibly developed glutes had been.
Jase stared at it, his pulse quickening as his eyes traced the distinctive depression in the fabric. It was comically large compared to what an average person might leave behind, deeper than a normal seat imprint, like someone had forced two medicine balls into the cushion and let them settle. A nervous chuckle escaped his throat before he could contain it, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet flat. Jesus Christ.
Without conscious intention, his free hand drifted downward, fingertips tracing over the depression in the cushion. The fabric retained a hint of warmth, suggesting Harry had been there not long ago. Jase found himself imagining the scene—Harry's massive frame spread across the sofa, those absurdly developed legs splayed wide in the casual entitlement of someone who required extra space as a matter of course, thick arms stretched across the backrest, taking up territory like physical space was something he owned rather than merely occupied.
Then, from the corner of his eye, something else caught his attention.
A pile of clothes on the floor.
Not just any clothes—last night's clothes.
His stomach twisted again, this time from an emotion far more complex than simple hangover nausea. Harry's tight black T-shirt lay discarded on the hardwood, the fabric still stretched beyond recovery from containing his extraordinary development. Next to it, his jeans were crumpled in a careless heap, the belt still threaded through the loops but unbuckled, the leather strap curling around the denim like a sleeping snake. Right beside them—unmistakably, undeniably—lay Jase's own clothing from the previous evening.
His breathing grew shallow, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead that had nothing to do with alcohol withdrawal.
He looked down at himself, taking inventory for the first time since waking. He was clad only in his underwear, the rest of his outfit apparently joining Harry's in the communal discard pile on the floor.
Kneeling beside this damning evidence, he reached for Harry's T-shirt with a hand that wasn't entirely steady. The cotton fabric was stretched beyond normal parameters, molded permanently to the extraordinary contours it had contained for hours. The material carried the unmistakable impression of two massive pectoral mounds, the fabric distended where it had struggled to contain the sheer volume of Harry's chest. As Jase's fingers brushed over it, he could feel the lingering imprint of last night's movements, the memory of physical exertion preserved in cotton and elastane.
Almost without realizing what he was doing, his fingers curled into the material, gathering it in his palm. He lifted the shirt closer to his face, drawn by some impulse he couldn't name and didn't want to examine too closely. He inhaled deeply, the mixture of scents hitting his brain with unexpected force—Harry's expensive aftershave lingering beneath notes of beer, sweat, and something else, something he couldn't immediately identify but which sent a strange, hazy fog through his still-drunken mind.
For a moment, just one moment of weakness, he allowed himself to get lost in it.
The scent. The size. The evidence that this shirt had been molded around Harry's godlike chest, his massive pecs stretching the seams until they threatened to give way, sweat pooling in the deep central crevice between them after hours of wear.
Then—a sound.
A steady, gentle pouring noise.
The coffee machine.
His head snapped up, heart slamming against his ribs with sudden alarm.
Wait. The machine wasn't automatic. It couldn't start brewing without someone pressing the button. He had only heated the water, not initiated the actual brewing process.
Then who had?
Slowly, still gripping Harry's shirt with unexpected possessiveness, he turned around, dread and anticipation battling for dominance in his chest.
And his breath caught in his throat.
Across the room, standing with his back to Jase, was Harry.
And Harry's ass.
It wasn't an illusion created by last night's alcohol. It wasn't some exaggeration born of drunken appreciation. It was there—two gigantic, perfectly round globes of muscle, squeezed into a pair of turquoise boxer briefs that seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the laws of physics. The fabric strained so desperately it might as well have been painted on, the seams visibly under duress from containing such extraordinary development. Each glute was larger than a volleyball, the separation between them creating a deep valley that the thin fabric had no choice but to follow, disappearing slightly into the crevice it couldn't bridge.
The shape was beyond anything that could be considered ordinary human development—obscene in its proportions, projecting outward from Harry's frame with such dramatic volume that it altered his entire silhouette. Sitting would require spatial consideration most people never had to contemplate; pants had to be specially tailored to accommodate dimensions that standard sizing charts never anticipated.
Jase's vision blurred momentarily as his brain struggled to process what his eyes were registering. His body temperature seemed to rise several degrees at once, a flush creeping up his neck toward his face.
His gaze traveled upward, over the expanse of Harry's broad back with its perfectly defined musculature, until he realized Harry was looking directly at him over one massive shoulder.
Grinning.
Jase froze, suddenly acutely aware of his compromising position.
He still had the T-shirt pressed near his face like some lovesick teenager with a stolen memento.
Harry raised an eyebrow, his grin widening slightly, though Jase couldn't determine if the expression contained amusement, judgment, or the prelude to outright mockery.
Then, in a voice as casual as if discussing breakfast options, Harry spoke.
"Good morning, babe. I see you found your way around the flat then. Could've made me a coffee before you started tidying up after last night."
Jase swallowed, his throat suddenly desert-dry, his brain struggling to interpret the implications behind Harry's words—particularly that unexpected 'babe' that he'd never used before outside their joking couple charade.
Harry's grin lingered, a flash of perfect white teeth against his tanned skin. "We appear to have got a bit carried away, don't we?"
Jase felt his legs start to go wobbly, forcing him to steady himself against the sofa to remain upright. The physical reaction had nothing to do with his lingering intoxication and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming comprehension of his predicament.
It wasn't the alcohol.
It wasn't the hangover.
It was the absolute, all-consuming, terrifying need to know what the fuck happened last night.
