Part 1
The barn hung heavy with the scent of hay, motor oil, and sun-baked wood. Late August light slanted through the gaps in the old timber walls, painting golden bars across the concrete floor and catching motes of dust that drifted like lazy fireflies. Outside, the fields stretched flat and gold under a sky so blue it hurt to look at; inside, the air was thick, still, almost syrupy with heat.
Tom stood just inside the wide double doors of the outbuilding, one hand still on the handlebar of his bike, the other wiping uselessly at the back of his neck where sweat had already begun to collect. He was dressed for the gym—black cropped tank that ended an inch above his navel, showing the tight, carved lines of his lower abs and the pale freckles that dusted the tops of his hip bones; electric-blue gym shorts so snug they might as well have been painted on, hugging the thick curve of his thighs and the unmistakable round swell of his ass. The outfit had been chosen with Sam in mind—hoping, stupidly, that his best friend might notice, might look twice, might finally see something other than “mate.”
But Sam wasn’t here.
Tom’s phone stayed stubbornly silent in his pocket. No reply to the three texts he’d sent in the last twenty minutes. He’d already checked the main barn (their usual hangout spot—old sofa, mini-fridge, dartboard, fairy lights Sam had strung up ironically years ago), the yard, even the kitchen window of the farmhouse. Nothing.
Then he heard the low metallic clank and a muffled curse from the smaller outbuilding where the tractors lived.
He pushed through the side door.
Scott was bent over the open engine bay of the big John Deere, broad back glistening, overalls unbuttoned to the waist and knotted loosely around his hips like an afterthought. Sweat tracked clean rivers down the furred valley of his spine, soaked the dark hair at his lower back, and darkened the waistband of the blue denim underneath. His shoulders rolled with each turn of the wrench; the heavy slabs of his pecs shifted under dense blond-brown chest hair that narrowed into a thick trail disappearing below the bunched fabric at his waist. Arms corded and veined, biceps bunching every time he braced himself. Even from ten feet away Tom could smell him—clean sweat, engine grease, something earthier, male.
Tom’s mouth went dry.
He’d seen Scott shirtless before, sure—mowing, baling, fixing fences in high summer—but never like this. Never close. Never alone. Never with the man’s hazel eyes flicking up, catching his, holding.
“Tom.” Scott’s voice was low, gravelly from the day’s dust. He straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag that hung from his back pocket. The motion made his chest flex, nipples tightening in the sudden draft from the open door. “Looking for Sam?”
Tom nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. He… he’s not answering. Thought we were hitting the gym.”
Scott gave a short huff of amusement. “He’s off with that lass from the village. Chloe, I think. Said he’d be back late.” He tossed the rag onto the fender of the tractor and stepped closer—casual, unhurried, the way large men move when they know exactly how much space they take up. “Left about eleven.”
“Oh. Right.” Tom’s voice cracked on the second word. He cleared his throat. “Cool. I’ll just… text him later then.”
He should leave. He knew he should leave.
But Scott didn’t step back. Instead he tilted his head, studying Tom with those steady hazel eyes that seemed to see straight through skin and bone and teenage bravado. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—nothing cruel, just… certain.
“Hot one today,” Scott said, almost conversationally. He reached up, dragged the back of his forearm across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of grease. The motion pulled every muscle in his arm and shoulder into sharp relief. “Must be pushing thirty out there.”
Tom swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s… brutal.”
Scott’s gaze drifted—deliberately, unapologetically—down Tom’s body. Over the cropped vest clinging damply to his pecs, the exposed strip of freckled midriff, the obscene cling of the shorts that did nothing to hide how thick and round his glutes were, or how the front pouch was already starting to strain just a little from the blood rushing south.
Tom felt the look like a physical touch. Heat crawled up his throat, his ears, his chest. His cock—small, soft only minutes ago—gave a helpless twitch against the tight fabric.
Scott’s smile deepened, just a fraction.
“I’m headed up to the house for a cold drink,” he said. Voice still easy, still friendly in that gruff way of his. But there was something new underneath it now—something darker, hungrier, that made the hair on Tom’s arms stand up. “You want one? Water, Coke, beer if you’re feeling brave.”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. He opened his mouth, closed it. Nodded before he could think better of it.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, that’d be… great.”
Scott jerked his chin toward the door. “C’mon then.”
He turned and walked out first—long, powerful strides, the knotted overalls riding low enough to show the dimples at the base of his spine and the top edge of dark boxer briefs. Tom followed, pulse hammering in his ears, eyes locked on the wide V of Scott’s back, the way sweat gathered and slid down the channel of muscle beside his spine.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
The barn hung heavy with the scent of hay, motor oil, and sun-baked wood. Late August light slanted through the gaps in the old timber walls, painting golden bars across the concrete floor and catching motes of dust that drifted like lazy fireflies. Outside, the fields stretched flat and gold under a sky so blue it hurt to look at; inside, the air was thick, still, almost syrupy with heat.
Tom stood just inside the wide double doors of the outbuilding, one hand still on the handlebar of his bike, the other wiping uselessly at the back of his neck where sweat had already begun to collect. He was dressed for the gym—black cropped tank that ended an inch above his navel, showing the tight, carved lines of his lower abs and the pale freckles that dusted the tops of his hip bones; electric-blue gym shorts so snug they might as well have been painted on, hugging the thick curve of his thighs and the unmistakable round swell of his ass. The outfit had been chosen with Sam in mind—hoping, stupidly, that his best friend might notice, might look twice, might finally see something other than “mate.”
But Sam wasn’t here.
Tom’s phone stayed stubbornly silent in his pocket. No reply to the three texts he’d sent in the last twenty minutes. He’d already checked the main barn (their usual hangout spot—old sofa, mini-fridge, dartboard, fairy lights Sam had strung up ironically years ago), the yard, even the kitchen window of the farmhouse. Nothing.
Then he heard the low metallic clank and a muffled curse from the smaller outbuilding where the tractors lived.
He pushed through the side door.
Scott was bent over the open engine bay of the big John Deere, broad back glistening, overalls unbuttoned to the waist and knotted loosely around his hips like an afterthought. Sweat tracked clean rivers down the furred valley of his spine, soaked the dark hair at his lower back, and darkened the waistband of the blue denim underneath. His shoulders rolled with each turn of the wrench; the heavy slabs of his pecs shifted under dense blond-brown chest hair that narrowed into a thick trail disappearing below the bunched fabric at his waist. Arms corded and veined, biceps bunching every time he braced himself. Even from ten feet away Tom could smell him—clean sweat, engine grease, something earthier, male.
Tom’s mouth went dry.
He’d seen Scott shirtless before, sure—mowing, baling, fixing fences in high summer—but never like this. Never close. Never alone. Never with the man’s hazel eyes flicking up, catching his, holding.
“Tom.” Scott’s voice was low, gravelly from the day’s dust. He straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag that hung from his back pocket. The motion made his chest flex, nipples tightening in the sudden draft from the open door. “Looking for Sam?”
Tom nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. He… he’s not answering. Thought we were hitting the gym.”
Scott gave a short huff of amusement. “He’s off with that lass from the village. Chloe, I think. Said he’d be back late.” He tossed the rag onto the fender of the tractor and stepped closer—casual, unhurried, the way large men move when they know exactly how much space they take up. “Left about eleven.”
“Oh. Right.” Tom’s voice cracked on the second word. He cleared his throat. “Cool. I’ll just… text him later then.”
He should leave. He knew he should leave.
But Scott didn’t step back. Instead he tilted his head, studying Tom with those steady hazel eyes that seemed to see straight through skin and bone and teenage bravado. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—nothing cruel, just… certain.
“Hot one today,” Scott said, almost conversationally. He reached up, dragged the back of his forearm across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of grease. The motion pulled every muscle in his arm and shoulder into sharp relief. “Must be pushing thirty out there.”
Tom swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s… brutal.”
Scott’s gaze drifted—deliberately, unapologetically—down Tom’s body. Over the cropped vest clinging damply to his pecs, the exposed strip of freckled midriff, the obscene cling of the shorts that did nothing to hide how thick and round his glutes were, or how the front pouch was already starting to strain just a little from the blood rushing south.
Tom felt the look like a physical touch. Heat crawled up his throat, his ears, his chest. His cock—small, soft only minutes ago—gave a helpless twitch against the tight fabric.
Scott’s smile deepened, just a fraction.
“I’m headed up to the house for a cold drink,” he said. Voice still easy, still friendly in that gruff way of his. But there was something new underneath it now—something darker, hungrier, that made the hair on Tom’s arms stand up. “You want one? Water, Coke, beer if you’re feeling brave.”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. He opened his mouth, closed it. Nodded before he could think better of it.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, that’d be… great.”
Scott jerked his chin toward the door. “C’mon then.”
He turned and walked out first—long, powerful strides, the knotted overalls riding low enough to show the dimples at the base of his spine and the top edge of dark boxer briefs. Tom followed, pulse hammering in his ears, eyes locked on the wide V of Scott’s back, the way sweat gathered and slid down the channel of muscle beside his spine.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
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