Part 1
Scott pulled the battered Transit onto the kerb outside the big detached house on Maple Drive, tyres crunching gravel. He killed the engine and sat a moment, forearms on the wheel, staring at the familiar red-brick frontage. Nineteen years coming and going from this place, first as the skinny sixteen-year-old labourer, now the foreman who could still out-lift the younger lads. The house looked the same, fancy, it screamed money.
He climbed out, boots heavy on the tarmac. Mid-July heat pressed down like a hand. His navy work T-shirt was already soaked through, clinging to the thick slabs of muscle across his chest and back. He peeled it off in one rough yank, balled it up, tossed it onto the passenger seat. Better. Sun hit sweat-slick skin, dark hair trailing from his pecs down the centre line of his stomach, arrowing into low-slung work trousers that rode dangerously low on his hips after a long morning on site.
Andrew appeared in the open garage doorway. White cycling jersey, black bib shorts moulded to long, lean thighs, hair still damp from a post-ride shower. At nineteen he was devastatingly good looking, narrow waist, flat carved stomach, shoulders just wide enough to carry real power. Scott had watched that body change over the years. From awkward kid to this: tight, athletic, the kind of frame that turned heads without trying.
“Scott,” Andrew said, voice quiet, pleased. “You didn’t have to come straight away! I was just getting out of the shower when I saw you pulling up, excuse the sweaty gear I just pulled it back on to let you in.”
“No worries mate, you’re looking good, must be working out hard! Anyway your old man would skin me if I left his golden boy stranded.” Scott flashed the crooked grin, all teeth. “Where’s the patient?”
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Andrew nodded toward the black Audi, bonnet already propped. “Won’t turn over. Battery, maybe? Dad usually handles this stuff.”
Scott snorted. “Your dad handles everything except getting his hands dirty.” He walked past, close enough that their bare arms brushed. Andrew didn’t step away. Neither did Scott.
He leaned over the engine bay, forearms braced on the lip of the bonnet, weight forward so his hips tipped. The waistband of his tight work trousers, already sitting low from the heat and the day’s work, slipped another half-inch. Then the top button, stressed from too many bends and too little give, gave a small, sharp pop and pinged off somewhere into the engine bay.
Scott froze for half a second.
The fly parted just enough. Not wide, not obscene, just a shallow V of open fabric. No underwear today. Bad fucking choice. The coarse dark hair at the root of his dick showed, a thick thatch curling just above the waistband, the very top of his cock hidden but unmistakably there, heavy and half-interested from nothing more than proximity and the kid’s clean citrus-shower scent drifting closer. The trousers slipped half an inch on his waist, exposing the top of his muscular ass.
He didn’t straighten immediately. Let the moment hang.
Andrew’s breath caught audibly.
Scott could feel the weight of those eyes, on the broad sweat-slick back, the deep groove of his spine, the way the trousers now sat indecently low, exposing that dark trail and the suggestion of everything beneath. Andrew shifted his weight, long legs restless, bib shorts doing fuck-all to hide the sudden, unmistakable thickening at his crotch.
“Battery’s fine,” Scott said after a beat, voice rougher than before. “Loose earth on the negative. Amateur hour.” He stayed bent over a second longer than necessary, letting Andrew look. Then he straightened slowly, deliberately, turning so the open fly faced the kid for a heartbeat before he casually tugged the two sides closer together. Didn’t button it. Couldn’t, anyway, the button was gone.
Andrew was closer now. Too close. Pupils blown despite the daylight. Throat working hard.
“You’re filthy,” Andrew said, barely above a whisper. Like the words had slipped out.
Scott’s mouth curved. “Always am, mate.” He took one slow step forward. “You gonna stand there gawping or hand me a rag?”
Andrew blinked, colour flooding high on his cheekbones. He turned, grabbed a blue shop towel from the workbench, came back. When he held it out, his fingers brushed Scott’s palm and lingered.
Scott closed his hand around Andrew’s wrist instead, big, calloused fingers swallowing slim bones. “Easy, kid. You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” Andrew lied. The tremor was obvious.
Scott stepped in until their boots nearly touched. He towered over him, six inches taller, broader everywhere. Andrew had to tip his head back. The air between them crackled.
Scott let his gaze slide down deliberately: flushed throat, rapid rise and fall under the tight jersey, lower to where the bib shorts clung to narrow hips and the perfect, rounded curve of that arse Scott had thought about far too many times. Then lower still, to the obvious ridge pressing against stretched lycra.
Andrew’s breath hitched. He licked his bottom lip without meaning to.
Scott lowered his head, slow, giving every chance to pull away.
Andrew froze.
Then, sharp, sudden, he jerked back. Two quick steps until his shoulders hit the garage wall. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, panicked.
“Shit,” Andrew breathed. “Shit, I, sorry. I didn’t, I’m not.”
Scott raised both hands, palms out. Gentle. “Hey. Nothing happened, yeah? You’re alright.”
Andrew dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it up. “I’ve got a girlfriend. Sarah. Since Year 12.”
“I know who Sarah is,” Scott said evenly. “Met her at your mum’s birthday do last summer. Nice girl.”
Andrew nodded too fast. “Yeah. She’s, yeah.”
The Audi sat between them like a silent witness.
Scott scratched the back of his neck, gave a small, rueful laugh. “Car’s fixed. Negative terminal tightened. Should start first time.”
Andrew swallowed. “Thanks. Really. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me shit.” Scott stepped back, giving space, though every instinct roared to close it again. “Tell your dad I said hello. And maybe get that alternator checked next service, sounded rattly.”
Andrew managed a shaky smile. “Will do.”
Scott turned toward the van, paused. Looked back over one thick shoulder, the open fly still gaping just enough to tease. “Andy.”
Andrew flinched at the old nickname.
“If you ever want to talk,” Scott shrugged one massive shoulder. “You know where I am. No pressure. No bullshit.”
Andrew’s lips parted. No sound came.
Scott climbed into the Transit, fired the engine, reversed off the drive.
In the rear-view he watched Andrew stand frozen in the garage doorway, long legs, flushed face, bib shorts doing nothing to hide how hard he still was, until the van rounded the corner and the house vanished.
Scott let out a long, slow breath.
Fuck, he was playing a dangerous game.
Scott pulled the battered Transit onto the kerb outside the big detached house on Maple Drive, tyres crunching gravel. He killed the engine and sat a moment, forearms on the wheel, staring at the familiar red-brick frontage. Nineteen years coming and going from this place, first as the skinny sixteen-year-old labourer, now the foreman who could still out-lift the younger lads. The house looked the same, fancy, it screamed money.
He climbed out, boots heavy on the tarmac. Mid-July heat pressed down like a hand. His navy work T-shirt was already soaked through, clinging to the thick slabs of muscle across his chest and back. He peeled it off in one rough yank, balled it up, tossed it onto the passenger seat. Better. Sun hit sweat-slick skin, dark hair trailing from his pecs down the centre line of his stomach, arrowing into low-slung work trousers that rode dangerously low on his hips after a long morning on site.
Andrew appeared in the open garage doorway. White cycling jersey, black bib shorts moulded to long, lean thighs, hair still damp from a post-ride shower. At nineteen he was devastatingly good looking, narrow waist, flat carved stomach, shoulders just wide enough to carry real power. Scott had watched that body change over the years. From awkward kid to this: tight, athletic, the kind of frame that turned heads without trying.
“Scott,” Andrew said, voice quiet, pleased. “You didn’t have to come straight away! I was just getting out of the shower when I saw you pulling up, excuse the sweaty gear I just pulled it back on to let you in.”
“No worries mate, you’re looking good, must be working out hard! Anyway your old man would skin me if I left his golden boy stranded.” Scott flashed the crooked grin, all teeth. “Where’s the patient?”
Andrew nodded toward the black Audi, bonnet already propped. “Won’t turn over. Battery, maybe? Dad usually handles this stuff.”
Scott snorted. “Your dad handles everything except getting his hands dirty.” He walked past, close enough that their bare arms brushed. Andrew didn’t step away. Neither did Scott.
He leaned over the engine bay, forearms braced on the lip of the bonnet, weight forward so his hips tipped. The waistband of his tight work trousers, already sitting low from the heat and the day’s work, slipped another half-inch. Then the top button, stressed from too many bends and too little give, gave a small, sharp pop and pinged off somewhere into the engine bay.
Scott froze for half a second.
The fly parted just enough. Not wide, not obscene, just a shallow V of open fabric. No underwear today. Bad fucking choice. The coarse dark hair at the root of his dick showed, a thick thatch curling just above the waistband, the very top of his cock hidden but unmistakably there, heavy and half-interested from nothing more than proximity and the kid’s clean citrus-shower scent drifting closer. The trousers slipped half an inch on his waist, exposing the top of his muscular ass.
He didn’t straighten immediately. Let the moment hang.
Andrew’s breath caught audibly.
Scott could feel the weight of those eyes, on the broad sweat-slick back, the deep groove of his spine, the way the trousers now sat indecently low, exposing that dark trail and the suggestion of everything beneath. Andrew shifted his weight, long legs restless, bib shorts doing fuck-all to hide the sudden, unmistakable thickening at his crotch.
“Battery’s fine,” Scott said after a beat, voice rougher than before. “Loose earth on the negative. Amateur hour.” He stayed bent over a second longer than necessary, letting Andrew look. Then he straightened slowly, deliberately, turning so the open fly faced the kid for a heartbeat before he casually tugged the two sides closer together. Didn’t button it. Couldn’t, anyway, the button was gone.
Andrew was closer now. Too close. Pupils blown despite the daylight. Throat working hard.
“You’re filthy,” Andrew said, barely above a whisper. Like the words had slipped out.
Scott’s mouth curved. “Always am, mate.” He took one slow step forward. “You gonna stand there gawping or hand me a rag?”
Andrew blinked, colour flooding high on his cheekbones. He turned, grabbed a blue shop towel from the workbench, came back. When he held it out, his fingers brushed Scott’s palm and lingered.
Scott closed his hand around Andrew’s wrist instead, big, calloused fingers swallowing slim bones. “Easy, kid. You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” Andrew lied. The tremor was obvious.
Scott stepped in until their boots nearly touched. He towered over him, six inches taller, broader everywhere. Andrew had to tip his head back. The air between them crackled.
Scott let his gaze slide down deliberately: flushed throat, rapid rise and fall under the tight jersey, lower to where the bib shorts clung to narrow hips and the perfect, rounded curve of that arse Scott had thought about far too many times. Then lower still, to the obvious ridge pressing against stretched lycra.
Andrew’s breath hitched. He licked his bottom lip without meaning to.
Scott lowered his head, slow, giving every chance to pull away.
Andrew froze.
Then, sharp, sudden, he jerked back. Two quick steps until his shoulders hit the garage wall. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, panicked.
“Shit,” Andrew breathed. “Shit, I, sorry. I didn’t, I’m not.”
Scott raised both hands, palms out. Gentle. “Hey. Nothing happened, yeah? You’re alright.”
Andrew dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it up. “I’ve got a girlfriend. Sarah. Since Year 12.”
“I know who Sarah is,” Scott said evenly. “Met her at your mum’s birthday do last summer. Nice girl.”
Andrew nodded too fast. “Yeah. She’s, yeah.”
The Audi sat between them like a silent witness.
Scott scratched the back of his neck, gave a small, rueful laugh. “Car’s fixed. Negative terminal tightened. Should start first time.”
Andrew swallowed. “Thanks. Really. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me shit.” Scott stepped back, giving space, though every instinct roared to close it again. “Tell your dad I said hello. And maybe get that alternator checked next service, sounded rattly.”
Andrew managed a shaky smile. “Will do.”
Scott turned toward the van, paused. Looked back over one thick shoulder, the open fly still gaping just enough to tease. “Andy.”
Andrew flinched at the old nickname.
“If you ever want to talk,” Scott shrugged one massive shoulder. “You know where I am. No pressure. No bullshit.”
Andrew’s lips parted. No sound came.
Scott climbed into the Transit, fired the engine, reversed off the drive.
In the rear-view he watched Andrew stand frozen in the garage doorway, long legs, flushed face, bib shorts doing nothing to hide how hard he still was, until the van rounded the corner and the house vanished.
Scott let out a long, slow breath.
Fuck, he was playing a dangerous game.
