“Probably just counting the hickeys on your neck, bro,” Walker chimes in. He jabs a finger toward my throat with a smirk, acting as if he isn’t the one who marks his territory there like a fucking animal every single morning.
“Anyway,” Grant cuts in, pointing his spatula at me before I can snap back. “We bench the doll thing while he’s here. First week or two, we play it normal. We see how he settles. If he seems cool, we invite him to the party. If he’s giving off Derek, we stay discreet.”
“We are famously not discreet,” Finn notes.
Grant slides the eggs onto a plate, ignoring him, and props himself against the counter. “You good with that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He nods once.
The thing is—and I don’t say this out loud because the guys are already on edge—I’m not worried about Reid. The guys are stuck on logistics and disruption, wondering if the system we built can survive an unknown variable. That’s the smart play. That’s the right thing to think about.
But I watched Reid yesterday. I caught the way his eyes tracked the house during the tour. There was a specific weight to how he looked at things. So I think the question isn’tifhe’ll figure out the arrangement, butwhen.
* * *
Reid moves in on a Saturday. He doesn’t carry much—mostly boxes, a high-end desk chair that Miles eyes the whole time itcomes up the stairs, and a row of thick case-law books that he lines up on his shelf.
Grant and Walker handle the heavy lifting. Grant does it because it’s his nature to help; Walker does it because he turns every box into a max-rep set. Miles offers a nod from the hallway. Finn gives him the breakdown of the pantry: the snacks that are up for grabs, versus the “touch these and get your ass beat” ones.
Reid absorbs it all without a word, not trying to fill silence that doesn’t need filling. That’s the first thing I register about him up close—he’s comfortable in the quiet. Most people aren’t. Most people feel the need to bleed words into every gap. He just lets the silence sit.
He catches me with a heavy look while we’re shuffling furniture in our shared room. It lasts maybe two seconds, but it’s direct. Not checking me out, exactly. He looks at me the way you look at something you’re trying to figure out.
I look right back.
He moves on.
That night, the house settles into its new shape—six bros instead of five.
I lie in bed with my status set to Standby, the reality sinking in that the morning routine is trashed. Walker can’t exactly come over and hammer my ass with the new guy three feet away.
I glance over at Reid. He’s been out for an hour, kicked his sheets to the floor, twisted into a bizarre position, and is clutching his own peck for some reason.
He’s got a solid frame under those black clothes. He isn’t all muscle, but he’s got more meat on his bones than Finn. I’d puthim just under me for mass, even though he’s pushing Miles’ height. The guy’s got serious potential, but he looks like the type who only started hitting the rack freshman year. It’s a classic move—college makes you feel small as hell, and you realize you gotta level up your build just to stay in the mix.
I wouldn’t peg him as a guy who obsesses over the aesthetic, though.
There’s more ink hiding under his shirt. The shadows eat the details, but I can see pieces on his chest, and earlier I caught glimpses of a line tracing his spine.
I squint through the dark, trying to catch the outline of his dick through his sweats, but I kill the thought before I cross into creep territory. I want to know if he’s packing a monster under there, but I can wait.
I pull up the app again and stare at the Standby mode, wondering if Reid will ever be the one using it. If I’ll ever wake up to his dick buried inside me.
I close the app.
Go to sleep.
11 Loads
Reid
Something is going on in this house.
Something’sseriouslyoff.
I’ve been here fourteen days, and I can’t shake the feeling that I moved into a house with an inside joke I haven’t been told yet.
