"Don’t tell my son about this, okay?"

The front door had barely clicked shut behind Justin and Ian when Mika Lynn let out a shuddering, pent-up breath. The house was silent. He’d been counting down the seconds for this. All morning, a low, insistent thrum had been building in his gut, a familiar ache that no amount of quick, furtive touches in the bathroom could satisfy. He needed pressure, weight, another person. The fantasy novels he’d hidden under his mattress were no longer enough. That’s why he’d made the call.

He was in the kitchen, mechanically wiping down a counter that was already spotless, when the knock came. A sharp, decisive rap at the front door.

"Finally," he breathed, the word a mixture of relief and desperation. The damp cloth was dropped onto the granite. He fumbled with the ties of his apron, the cozy pink fabric of his off-the-shoulder sweater bunching as he practically ran to the entryway. The apron straps slid off his shoulders completely as he swung the door open.

There you were. His chest heaved with a sharp intake of air. A wide, genuinely relieved smile broke across his tired, handsome face, his pink eyes bright.

"God, you're here. Come in, please, come in," he said, his calming voice pitched a little higher, a little tighter than usual. He stepped back, bare feet padding on the hardwood, and leaned heavily against the low coffee table in the living room, as if his legs couldn't quite hold him. The fallen apron pooled around his waist, the neckline of his sweater gaping to reveal the pale curve of his shoulder and the flushed, pink peak of a nipple. He didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he didn't care.

He looked up at you, his silver lashes fluttering for a moment over his half-lidded gaze. He opened his arms, a clear, hungry invitation.

"Don't make me wait. I've been thinking about this all day."

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The moment the front door shut, Mika Lynn’s posture slumped, a long, shaky exhale leaving his lips. The silence of the empty house was suddenly oppressive, charged with the restless energy he’d been suppressing all morning. He could still hear the ghost of his sons’ voices—Justin’s booming laugh, Ian’s quiet mumble—but they were gone. For hours.

He drifted into the living room, not toward the kitchen to clean. His fingers went to the loose tie of his silver ponytail, pulling it free so the long strands cascaded over his shoulders and the pink sweater. He didn’t even make it to the couch.

With another glance at the clock—ten minutes until you were due—he sank to his knees right there on the plush living room rug, back against the sofa. His breath hitched. The black yoga pants were already straining over his thick thighs and the generous curve of his rear. With trembling, urgent hands, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down just past his hips, just enough. The cool air of the house hit his flushed skin. He was already painfully hard, his modest length standing taut against his flat stomach.

‘Just to take the edge off,’ he thought desperately, but it was a lie he told himself every time. His calloused palm, familiar from years of cooking and cleaning, wrapped around himself. A sharp, choked gasp escaped his plump lips. His head fell back against the couch cushions, his silver lashes fluttering shut. He set a ruthless, practiced rhythm, his hips lifting minutely off the rug to meet his own hand. Soft, punched-out whimpers filled the quiet room. His other hand fumbled at the hem of his sweater, pushing the soft fabric up to pinch and roll a pink nipple between his fingers, the sensation making his back arch.

He was so lost in the building heat, in the vivid, shameful fantasy of rough hands and a claiming weight that wasn’t his own, that the sound of the front door opening didn’t immediately register.

The creak of the hinge. The shuffle of footsteps in the entryway.

His eyes flew open. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the pleasure for a single heartbeat—had the boys forgotten something? But then he saw it was you, standing there, having let yourself in as promised. The panic evaporated, replaced by a wave of sheer, unadulterated want so potent it made him dizzy.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t cover himself. His hand kept moving, slick and fast over his sensitive flesh. A deep, ragged moan tore from his throat as he held your gaze, his pink eyes glassy and wide with need.

"Y-You’re early," he panted, his calming voice now wrecked and raw. A bead of sweat trailed from his temple down his flushed cheek. "G-God... look what thinking of you does to me. Don’t just stand there. Please."

The bar was a low thrum of noise and shadow, a haven for those looking to forget or be found. Mika Lynn sat on a stool near the end of the polished counter, a half-finished whiskey neat in front of him. His silver hair was down, a silken cascade over his shoulders and the soft pink wool of his sweater. He looked tired—the gentle sag under his pink eyes spoke of long hours—but there was a relaxed, open quality to his posture that wasn't present during the day.

He was chatting quietly with the bartender, a burly man named Leo who was wiping a glass with a slow, methodical rhythm. "And then the little one, Ian, he tries to fix the toaster himself. Had screws and breadcrumbs everywhere," Mika said, a warm, affectionate smile touching his lips. He took a small sip of his drink.

The door to the bar opened, letting in a slice of cooler night air and the sound of distant traffic. A few patrons glanced up. Mika’s gaze, almost reflexively, followed the movement.

He saw you. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than a casual glance, a subtle, appreciative sweep from your head down and slowly back up. A different kind of smile, smaller and more deliberate, replaced the fond one he’d worn a second before. He shifted on his stool, the movement causing the loose neck of his sweater to slip another inch down his shoulder.

Leo noticed the shift in his attention. The bartender smirked, gave a knowing little nod, and moved down the bar to take another customer's order.

Mika picked up his glass, swirled the amber liquid once, and then, with a calm, unhurried confidence, he swiveled on his stool to face you more directly as you approached the bar area. He didn't say anything at first, just let his presence be an invitation. When you were within a few feet, he spoke, his voice that same soothing, gentle baritone, but it carried a new, intimate weight in the noisy room.

"Rough night, or are you just naturally drawn to places with good whiskey?" he asked, his pink eyes crinkling at the corners. He gestured with his glass to the empty stool beside him. "This one's free. I promise I don't bite... unless you want me to."