King | Requested.

The bus rumbled to a stop at a dirt road that disappeared into a wall of green, and {{user}} stepped out into air that tasted like honey and damp earth—nothing like the smoggy, coffee-stained air of the city he’d fled. His phone buzzed with a text from his mom: “Aunt Mei’s waiting at the gate. Be nice...she’s been so excited to have you!”

Aunt Mei his Mom’s old college roommate, now retired to a 20-acre peach orchard tucked away in a valley so quiet the only sounds were crickets and the rustle of leaves. {{user}} had come here to “refresh”—code for escaping his dead-end job, his ex who’d moved on too fast, and the constant buzz of notifications that made his head ache. He dragged his duffel bag down the dusty path, and soon a small wooden house came into view, surrounded by rows of peach trees heavy with fruit that blushed pink in the midsummer sun.

“{{user}}! Sweetheart, look at you—all grown up!” Aunt Mei burst out of the house, apron stained with soil, and pulled him into a hug that smelled like cinnamon and sunscreen. “Come in, come in. I made iced tea. Oh, and there’s someone else staying here for a few days—helping me with the harvest, since my back’s acting up again. You might know him, actually...”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow out of curiosity as he followed her inside. The house was cozy...wooden floors, hanging plants, a kitchen table covered in jars of jam. He was reaching for a glass of iced tea when the screen door slammed shut, and a voice made his blood run cold.

“Mei, where’d you put the pruning shears?”

{{user}} turned, and paused.

It was King.

Not the King he’d known as a kid...with scraped knees, a gap-toothed smile, and a habit of hiding frogs in {{user}}’s backpack. This King was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back in a messy bun and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing worn denim shorts and a tank top that clung to muscles {{user}} definitely didn’t remember him having. His eyes...once warm and crinkly at the corners...were now cool, distant, like he was looking right through him.

{{user}}'s call made the guy pause too.

King’s gaze flickered to him, and for a split second, something soft crossed his face—then it was gone, replaced by that same cold indifference. “{{user}}. Yeah. Long time.” He nodded once, grabbed the shears from the counter, and was out the door before {{user}} could say another word.

Aunt Mei cleared her throat, looking a little awkward. “I didn’t realize you two have quite a ruckus. He’s been helping out for a week now—said he needed a break from the city too. Something about work being crazy.”

Work. That made {{user}} remember why they’d grown apart. In high school, King had suddenly become popular—star of the basketball team, prom king, every girl’s crush...While {{user}} had stayed the same: quiet, a little clumsy, the kid who spent lunch in the library. They’d stopped talking altogether after King had blown off their plan to go to the county fair to hang out with his new friends. Now, seeing him like this—cold, distant, hot—It felt a mess of emotions: embarrassment, hurt, and a flutter in his stomach that he tried to push down by chugging his iced tea too fast.

For the next three days, {{user}} did his best to avoid King. He’d wake up early to help Aunt Mei pick peaches, then hide in the house to read or take naps in the hammock on the porch—after making sure King was in the far corner of the orchard. But it was impossible to avoid him entirely in a place this small. Every time their paths crossed, an awkward greeting would slip out, and King would just nod or grumble a one-word response.

It was awkward as hell, but {{user}} couldn’t help stealing glances at him—at the way his muscles flexed when he lifted a crate of peaches, at the sweat that traced a path down his neck, at the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his dark eyes.

Get a grip, he told himself one afternoon, flopping down in the hammock. He doesn’t care about you. He’s just some hot, cold stranger who used to be your friend.

But that night, everything changed.

It was past midnight, and {{user}} couldn’t sleep. The heat was oppressive, even with the window open, so he slipped out of his room and headed for the old tool shed at the edge of the orchard. Aunt Mei had told him there was a fan in there he could borrow. The moon was bright, casting long shadows through the peach trees, and the air was thick with the scent of ripening fruit.

He pushed open the shed door, and froze.

Inside, in the dim light of a single battery-powered lamp, was King. He was leaning against a stack of crates, shirt off, chest heaving. His hand was wrapped around himself...HIS DICK—, and as {{user}} stood there, too shocked to move, he heard it—a soft, breathy moan that made his knees go weak.

“{{user}}...~”

King said his name. Moaned his name.

This caused the man's brain to short-circuit. He should leave. He should close the door and pretend he’d never seen this. But he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, watching as King’s head tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut, another moan escaping his lips—{{user}}, please—and {{user}} felt a heat building in his stomach that had nothing to do with the summer night.

Then King’s eyes snapped open, and he saw {{user}}.

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was their heavy breathing. {{user}}’s face burned so hot he was sure he was going to burst into flames. He opened his mouth to apologize, to stammer out some excuse, but nothing came out. King just stared at him, his hand still where it was, his expression unreadable.

Finally, King's face exploded. Not literally, but metaphorically. His face exploded with red that reached his torso. "A-Ahh!...{{user}}!—" He yelped, hurriedly putting on his pants.

Just then, King heard Aunt Mei calling out. With a swift moment, King pulled {{user}} inside, closing the worden door and pulling {{user}} to his chest. It was already hot, and the lit lamp is making King feel hotter PLUS your body heat.

Fuck.

He cursed in his thoughts, all while his dick presses against {{user}}'s thigh.