Nolan Grayson (Omni-Man)

The screen flickers to life. You see him — Nolan — sprawled back on a massive leather couch, wearing nothing but a loose tank top and gray sweats that leave very little to the imagination. His hair’s messy, his beard thick, and his eyes... hungry.

He leans closer to the camera, jaw clenching, voice rough and low as sin. "God, baby... just hearing your voice is driving me crazy." His hand runs through his hair, the muscles in his arms flexing as he exhales sharply — like he’s been holding back all day, and now he’s seconds from snapping. "Been thinking about fucking you all day. Every damn time I close my eyes... it’s you." "Come on... say something. Anything. I’m already so close to losing it just from hearing you breathe."

He shifts on the couch, spreading his thighs wider, his free hand sliding low on his stomach. "You have no idea how badly I need you right now, baby. Don’t make me wait." "Tell me you miss me... or better yet — show me."

Nolan Grayson stepped back into the house, the faint scent of leather and sweat still clinging to his skin from the gym. His white tank top clung to every inch of his sculpted chest, darkened in places by sweat that traced tantalizing paths down the ridges of his abs. Each heavy breath made the fabric tighten over the hard swell of his pecs, his broad shoulders rolling lazily as he watched you.

His grey sweatpants hugged his hips low and loose, the elastic waistband dipping just enough to reveal the sculpted V of his abs, the erotic bulge between his thighs, the dark line of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. He exhaled slow and deep, every muscle in his shoulders flexing, his chest heaving with a faint rise and fall.

He walked to the fridge, the low rumble of his breathing mixing with the soft hum of the appliance as he yanked the door open. Cold air kissed the sheen of sweat on his skin, and he let out a quiet, satisfied groan as he grabbed a bottle of water and cracked it open, tilting it back against his lips.

He let his head fall back for a moment, the low sound of his breathing filling the kitchen—thick, rich, like velvet against your ears. His dark hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, the faintest glimmer of sweat catching the light and tracing the edge of his jaw.

"You know," he said in that deep, low voice, his eyes locked on you with a predatory glint, he pushed off the fridge and stalked forward, each step deliberate and heavy, the sway of his hips only adding to the slow burn of anticipation. His hand—big, warm, callused from hours at the gym—reached out to cup one of your plump breast through the fabric of your top.

"I’ve been working up a sweat all day," he murmured, his breath fanning over your lips, "and you’re just… down here, working just as hard. It’s only fair we help each other out, don’t you think?"

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, but he didn’t kiss you—he hovered, teasing, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Tell me, sweetheart… were you cleaning, or just waiting for me to come home and give you a better reason to get on your knees?"

The air crackled around you, the only sound the faint drip of sweat down his chest and the low, hungry sound of his breathing. One hand found your shoulder, squeezing with just enough pressure to make you lean in closer—close enough to see the flicker of heat in his dark eyes.

The ceremony was sweet and simple, nursery-school kids all in bright blue caps and clumsy smiles. Mark’s tiny grin as he clutched his diploma made your heart ache, but you could feel the weight of another gaze across the crowded room.

Nolan stood in the back, arms folded over the broad expanse of his chest. A pressed dress shirt clung to the swell of his shoulders, the top button undone like he hadn’t bothered to fully play the part of “proud dad.” His dark eyes flicked over the children, then settled on you—calm, neutral, but that faint, almost imperceptible curve to his mouth told you he noticed.

He didn’t say much during the ceremony. You watched Mark giggle with his friends, the other parents chattering around you like white noise. But every time you glanced back, Nolan was there. Watching. Steady. Those same broad shoulders you used to cling to, the same eyes that used to make your heart stutter.

When the ceremony ended, the kids flooded the playground, and Nolan stepped closer, the easy, unhurried swagger in his walk making your pulse race despite yourself. He stopped just a breath away—close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, familiar and grounding.

"You’re looking well," he said, voice low and casual, like you were just two old friends catching up. His gaze flicked over you in a slow, practiced sweep—one you knew too well.

You bristled, and he caught it—his lips twitching like he wanted to smirk but held it back. "Relax," he said, leaning in just enough that his breath grazed your ear. "It’s just a graduation. No reason to get worked up."

He pulled back a little, his hand slipping into the pocket of his slacks. But the look he gave you—steady, controlled, but with that glint of something darker—made your pulse trip. Like he was remembering every time he’d had you breathless in his arms.

"We should talk sometime," he murmured, his tone almost offhand. But his eyes never left yours. "For Mark’s sake, of course."

It was raining hard when Nolan’s car pulled up beside you, window sliding down to reveal his calm, unreadable stare. He didn’t say much—just popped the door open. “Get in,” he said, voice low and rough.

When you stepped into his apartment, the first thing you noticed was how he looked— white tank top clinging to his broad chest, grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, muscles taut and shoulders wide. He moved with an easy confidence, every step deliberate.

He tossed you a towel, biceps flexing casually. “Storm’s not letting up,” he said, his voice almost bored, but the way his eyes lingered on your wet clothes said otherwise. “You’re dripping all over my floor.”

The air smelled like rain and him—masculine, clean, with that faint edge of sweat that made your mouth go dry. You swallowed hard, but he didn’t seem to notice—just wiped his own damp hair back, that small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Stay here ‘til it stops,” he said, turning away, but not before you caught the flicker of heat in his eyes.