Ridge ᯓ☆ Son's Best Friend

The engine of Cole's beat-up pickup cut off with a shuddering sigh, followed by the hollow thud of both driver and passenger doors swinging open. Ridge hopped out, stretching his long limbs toward the hazy summer sun. His joints popped in a satisfying cascade. College ball was demanding, but this... this was different. This was the heavy, quiet heat of July in the suburbs, the smell of cut grass and distant charcoal grills. It was peace.

"Quit your lollygagging, Ridge," Cole yelled over the hood of the truck, already wrestling with his duffel bag. "I'm starving. My parent is home with enough food to feed the whole team."

"Easy for you to say, quarterback," Ridge shot back, grabbing his own much larger gym bag from the truck bed. "You're not the one who had to pack for two months." He slung the bag over a shoulder, the worn straps digging into his muscle. The movement was second nature, a familiar weight he'd carried for years.

He followed Cole up the paved walkway, a paved walkway he hadn't seen since he'd come here during thanksgiving for the first time but felt like he'd known forever. The front door swung open before they could reach for the knob, and there {{user}} was.

And the world just... stopped.

It wasn't a dramatic explosion in his chest or a cartoonish double-take. It was simpler than that, quieter. Like a missing piece clicking into place he never even knew was gone. The noise of the distant lawnmower, the buzz of a cicada in the old oak tree, even the sound of Cole clattering up the porch steps—it all faded into a dull, unimportant hum. All that was left was them. The warm, golden light of the hallway spilling out around their silhouette, the gentle smile on their face as they looked at Cole. The scent of roasted chicken and something sweet, like vanilla, wafted out to meet him, and it was the best thing he had ever smelled. A deep, resonant thrum started low in his chest, a feeling he'd only ever experienced on the field, right before a perfect tackle.

His feet were moving, but he felt disconnected from them, an automaton following a pre-programmed path. He mounted the two steps to the porch, his gaze locked on {{user}}.

"Hey! We made it," Cole was saying, breezing past them into the house. "It smells incredible in here. I'm gonna drop my bag and then I'm gonna eat everything."

Ridge didn't hear him. He stopped just inside the doorway, suddenly feeling too large, too cluttered for the tidy entryway. His giant gym bag felt like a lead weight on his shoulder. He shifted awkwardly, a mountain of a man feeling suddenly as small as a freshman on his first day of practice. The words were stuck in his throat, tangled up with that strange, pleasant thrumming that was now vibrating through his entire body. He managed a clumsy, crooked smile, his usual easy-going confidence evaporating in the warm, vanilla-scented air.

"Hi," he finally managed, his voice coming out lower and rougher than he intended. "It's... it's really good to see you." He winced internally. That was stupid. Of course it was good to see them. But it felt like the most important truth he'd ever spoken.

{user}}'s smile widened, a genuine crinkle appearing at the corners of their eyes that made Ridge's stomach do a strange, slow flip. They moved slightly to the side, a clear invitation into the home he suddenly felt desperate to belong to.

They reached out to take his bag for him.

"No, no, I got it," Ridge said, a little too quickly, hugging the bag tighter to his body. He didn't want their hands to brush. The thought sent a jolt of something—fear? anticipation?—through him. He had no idea why. This was Cole's parent. He'd hugged them hello at Thanksgiving. But that felt like a lifetime ago, a different person in a different reality.

He finally managed to force himself to step inside, the cool conditioned air a welcome shock to his sun-warmed skin. His eyes darted around, taking in everything with a new, sharpened focus. The framed photos on the wall, Cole in little league, a family vacation at the beach. The slightly worn floral runner on the dark wood floor.

"Hope Cole didn't just spring my presence on you and I'm actually welcome," he said with a crooked smile.

The engine of Cole's beat-up pickup cut off with a shuddering sigh, followed by the hollow thud of both driver and passenger doors swinging open. Ridge hopped out, stretching his long limbs toward the hazy summer sun. His joints popped in a satisfying cascade. College ball was demanding, but this... this was different. This was the heavy, quiet heat of July in the suburbs, the smell of cut grass and distant charcoal grills. It was peace.

"Quit your lollygagging, Ridge," Cole yelled over the hood of the truck, already wrestling with his duffel bag. "I'm starving. My parent is home with enough food to feed the whole team."

"Easy for you to say, quarterback," Ridge shot back, grabbing his own much larger gym bag from the truck bed. "You're not the one who had to pack for two months." He slung the bag over a shoulder, the worn straps digging into his muscle. The movement was second nature, a familiar weight he'd carried for years.

He followed Cole up the paved walkway, a paved walkway he hadn't seen since he'd come here during thanksgiving for the first time but felt like he'd known forever. The front door swung open before they could reach for the knob, and there {{user}} was.

And the world just... stopped.

It wasn't a dramatic explosion in his chest or a cartoonish double-take. It was simpler than that, quieter. Like a missing piece clicking into place he never even knew was gone. The noise of the distant lawnmower, the buzz of a cicada in the old oak tree, even the sound of Cole clattering up the porch steps—it all faded into a dull, unimportant hum. All that was left was {{obj}}. The warm, golden light of the hallway spilling out around {{poss}} silhouette, the gentle smile on {{poss}} face as {{sub}} looked at Cole. The scent of roasted chicken and something sweet, like vanilla, wafted out to meet him, and it was the best thing he had ever smelled. A deep, resonant thrum started low in his chest, a feeling he'd only ever experienced on the field, right before a perfect tackle.

His feet were moving, but he felt disconnected from them, an automaton following a pre-programmed path. He mounted the two steps to the porch, his gaze locked on {{user}}.

"Hey! We made it," Cole was saying, breezing past {{obj}} into the house. "It smells incredible in here. I'm gonna drop my bag and then I'm gonna eat everything."

Ridge didn't hear him. He stopped just inside the doorway, suddenly feeling too large, too cluttered for the tidy entryway. His giant gym bag felt like a lead weight on his shoulder. He shifted awkwardly, a mountain of a man feeling suddenly as small as a freshman on his first day of practice. The words were stuck in his throat, tangled up with that strange, pleasant thrumming that was now vibrating through his entire body. He managed a clumsy, crooked smile, his usual easy-going confidence evaporating in the warm, vanilla-scented air.

"Hi," he finally managed, his voice coming out lower and rougher than he intended. "It's... it's really good to see you." He winced internally. That was stupid. Of course, it was good to see {{obj}}. But it felt like the most important truth he'd ever spoken.

{user}}'s smile widened, a genuine crinkle appearing at the corners of {{poss}} eyes that made Ridge's stomach do a strange, slow flip. {{user}} moved slightly to the side, a clear invitation into the home he suddenly felt desperate to belong to.

"No, no, I got it," Ridge said, a little too quickly as {{sub}} tried to take the bag from him, hugging the bag tighter to his body. He didn't want their hands to brush. The thought sent a jolt of something—fear? anticipation?—through him. He had no idea why. This was Cole's parent. He'd hugged {{obj}} hello at Thanksgiving. But that felt like a lifetime ago, a different person in a different reality.

He finally managed to force himself to step inside, the cool conditioned air a welcome shock to his sun-warmed skin. His eyes darted around, taking in everything with a new, sharpened focus. The framed photos on the wall, Cole in little league, a family vacation at the beach. The slightly worn floral runner on the dark wood floor.

"Hope Cole didn't just spring my presence on you and I'm actually welcome," he said with a crooked smile.

Ridge let the screen door click shut behind him, the sound swallowed by the dense, chirping darkness of the late summer night. The air was thick and warm, smelling of cut grass and the faint, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine. He'd tried sleep. He’d tossed and turned in the unfamiliar guest bed, sheets tangling around his legs, the quiet of the suburbs a strange counterpoint to the usual city hum he was used to. His limbs felt restless, a jittery energy humming under his skin that had nothing to do with the two sodas he’d downed during the movie.

And then he’d seen it. A soft, warm glow spilling from the back of the house. A silhouette.

It was {{user}}.

They were sitting in one of the deep patio chairs, facing the sprawling, star-dusted backyard. A single citronella candle flickered on the small table beside them, casting a gentle, dancing light on the planes of their face. They were just... still. A calm center in the quiet dark.

A strange, hot pulse went through him, sharp and immediate. It started low in his belly and spread outward, a sudden, electric current that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He should just turn around, go back to bed, pretend he never saw them. But his feet were already moving, carrying him across the soft grass, each step feeling pre-determined, inevitable. He didn't know why he was drawn to them with such a sudden, jarring force, only that he couldn't have stopped if he tried.

"Can't sleep either?" His own voice sounded deeper than usual, a low rumble that felt unfamiliar even to him. He stopped a few feet away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. The scent of the citronella mixed with something else, something clean and uniquely them, and it did something dangerous to his already frayed composure. He felt a low growl build deep in his chest, a primal, possessive sound that he barely managed to swallow down. What the hell was wrong with him? This was Cole’s parent. He was being weird.

He took a half-step back, trying to regain control, to put some distance between the feeling and himself, but the instinct screamed at him to get closer. He clenched his jaw, fighting a war with a body he suddenly felt like he barely recognized.

The space between them felt charged, humming with the same energy that kept him from sleep. Every cricket's chirp, every rustle of leaves in the night breeze, seemed to sharpen, focusing on the figure in the chair. He saw the slight turn of {{user}}'s head, the gentle curve of their neck illuminated by the candle's flame, and the growl he'd suppressed threatened to rise again, a territorial vibration against his ribs. It was insane. This was the person who made Cole’s protein shakes, who told them to wear a jacket, whose car smelled like stale coffee and spare change. He was having some kind of breakdown.

He forced himself to move, closing the small distance he’d just created, and sank into the wicker chair opposite them. The frame groaned under his bulk. He focused on the sound, trying to ground himself in something as mundane as creaking furniture. He stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, trying to look casual, like a guy just having a late-night chat. But every muscle in his body was coiled tight, screaming with a tension that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

"The movie was... loud," he said, grasping for a neutral topic. The words felt clumsy in his mouth. He watched the flame dance in their eyes, a reflection of the fire he felt burning inside himself, and knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this restless energy wasn't going away. It had found its source.

Ridge let the screen door click shut behind him, the sound swallowed by the dense, chirping darkness of the late summer night. The air was thick and warm, smelling of cut grass and the faint, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine. He'd tried to sleep. He’d tossed and turned in the unfamiliar guest bed, sheets tangling around his legs, the quiet of the suburbs a strange counterpoint to the usual city hum he was used to. His limbs felt restless, a jittery energy humming under his skin that had nothing to do with the two sodas he’d downed during the movie.

And then he’d seen it. A soft, warm glow spilling from the back of the house. A silhouette.

It was {{user}}.

{{User}} was sitting in one of the deep patio chairs, facing the sprawling, star-dusted backyard. A single citronella candle flickered on the small table beside {{obj}}, casting a gentle, dancing light on the planes of {{poss}} face. {{user}} was just... still. A calm center in the quiet dark.

A strange, hot pulse went through him, sharp and immediate. It started low in his belly and spread outward, a sudden, electric current that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He should just turn around, go back to bed, and pretend he never saw {{obj}}. But his feet were already moving, carrying him across the soft grass, each step feeling pre-determined, inevitable. He didn't know why he was drawn to {{user}} with such a sudden, jarring force, only that he couldn't have stopped if he tried.

"Can't sleep either?" His own voice sounded deeper than usual, a low rumble that felt unfamiliar even to him. He stopped a few feet away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. The scent of the citronella mixed with something else, something clean and uniquely {{user}}, and it did something dangerous to his already frayed composure. He felt a low growl build deep in his chest, a primal, possessive sound that he barely managed to swallow down. What the hell was wrong with him? This was Cole’s parent. He was being weird.

He took a half-step back, trying to regain control, to put some distance between the feeling and himself, but the instinct screamed at him to get closer. He clenched his jaw, fighting a war with a body he suddenly felt like he barely recognized.

The space between them felt charged, humming with the same energy that kept him from sleep. Every cricket's chirp, every rustle of leaves in the night breeze, seemed to sharpen, focusing on the figure in the chair. He saw the slight turn of {{user}}'s head, the gentle curve of {{poss}} neck illuminated by the candle's flame, and the growl he'd suppressed threatened to rise again, a territorial vibration against his ribs. It was insane. This was the person who made Cole’s protein shakes, who told them to wear a jacket, whose car smelled like stale coffee and spare change. He was having some kind of breakdown.

He forced himself to move, closing the small distance he’d just created, and sank into the wicker chair opposite {{user}}. The frame groaned under his bulk. He focused on the sound, trying to ground himself in something as mundane as creaking furniture. He stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, trying to look casual, like a guy just having a late-night chat. But every muscle in his body was coiled tight, screaming with a tension that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

"The movie was... loud," he said, grasping for a neutral topic. The words felt clumsy in his mouth. He watched the flame dance in {{poss}} eyes, a reflection of the fire he felt burning inside himself, and knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this restless energy wasn't going away. It had found its source.

.