Work Text:
Morning burst into the apartment through the slats of the blinds, breaking into thin strips of light that crawled lazily across the bare parquet floor, making dust motes dance in the air, and settled on the unwashed dishes scattered across the kitchen counter. Outside the window, at the level of the eighth floor, Brooklyn hummed, its sounds as familiar to Mike as the background noise of his own refrigerator. He lay on the couch that had once been dark green but had now faded to the color of moss that had survived a drought, staring blankly at the ceiling where a crack had spread from moisture.
The apartment was small, cramped, with low ceilings that pressed down on his psyche and the eternal smell of old wood mixed with the smell of dog fur that had seeped into the wallpaper, the curtains, and even his clothes, so much so that Mike had long stopped noticing it, while his colleagues at the board game store only sniffed and turned away whenever Mike appeared in the doorway.
The furniture here was old, scratched, bought at yard sales from moving neighbors – the sagging couch he was lying on now, the wobbly kitchen chair that creaked at the slightest movement, and the desk cluttered with empty energy drink cans, piled high with papers, a laptop, and mountains of comics he'd collected since childhood and could never bring himself to throw away. The only decoration in the room was the Star Wars posters – Darth Vader with his red lightsaber, Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon, and of course, Chewbacca, after whom Mike had named his dog. The moment he saw that puppy at the shelter, it seemed to him that his eyes held the same cosmic longing for adventure that had once lived in Mike himself, but over the years of working in copywriting and board game sales, it had dimmed, turning into a dull ember.
Mike was twenty-four, but sometimes, especially in the mornings when he looked at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror, he felt twice that age. Tall, broad-shouldered, with perpetually disheveled black curls that he tried to tame with gel but that still stuck out in all directions, he looked attractive enough to draw attention, but not quite enough to do anything about it. In the mornings he always looked like he'd just been pulled out of a washing machine, and the only thing that helped him pull himself together was coffee, which he brewed in an old Turkish coffee pot his mother had given him when he moved, drinking it in big gulps, burning his tongue and not tasting a thing.
Mike Wheeler's life was laughably predictable, and that predictability was suffocating him slowly but surely. He woke at seven in the morning, dragged himself out of the couch's embrace, went to the bathroom where he tried not to look at his own reflection, brushed his teeth standing under cold water because the hot ran out after five minutes, and drank coffee standing at the window, watching the endless streams of cars and people.
Then he walked Chewie – this ritual was the only thing that brought him any pleasure, because the dog with his goofy smile and perpetually wagging tail managed to be excited about every morning as if seeing it for the first time, as if rain or sun didn't matter, and the only thing that mattered was that they were going for a walk. They wandered through the surrounding park, where Chewie chased squirrels with wild delight, scaring the pigeons, while Mike stood and watched his dog live his real, unclouded life, and something inside him stirred with envy.
After the walk, he'd return home, feed Chewie, have a quick bite himself, and run to work at the board game store, which was an hour away by subway, where it smelled of cardboard and old books. The store was called “The Cube and Die,” which was terribly cliché, but the owner, a typical millennial geek named Chris, liked the name and stubbornly refused to change it. Mike worked there as a sales consultant, and his job consisted of telling people how to play DnD, explaining the rules of Carcassonne, recommending Munchkin for fun groups, and patiently listening to stories about how someone accidentally broke their first Warhammer 40,000 set. It sounded like a dream job for any geek, but after three years it had become routine, and Mike already knew by heart all the questions, all the objections, and all the stupid jokes customers made, trying to sound smarter than they were.
But there was a second source of income that allowed him to pay for this apartment and feed Chewie. Mike freelanced as a copywriter for a small geek media outlet called “Geek Tribune,” where he wrote reviews of games and movies that came out. The work was entirely remote, and Mike often sat until two in the morning, staring at his monitor and trying to wring something witty out of himself about the latest blockbuster where no screenwriter had bothered to develop the characters deeper than a cardboard box, or about an indie game where the graphics were on par with the first Space Rangers but the story made even seasoned gamers cry. He didn't love this work, but it paid, and the money let him buy dog food for Chewie, pay the vet, and occasionally treat himself to an evening pizza, which he usually ate while watching another Star Wars reboot on TV that everyone hated but he kept rewatching multiple times.
His social circle was no richer than his apartment, consisting of two people who kept him afloat and prevented him from completely sinking into apathy. Lucas and Max made his life at least somewhat human, because they regularly dragged him out of his voluntary confinement and made him at least occasionally remember that his whole life didn't revolve around his dog – he also had friends.
Lucas worked at a startup developing a food delivery app, though Mike never quite understood what exactly he did there, because every time he asked, Lucas answered something like “optimizing user experience,” and Mike would nod, pretending he understood. Lucas was the friend who always knew what to say when Mike was on the edge, and could find the right words even when there weren't any. And he was also the one who constantly reminded him that he needed to go on dates and that he couldn't devote all his free time solely to his dog, because that wasn't healthy.
“You're turning into that guy who only talks to his dog,” he'd say when they sat in a bar drinking beer while Chewie waited at home, guarding the couch. “And I'm starting to worry that tomorrow you'll show up at the store in a suit made of dog hair and start barking at customers.”
Max, to his surprise, worked at a comic book publisher, where her job title was “creative editor,” but in reality she selected the best scripts and made artists redraw covers ten times until they were perfect.
“Mike, if you don't start leaving the house at least once a week for something other than walking Chewie or going to work, I will personally come and drag you out, even if I have to put a leash on you,” she'd declared when she'd last visited his apartment and saw mountains of empty pizza boxes scattered across the floor, and Chewie sitting proudly on a pile of pillows.
Mike would laugh at that, because he knew she was joking, but there was truth in every joke, and he understood that without the two of them he would have long since turned into that weirdo who lives with his dog and talks to him about the meaning of life. They'd get together on weekends – at the bar, at each other's places, sometimes just walking across the Brooklyn Bridge – and in those moments Mike believed life wasn't so bad.
And of course, it was Max who was responsible for all of this starting. It was she, sitting on his sagging couch and laughing at another story about a stupid customer, who suddenly exclaimed:
“Hey, have you ever thought about taking Chewie to a groomer? No offense, but he looks like a porcupine in fur.”
Mike looked at his dog, who at that moment was chewing an old sock with an expression of pure bliss, and had to admit Max was right. Chewie was ridiculously shaggy, his fur hung from his sides in uneven clumps, and mats were already starting to form on his belly that Mike had tried to brush out but gave up after the dog bit the brush and ran off with it to the other end of the room, then hid it under the couch.
“Yeah, I think I took him,” he answered uncertainly, trying to remember when that was. “Probably six months ago. Or more. Shit, I don't even remember.”
“Six months?” Max's eyes went wide. “Mike, that's a dog, not a lawn you need to mow once a season. He needs upkeep, or he'll look like a homeless guy, and I don't want to be seen on the street with you and your homeless-looking dog because it'll ruin my reputation as a cool comic editor.”
Lucas, who was sitting on the floor scratching Chewie behind the ear, snorted approvingly.
“She's right, if this keeps up, his fur will start growing backwards, and he'll look like a retriever-dandelion hybrid.”
Mike sighed, scratched the back of his head, getting tangled in his own curls. There was no backing out. He remembered Max had recently mentioned some salon where “real magicians” worked and turned dogs into works of art. And she'd even given him a business card, which he'd shoved in his desk drawer and promptly forgotten. Mike dug through that drawer, sifted through mountains of junk, and finally found it – bright, with a logo and the words “Fur Symphony.”
“Here,” he said, holding out the card. “Is this the place? You said there's some cool master there who works miracles.”
Max took the card, turned it over in her hands, and nodded.
“Yeah, that's the one. They really do work magic there, I've seen their work on instagram. I think they can definitely handle Chewie, even if he looks like he's been through a nuclear winter. Make an appointment, Mike, and stop torturing your dog with your irresponsibility.”
Mike looked at Chewie, who by then had rolled onto his back and was presenting his fluffy belly for scratching, and a wave of guilt washed over him. On the other hand, he was curious to see what his dog would look like once he was tidied up. He took out his phone, found the salon's website, and after scrolling through photos and reviews, decided this was exactly what he needed.
That evening, after Lucas and Max had left and Chewie was already asleep, curled up on the couch and snoring softly, Mike sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea and looking out the window at the lights of New York. He thought about how tomorrow's trip to the groomer would be something new in his routine. Mike hoped the master wouldn't be horrified when he saw his shaggy dog. He pressed the book now button, feeling a slight flutter of excitement building inside him.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
Morning started right at seven when the alarm on his phone played its usual, already tiresome melody, and Mike, without opening his eyes, reached out to hit snooze, but instead encountered Chewie's wet nose, already standing over him and breathing in his face. The dog was wagging his tail so hard that a cloud of golden fur instantly formed in the air, settling on Mike's face, making him sneeze and fully wake up.
“Alright, alright, I'm getting up,” he muttered, swatting away the fluffy invasion, and sat up on the couch. Every joint protested against the early rising, even though he'd gone to bed at midnight, finishing a review of a new movie he'd already forgotten.
Chewie, hearing the magic words “getting up,” immediately jumped to the door and started scratching at it with his paw, whining because he desperately needed to go outside and sniff every lamppost within a three-block radius. Mike sighed, stretched until his spine cracked, and shuffled to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face, trying to chase away the remnants of sleep. Under his fingers he felt the light stubble he hadn't touched in a couple of days because he couldn't be bothered. Besides, it even looked stylish if you didn't look too closely.
“So, Chewie,” he said, drying his face with a towel, “today we're going to the salon. You're going to be handsome, and I'm going to feel like a responsible owner, and everyone will be happy. Just please don't try to eat their tools or bite the master.”
Chewie wagged his tail in response and barked loudly, which apparently meant something like I'll be good if you give me a treat afterward. Mike chuckled and went to the kitchen, where he made himself coffee, filled Chewie's water bowl, and quickly ate a toast because there was no time for a full breakfast – the appointment was at nine and they weren't even ready yet.
Forty minutes later they were out on the street, and Mike, holding the leash tightly so Chewie wouldn't drag him into the nearest bushes, felt surprisingly alert despite the early hour. The sun was just beginning to rise above the rooftops, and the air was fresh, without the usual stuffiness that had been suffocating Mike the past few days. He walked along the sidewalk, enjoying this brief moment of peace, feeling Chewie pull him forward, sniffing every bush, lamppost, and trash can.
“You know,” he began, addressing the dog (his friends' concerns were apparently coming true), who was currently intensely investigating something under a bench, “I understand that you need to look presentable, but honestly, I have no idea what they're going to do to you. I've seen photos of dogs after this salon...they look like they're about to walk a red carpet, not go for a walk in the park. I hope they don't make you look too fancy, because I don't want you to look like a model dog who looks at me with contempt because I don't feed you well enough.”
Chewie, naturally, didn't respond. He lifted his head and looked at his owner with an expression that clearly conveyed he absolutely didn't care what he looked like, as long as he got a treat afterward. Mike chuckled and continued walking, turning the corner where the “Fur Symphony” sign was already visible – neat, with a logo shaped like a dog silhouette embedded in a musical staff.
The salon greeted him with pleasant coolness and the faint scent of shampoo with a hint of lavender, which immediately calmed him and set a pleasant mood. Inside it was bright and cozy: soft waiting chairs, shelves with jars, boxes, and toys, and several aquariums with fish gliding smoothly through the water. Behind the counter sat a girl with a short haircut and large hoop earrings that gleamed in the lamplight, and she smiled with such warmth, as if they were old friends.
“Good morning!” she said brightly. “You must be Mr. Wheeler and Chewie? We've been expecting you. Have a seat, the master will be free in just a moment. Can I get you some water or coffee?”
“Water, if you have it,” Mike replied, feeling surprisingly comfortable, because the atmosphere here was so relaxing that even his usual anxiety about new places had evaporated. He sat down on the couch, and Chewie, without hesitation, settled at his feet and rested his head on his knees, watching the aquarium with interest.
“Great dog,” the girl said, setting a glass of water in front of him. “Very calm. Our master will be thrilled, he loves retrievers. Says they have the most rewarding fur to work with.”
“Oh, really?” Mike perked up, pride for his dog swelling inside him. “He's actually smart, though sometimes too smart for his own good. One time he opened the fridge and ate an entire chicken I'd left for dinner. I've put a lock on the door since then, but he's already learned how to bypass it.”
The girl laughed, her laugh light and genuine.
“Oh, classic. All my retriever-owner friends tell similar stories.”
They chatted for a few more minutes about dogs, discussing which breeds were the smartest and which were the most stubborn, and for Mike, time flew by unnoticed.
The door from the back room opened, and someone walked out, someone who made Mike's breath catch and everything inside him turn upside down. It was a guy, tall, lean, with chestnut hair that fell in soft waves across his forehead. His green eyes seemed to glow in the salon's dim light. He was wearing a simple tshirt with the salon's logo and jeans, slightly stained at the knees, but that didn't make him look sloppy – on the contrary, there was something attractive about that casual carelessness that made you want to look at him and not look away.
This guy didn't even glance at Mike. He walked out, approached the counter, exchanged a few words with the administrator who quickly told him about the appointment, and then his gaze fell on Chewie, and his face lit up with such a warm smile that Mike's heart skipped a beat, then started pounding twice as fast, as if trying to leap out of his chest and get in line for love.
“Oh, is this our handsome boy? A golden retriever, what a good boy.”
The guy walked over to Chewie and crouched down, extending his hand for the dog to sniff. Chewie, predictably, was instantly delighted – started wagging his tail, nuzzling his nose into the guy's palm, and even licked him on the cheek, which made the guy laugh softly, the sound carrying through the room.
“What's his name?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the dog.
“Uh...Chewie,” Mike answered, trying to keep his voice steady, though inside everything had clenched and then unclenched. “After Chewbacca. I'm, uh...a big Star Wars fan.”
“Mmm...great name,” the guy said, glancing at him briefly, a quick look, then refocusing on Chewie as he stood up. “Come on, Chewie, show me where your mats are. You're a good boy, right? We'll get you all fixed up, you'll look like a real star hero.”
Chewie followed him into the back room with a happy bark, and Mike was left sitting on the couch. And in his chest, something warm and unfamiliar was spreading. He stared at the closed door, trying to understand what that was – just a pleasant impression of a charming master, or something more.
“So, want to take a walk?” the girl behind the counter asked. “It'll take about two hours. There's a park nearby, or you could go to the coffee shop on the corner, they make a great latte.”
Mike stood up, smiled at the girl, and as he walked outside, he was already thinking about how to spend those two hours without checking his watch every five minutes and imagining what was happening in there with his dog and that cute master.
Two hours later, exactly as a sunbeam broke through the clouds and fell on the “Fur Symphony” sign, turning the letters into golden flourishes, Mike was already standing at the entrance. He felt strangely elated, like he'd just won the lottery but hadn't checked his ticket yet.
Mike pushed the door open, and the bell above his head jingled, announcing his arrival. From somewhere deep in the salon came a voice he'd already memorized in those few minutes of their morning encounter – slightly low, with a hint of rasp, and that voice was now humming something, interspersed with soft, affectionate laughter.
Mike stepped forward and froze. The scene before him was so idyllic it could have graced the cover of any pet magazine. Chewie stood on a special table, and his fur, which two hours ago had looked like felt, now gleamed and shimmered like golden silk, smoothed down to the last hair.
And next to him, almost bending in a bow, stood that master – his hair damp and plastered to his forehead, a wet spot on his tshirt, and in his hands he held a rubber duck toy, which he was waving excitedly in front of the dog's nose, murmuring something like: “Come on, get it! Who's the fastest Wookiee in town? Who? You! You're a legend, Chewie, not like those yappers from ‘The Sopranos’ who come in and bark at the slightest noise.”
Chewie, forgetting all about his new royal status, was jumping on his hind legs, trying to snap at the duck, letting out such joyful yelps that Mike, who'd only heard that sound when there was sausage in the fridge, couldn't help but smile. He stood in the doorway, not daring to enter, because this scene was too personal, like he was peeking at someone else's happiness, but he couldn't tear himself away.
“Oh, Mr. Wheeler!” The master finally noticed him, immediately tossing the duck aside, and Chewie, hearing his owner's voice, jumped off the table and ran over to him, wagging his tail so hard his back legs lifted off the floor. “Come in, I've just finished. Your dog is an absolute treasure. Didn't flinch once, even when I was combing out the mats on his belly, and believe me, many dogs take that as a personal insult. He sat like a statue, only occasionally glancing at me. I'd take clients like him in a heartbeat, honestly.”
Mike bent down to ruffle Chewie's head, and the fur under his fingers was soft, smooth, smelling of shampoo with a faint hint of vanilla. He looked up and met the green eyes looking at him with a slight smirk.
“Thanks,” he managed, trying to sound normal. “He really does look like a new dog. I'd say he no longer looks like that rascal who chews my socks.”
The master laughed, and the sound filled the room, making the air around them vibrate. “That's all Chewie,” he said, walking to the counter and holding out the bill. “He was a wonderful client himself, I just helped him shine. So, shall we go pay?”
Mike nodded, reached into his pocket for his wallet, and as if on cue, the wallet slipped from his fingers as if greased, falling to the floor with a dull thud, bursting open and scattering a fireworks display of coins that rolled in every direction, clinking like the melody from a cheap slot machine.
“Shit,” Mike breathed, his face flushing, and in that moment he felt like he was embodying every clumsy hero from every movie he'd ever watched – the ones who constantly fall, drop things, and can't properly talk to girls, and now also to handsome groomers. “Sorry, I think I did it again.”
He started gathering the coins, but his fingers, which normally handled keyboards and game controllers with ease, suddenly became clumsy, only scattering them further. His knees felt weak from his own awkwardness. The master apparently had nerves of steel and was used to all kinds of clients, because he calmly crouched down and started helping, and at some point their hands met over the same coin.
“It's okay,” the guy said, looking up, his gaze warm, making Mike forget how to breathe for a second. “Happens. I drop things too sometimes when I get distracted. Especially when there's such a handsome dog around.”
They gathered the coins, and as the master stood up, he handed Mike the wallet, their fingers brushing again – this time for longer than necessary, and from that contact, goosebumps ran down Mike's spine, and something hot, almost painful, spread through his chest.
“You know,” the guy said while Mike finally paid and put his wallet back in his pocket, “Chewie really is the best boy I've groomed in a while. Calm, smart, easy to work with. If I had a dog like that, I'd call him a good boy every day.”
And those words, spoken with such tenderness, hit Mike like an avalanche, and in that moment he realized he wanted this person to say that to him someday. To call him a good boy – not as a client, not as a dog owner, but just like that, the way he'd just spoken about Chewie. The desire was so sudden, so strange, and yet so clear, that Mike froze for a moment, trying to process it, but there was no time for reflection.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I'll definitely come again. Chewie seems to have fallen for you.”
“The feeling's mutual,” the master smiled, and that smile was the last straw that made Mike hurry outside before he could do something stupid.
Outside, he took a deep breath, and the fresh air hit his lungs, clearing his head a little. Chewie circled at his feet, while Mike stood trying to figure out what had just happened, and why it felt like a car barreling toward him at 200 kilometers an hour.
“Gosh, Chewie,” he whispered, bending down to the dog and burying his face in his fur. “I think we just met someone I'm going to be thinking about all day. And don't tell me I've lost my mind, because I already know.”
Chewie licked his nose, and Mike chuckled, pushing away the unwanted thoughts, because there was no time for reflection. He needed to get to work, and Chewie needed to go to Lucas and Max's. He dialed Lucas's number, and he answered almost immediately.
“So, are you on your way? Max and I have prepared lots of toys and treats for Chewie. Just, damn, I hope the new toys don't end up victims of the dog's sexual needs like last time.”
“Mm, yeah, I'm on my way,” Mike chuckled. “You'll watch him until evening, right?”
“Of course,” came Max's voice, apparently having snatched the phone from her boyfriend. “We've been waiting for him. And, um...Mike, everything okay? Your voice sounds reeeeally weird, shaking like a teenager who's just seen his first pair of boobs. Something happen?”
“Everything's fine,” Mike lied. “Just stood in the sun too long. Okay, I'll be there soon.”
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
Mike tried to focus on work, but it was useless.
The customers who came into the store seemed like characters from a video game quest, all speaking an incomprehensible language. He himself could barely remember the rules of whatever game they were asking about. Chris walked by a couple of times and gave him suspicious looks but apparently decided his employee just hadn't slept well and left him alone.
Finally, there was a lull, and Mike took advantage of the empty store. He opened his laptop and, without really knowing why, typed the first query that came to mind into the search bar:
Why do I like being called a good boy?
The results that flooded the screen made him raise an eyebrow. There were psychology research articles with headlines like “Praise as a Tool for Forming Attachment,” “Why Adults Seek Approval in Childlike Forms,” and even a blog where someone seriously discussed how “the need for verbal approval might be linked to a lack of attention in early childhood.”
Mike scrolled through it, feeling simultaneously stupid and intrigued, and then his eyes fell on a reddit link with the intriguing title “Is praise kink normal? Discussion.” He'd already opened it when something about “psychology of submission” and “roleplay” appeared on screen, and everything inside him clenched, but at that same moment the store door opened and a customer barged in with a loud question about whether they had Monopoly in stock. Mike, startled, closed his laptop too quickly.
“Uh,” was all he could manage, his face flushing. “Yeah, we do. I'll get it for you.”
Carrying the game from the back room, he mentally told himself off, because first of all, he'd almost just read a forum about something he wasn't even sure he needed to know about. And second, his face was probably red as a traffic light, which was incredibly awkward.
Mike brought the customer the game, consulted with him, and when he left, opened his laptop again, but the tab was already closed, and he didn't dare open it again.
Okay, there was an hour left until the end of the workday, he'd go to his friends soon and share his revelation. They'd understand and help him figure himself out. They had to, right?
“Do you actually get hard from praise?”
Mike choked on his beer, the cold liquid burning his throat and making him cough so hard tears came to his eyes, the bottle in his hand shaking and splashing a few drops onto his jeans, leaving dark stains on the fabric. He stared at Lucas, who was sitting in the armchair opposite, leg crossed over knee, with the most innocent expression, as if he'd asked about the weather. Max was already choking with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with barely contained giggles, and Chewie on the carpet lifted his head and barked in confusion.
“WHAT?” Mike managed, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He set the bottle on the table, and it thudded against the wooden surface. “You're seriously just going to ask that?”
“What's the big deal?” Lucas shrugged, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “You just admitted that you got hooked when that guy called YOUR dog a good boy. So it's a pretty logical question: is that a kink thing, or just an emotional reaction to a nice voice?”
Mike clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, leaving tiny crescent marks on his skin. He looked at Max, who'd stopped laughing but still had mischievous sparks dancing in her eyes. She looked like she already knew the answer to Lucas's question.
“Lucas,” Mike began warningly, his voice trembling slightly, betraying his barely contained irritation. “That's none of your business, dude.”
“What do you mean, none of my business?” Lucas protested, leaning forward and grabbing his beer bottle from the table. He took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing, then continued, gesturing with his free hand. “You came to us for support and to help you figure things out. How can I help if I don't know the whole picture? Maybe you just need to admit you like being praised, and that's it? It's normal, Mike. Everyone likes praise. I like being praised by Max too, but I wouldn't pay a groomer to call me a good boy.”
“I'm not paying him for that!” Mike almost shouted, his face instantly turning crimson. Shit, he now looked like a teenager caught doing something shameful. He ran his hand through his disheveled curls, trying to calm down, and exhaled, trying to speak more calmly. “I paid him once to groom Chewie! What he says while doing it is just...it's just a nice bonus.”
“So that's what they're calling it now,” Max smirked, swinging her foot. She looked at Chewie, who yawned wide and smacking, and smiled. “So you're willing to pay for grooming just to hear him talk to your dog. And you don't see anything strange about that?”
“No!” Mike blurted out, but inside he was doubting his own words. “I mean, yes, it's strange, but not in the way you think. It's just...his voice is so...calm, a little raspy, and when he talks, it sounds...warm, I guess. I don't know how to explain it without you laughing again.”
Max bit her lip, and from the way her shoulders twitched, it was clear she was struggling not to laugh. Lucas, meanwhile, looked at Mike with understanding, but didn't rush to respond, just spinning his bottle in his hands. Silence fell over the room, and Mike could only hear the ticking of the clock on the wall and his own breathing, which wouldn't even out.
“Well, then tell him,” Lucas finally said, shrugging. “Like: ‘Hey, I like how you talk to my dog. Maybe you could say something like that to me too?’”
“I can't just walk up to him and say that! How do you even imagine it?” Everything inside him was boiling, and Mike jumped up from the couch, making Chewie lift his head and look warily at his owner. He started pacing the room, his footsteps echoing dully on the wooden floor. “That would look so stupid. He'd think I'm some pervert who comes to the groomer not for his dog.”
“And you think dropping your wallet twice in a row and blushing like a teenager isn't stupid?” Max asked, getting up from the couch and walking over to him, stopping a few feet away. “You've already created an image. Now you need to develop it, not stand still waiting for him to come to you.”
“Why do you guys think I've created some image?” Mike protested, stopping and turning to face her. He was starting to shake from helplessness, and he clenched his fists to steady the tremor. “I'm just clumsy when I'm nervous. Those are different things. I didn't plan to drop my wallet so he'd remember me. It happened, I can't control it!”
“Then use it,” Lucas said, getting up from his chair and joining them. “Go see him again, drop something else, then say something like: ‘Sorry, I always act like this when I see cute guys.’ And he'll either think you're weird, or he'll realize you're trying to flirt. Either way, he'll remember you. That's already a win.”
“I don't know how to flirt, you know that!” Mike groaned, throwing his head back and covering his face with his hands. “I don't know how to do it at all. All I can do is sit and stare at him like an idiot, hoping he'll figure it out himself.”
“You're serious?” Max's voice held genuine concern. “You want him to just guess that you want him to praise you?”
“No, that's not it! I just want...for him to notice me. Even for a second. For him to look at me and see not just a dog owner, but a person he's interested in. That's all.”
Silence fell over the room. Lucas and Max exchanged glances. They moved closer, and Mike felt Max's hand on his shoulder, while Lucas just stood silently beside him.
“Okay,” Lucas said finally. “I get it. But Mike, you can't just sit and wait.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Mike asked wearily. He sat back down on the couch, burying his face in his palms. “I don't know how to approach him. I don't know what to say. I don't even know his name, honestly.”
“Oh my God, Mike, just tell him the truth,” Max threw up her hands. “Book a regular appointment with him. And the next time he praises Chewie, you can smile and say you'd like that too. And then he'll get it.”
“Or he'll think I'm weird,” Mike noted gloomily, lifting his head to look at her. “And then I won't be able to go back to him because I'll be too embarrassed.”
Mike took another sip of beer, the coolness slightly soothing his flushed face. Chewie came over and rested his head on his knees, looking at his owner with eternal canine devotion. Mike absently started scratching behind his ear, feeling the soft fur tickle his fingers.
“Okay,” he said finally, setting the empty bottle on the table. “I'll think about it. But if I humiliate myself, you're both to blame.”
“We're always to blame,” Max smiled.
The evening after their conversation dragged on endlessly, even though the clock showed only eleven. Mike returned to his apartment, tossed his keys on the side table, and stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with himself. Chewie, tired after the long day and full evening at their friends' place, immediately headed to his bed, circled a few times to get comfortable, and within a minute was asleep, snoring and twitching his paws. Mike looked at him with slight envy – dogs could disconnect from problems with such ease, leaving him to only dream of the same.
He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, but didn't feel like drinking, so he set it back down without taking a sip. Lucas's words were still swirling in his head, and he couldn't shake them.
Mike ran a hand over his face, feeling exhaustion mix with a strange, almost sticky curiosity. He walked into the room, collapsed onto the couch, and stared at the ceiling. He still hadn't found an answer to the question that had been tormenting him all day.
Half an hour later, he was still lying awake, replaying the morning's events in his head. Mike rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, and exhaled. But the tension didn't fully leave, lodged in his chest, his stomach, the tips of his fingers. He couldn't stop thinking about those green eyes that had briefly glanced at him, not lingering, and how badly he wanted them to linger.
He rolled onto his back again, picked up his phone, and his fingers, no longer asking permission, typed into the search bar: praise kink reddit.
Results appeared instantly – dozens of threads on reddit, discussions, comment chains with hundreds of replies. He scrolled through the first few titles, feeling a strange, almost forbidden curiosity building inside him, and stopped on a post marked “Hot.” It had over two thousand comments, and Mike, holding his breath, opened it.
r/sex Posted by u/throwaway_praise_guy 6 months ago
Is it normal that I (22M) get really turned on when my gf calls me a “good boy”?
Been dating this girl for about a year, everything's great. But lately I've noticed that when she praises me in a certain tone, I get...really turned on. Not just emotionally, but physically. I want to do whatever she asks just to hear it again. Is this normal? Is this a kink or am I just desperately seeking approval? She says it's cute, but I'm worried it's weird. Help.
Top comments:
u/KittyWhisper42
Bro, that’s literally the most common praise kink ever. It’s not even a kink at this point, its a personality trait. You’re fine. She’s into it, you’re into it, just lean into it and stop overthinking.
u/throwaway_praise_guy
Really? I thought I was the only one.
u/KittyWhisper42
Oh, sweetie, you have no idea. There are whole subreddits dedicated to this. r/PraiseKink and r/GoodBoy are full of people who feel the same way. You're not alone.
u/DaddyIssues_Expert
Welcome to the club, my guy. Often tied to feeling safe when someone sees and values you. Can be non-sexual, but if it becomes sexual, it's still valid. Just don't overthink it. If it feels good – enjoy it.
u/skepticalsteve_69
wait, it's not just me? I also feel great when my boss says “good job.” is that weird?
u/DaddyIssues_Expert
If your boss is hot and you picture him in bed – maybe.
u/ChillGuy420
y’all are maling this way too deep. its literally just words. why you gotta make everything weird?
u/KittyWhisperer42
Found the guy who never had good heat.
u/ChillGuy420
bruh
Mike chuckled, scrolling through the thread. He noticed his shoulders relax slightly as he realized he wasn't the only one dealing with this. He put his phone down for a moment, closed his eyes, and heard that voice again, calling his dog a good boy. Now it sounded clearer, as if someone had said it right in his ear, and a shiver ran down his skin, settling somewhere in his lower abdomen, pulsing.
Mike opened his eyes, picked up his phone again, and kept reading, diving into another thread on a more specialized subreddit.
r/PraiseKink Posted by u/vinylfox_23 1 month ago
Anyone else get a physical reaction from “good boy/girl”?
Honestly, every time my partner calls me a good girl, my brain just shuts off. It gets so warm inside, heart pounding, goosebumps. Sometimes I feel like I'm a pervert desperate for affection lol.
Top comments:
u/GreenEyedMonster
bruh, that's a dopamine bomb. Praise releases all the good chemicals: oxytocin, serotonin, the whole cocktail. You're not touch-starved, you're just wired to respond to kindness and approval. Embrace it.
u/GhostOfSummer
it's the tone, though!!! like, if they say it with that low, slow voice like you're the best thing that ever happened to them? that's the shit right there. i'd sell my soul for that.
u/throwaway_qwerty
Same. My knees literally get weak. It's embarrassing but also kinda hot? Like, I'm not even submissive but that one word just does something to me.
u/SweetTooth99
I used to be so embarrassed about it, but now I just straight up tell my partners: “I have a praise kink. Call me good boy and I'll do whatever you want.” And honestly? Most people love it. It's like a cheat code.
Mike read the comments, and his breathing grew deeper. He could feel something warm and syrupy spreading inside him, like honey slowly flowing through his body. He closed his eyes again and let himself remember that moment: the guy with chestnut hair leaning over Chewie, his hand stroking the dog's head, and he said: “Good boy.” His voice low, a little raspy, with a slight smirk, as if he knew something no one else did. And Mike, standing in the doorway, feels his heart skip a beat, then start pounding twice as fast.
He opened his eyes and realized his breathing had quickened, and goosebumps were running down his back. The phone in his hand had warmed up, and he rolled onto his back, feeling that familiar heaviness spreading somewhere in his lower abdomen. He ran a hand over his face, trying to calm down, but the memory was too vivid: the voice, the intonation, the mole above his lip, the green eyes that weren't even looking at him but had somehow left such a deep mark. Mike felt himself starting to get hard, pressing against the fabric of his boxers, and the realization hit him like a wave of heat.
He froze, feeling his pulse throb in his groin, blood rushing to his skin, making it hot. He didn't move, just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what was happening.
He picked up his phone again and found another post that made him freeze.
r/PraiseKink Posted by u/ManInBlue 12 hours ago
Can one person actually unlock a kink in you?
Okay so I met this guy recently. He didn't even say it to me, he said it to my cat. And I swear on everything, something clicked in my brain. I can't stop thinking about it. Can a single person awaken something in you just by existing?
Top comments:
u/bunny22
yes. absolutely. kinks can get activated by specific people, specific situations, even specific tones of voice. it's not that you “developed” it, it's that you discovered it was already there. he just unlocked it for you. it happens more often than you think.
u/ManInBlue
Wait, so it's not weird?
u/bunny22
it's the opposite of weird. it's actually kind of beautiful that someone made you feel safe enough to discover that part of yourself.
u/SunflowerGal
Same thing happened to me. I thought I was straight until someone called me a good girl and now I'm questioning everything. But in a good way. Trust the process.
u/ManInBlue
But what do I even do with this? He doesn't even know my name. How do I tell him that his voice made me realise I have a praise kink?
u/bunny22
you don't. not yet. just let it happen naturally. the fact that you're even thinking about it means you're already on the right track. don't rush it.
Mike swallowed, his throat dry. He stared at the screen, his dick pulsing in time with his heart, pressing against his boxers. He wasn't touching it, just letting himself feel it, letting it be part of what he'd just realised. He thought voice that, without knowing it, had awakened something new in him.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
The next morning Mike woke up an hour before his alarm, which was so uncharacteristic of him that Chewie, who usually woke his owner by poking his wet nose in his face, froze on his bed and stared at him sleepily. Mike lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what exactly had happened at that salon yesterday, and why he still couldn't get those green eyes and that voice out of his head, the voice that sent shivers down his spine.
He rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest, and stared at Chewie, who was peacefully snoring, curled up on his bed. The dog apparently felt like a king after yesterday's visit to the groomer – his fur gleamed, the mats were gone, and he smelled of vanilla-scented shampoo that had seeped into the couch cushions. Mike reached out, scratched him behind the ear, and Chewie, without opening his eyes, wagged his tail contentedly, thumping it against the floor.
“So,” Mike whispered into the silence, “you're a star now, and I need to solve a problem.” He was saying it more to himself than to the dog, because the problem that had been tormenting him since evening wasn't about Chewie – it was about himself. He couldn't stop thinking about that master. Mike closed his eyes, and behind his lids the image resurfaced of the guy handling his dog, and a shiver ran through his body that he desperately tried to ignore.
He knew he had to go back to that salon. But this time without Chewie, to see that guy again. At the very least, he needed to try to talk to him, learn his name, and hear his voice again. But how to do that without looking like a complete idiot? He couldn't just walk in and say: ‘Hi, I'm the guy who dropped his wallet twice in a row yesterday, and now I can't stop thinking about you, and I'd like to ask you out for coffee.’ That would sound ridiculous, and Mike already imagined the master politely smiling and saying he had a lot of work, while thinking some weirdo had shown up.
Chewie, sensing his owner's restlessness, opened one eye and looked at him with slight confusion. Mike sighed, sat up on the couch, ran a hand over his face, and realized he couldn't wait any longer. If he didn't go today, he'd never go, and he'd regret it for the rest of his life, or at least for the rest of the summer, which in his case was pretty much the same thing.
Half an hour later, Chewie, seeing that his owner was getting ready to leave without him, got up from his bed and walked to the door, wagging his tail and looking at Mike with an expression that said he was ready to accompany him anywhere, even to the ends of the earth. Mike crouched down, scratched his head, and said: “You're staying home today, buddy. I need to do something, without you. Steve's coming soon. You like Steve, right?” The dog seemed offended, because he lay down by the door and rested his muzzle on his paws, looking at his owner reproachfully. But Mike had already grabbed his keys and walked out the door.
Outside it was cool, the sun just beginning to rise above the rooftops. Mike walked unhurriedly, trying to look like he was just taking a morning stroll, not heading toward the person who had turned his inner world upside down yesterday. He stopped around the corner, peeked around it, and immediately saw the “Fur Symphony” sign. His heart skipped a beat, and he froze, noticing his legs feel weak and his palms sweaty.
The salon looked just as cozy as yesterday: soft light from the windows, a neat sign, flower pots at the entrance swaying in the light breeze. Mike took a step forward, then another, until he stopped a few meters from the door and started examining the window display with intense concentration, as if it were the entrance to the Louvre and he was about to write a dissertation on it. He pretended to study the hours of operation written on the glass. Of course, he could have done that in advance by checking online, but Mike doesn't take the easy way out, and besides, he needed a reason to be here again.
The door opened, and yesterday's master stepped out. In his hand was a cup of coffee, steam rising into the cool air, and he squinted against the morning sun. He was looking directly at Mike with a slight smirk that made him freeze on the spot.
“Did you lose your dog?” he asked, and his voice hit Mike's chest like a warm wave, making everything inside him tighten into a hard knot.
Mike opened his mouth, but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat, and he only managed something unintelligible that vaguely resembled an answer.
“No, I uh...just wanted to check your opening hours. For Chewie. He looks so good, and I thought maybe I'd book in advance so you'd be sure we don't miss the next appointment…” He trailed off, realizing he sounded like a complete idiot, but it was too late.
The master smiled knowingly, but looked like he saw right through Mike and chose not to comment on his obviously fabricated excuse.
“You could have checked online,” he said with a slight smirk, but without malice. “But since you're here...come in. I'm covering for a colleague today, barely any clients. You can sit if you want.”
Of course he wants.
Relief spread through Mike's chest, but he still felt nervous. He stepped forward, the guy stepped aside to let him in, and Mike entered. The salon was almost empty: one girl in the corner with a small poodle dozing on her lap, and no one else. The master nodded toward the couch and said: “Have a seat, I'll just finish up with this client, and then I can give you my attention.”
Mike sat down, watching the guy walk into the back room until his figure disappeared behind the door. Time stretched on endlessly. He didn't know what he'd say when the other returned. He just had to wait until he was free. The main thing was not to run away before that moment. Mike watched the fish in the aquarium, their smooth, serene movements, and thought that he might have overestimated his courage, but it was too late to back out now.
The master returned ten minutes later, the same calm smile on his face. He walked over to Mike, sat in the adjacent chair, and looked at him with mild interest.
“So...what brings you here?” he asked, and the question made Mike's insides clench.
Mike took a deep breath, his heart pounding twice as fast. Come on. He had to do it now, or he never would. He looked at the guy across from him, noticing details he hadn't registered before. Come on, Mike, you can do this.
“I wanted to ask you out for coffee,” he blurted out, louder than he'd intended, making himself flinch. “After your shift. If you're not busy, of course. I know this sounds weird, considering we barely know each other, and I don't even know your name, but you did such a great job with Chewie yesterday, and I thought maybe we could just...talk? And I want to know what your name is, because it's starting to get annoying when I think about you and can't even name you in my head.”
He fell silent, ready to sink through the floor. He looked at the master, expecting him to laugh, or say he had too much work and politely decline, but instead he looked back with surprise, and there was nothing but interest in his eyes. And then he smiled.
“Will,” he said. “My name's Will. And I'm in. Mike, right?”
Mike exhaled and nodded. He couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face. He didn't know what would happen next, but he'd already made the first move, so the rest didn't matter. Will was looking at him with a slight smirk, playful sparks dancing in his eyes, making Mike's heart beat faster.
“So I'll pick you up after your shift?” Mike asked, feeling confidence building inside him.
“I'll be waiting,” Will replied, and there was that same light, teasing tone in his voice that made Mike smile even wider.
They walked out of the coffee shop with plastic cups in hand – Mike with a cold caramel frappuccino, Will with an iced vanilla latte already starting to melt, leaving clear droplets of condensation streaming down the sides.
The sun had risen higher, its rays breaking through the tree canopy, creating a whimsical mosaic of light and shadow on the sidewalk that shifted with the wind rustling the leaves. They walked a few steps toward a small park that Mike had noticed last time while wandering the area waiting for Chewie. Now he felt this place was perfect for continuing their conversation: quiet, cozy, with wooden benches and old plane trees that formed a natural canopy, shielding them from the morning sun.
“This way,” Mike said, nodding toward one of the benches in the center of the park, which offered a view of a small fountain murmuring against the backdrop of city noise, muffling the rumble of cars and the voices of passersby. “It's pretty quiet here, and no one will bother us.”
Will nodded in agreement, and they sat down, leaving a small distance between them. Mike set his cup on his knee, feeling the cold seep through his jeans, and looked at Will, who was leaning back, watching the fountain where water jets shimmered in the sunlight, creating a tiny rainbow that appeared and disappeared.
“So you work with dogs,” Mike said, breaking the silence. “That must be tough. I mean, all those different breeds, personalities. How do you manage?”
Will turned to him, and his eyes, catching the light, seemed almost amber, with warm golden flecks. “Well, every dog is unique,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Some love praise and petting, others are scared of everything and need patience. The key is finding the right approach for each one. And I love it. It's like art, you know? You have this living creature in front of you, and you have to make it happy, even though it can't tell you what it needs.”
“That sounds a lot like my job,” Mike chuckled, his lips curving into a smile. “I work at a board game store. You also have to find the right approach with people – some come for Monopoly, others want dnd advice, and some just need company and come to chat. I help them choose games, explain the rules. Sometimes it's exhausting, but I love seeing people light up when they find something they truly enjoy.”
“Oh, that's cool,” Will's eyes lit up at the mention of board games. “I love playing myself. I have a group, we meet once a month. I usually play a wizard.”
“You play dnd?” Mike asked again. His heart skipped a beat. He couldn't believe this person in front of him shared his interests. “I dm for my group, but I love playing a paladin. We used to meet on weekends, but then everyone started working, and now we rarely see each other. I'm hoping we can start again this summer.”
“Being a dm is so cool,” Will said, his smile widening. “It's amazing to create your own worlds, thinking through every little detail. I've always wanted to try, but I think I'd get lost in my own story and rules.”
“It's not as hard as it seems,” Mike replied. “The key is creating a story that hooks the players. You can always tweak the rules to fit. Sometimes I like to add new elements to the fantasy setting – like horror elements, to make it more interesting.”
“Damn, that sounds intriguing. We mostly play classic fantasy, with dragons and elves. But I'd love to try something different.”
“Maybe someday I'll run a game for you,” Mike said before he could think. He quickly added, “I mean, if you want, of course.”
Will looked at him, and his smile became almost tender. “I'd like that,” he said softly. “That would be great.”
They fell silent for a moment, and Mike's heart beat faster at Will's agreement. He watched the fountain, how the water jets shimmered in the sunlight, and thought about how much they had in common. It was amazing – he'd never met someone who understood him so easily, someone with whom conversation flowed so naturally, without effort.
“And you,” he said, turning to Will, “what else do you enjoy, besides work and dogs? Do you have any hobbies?”
Will paused thoughtfully, his eyes becoming contemplative, as if he was running through all his interests in his head. He took a sip of coffee and looked at the sky, where clouds drifted slowly, changing shape.
“I love drawing,” he said, his voice softening. “I've been drawing since I was a kid, dreamed of building a career out of it, but nothing professional ever came of it. It's hard to make a living from it these days. So now I draw to relax, when I'm tired of dogs and noise. And I also love listening to music – like The Cure. Listening to them, I imagine the world becoming different.”
“Oh, I'm not really a fan of that band, but I do like some of their songs. Lullaby is one of my favorites.”
“Mmm, yeah,” Will agreed. “But I love Just Like Heaven more. It sounds like you could fall in love right now, just listening to it.”
Mike felt his face flush again, and he looked down at his cup to hide his embarrassment. Everything inside him flipped when Will mentioned that song. Was it a coincidence, or something more? He couldn't say anything more, just sat there, feeling warmth in his chest.
“Is there anything else you love, besides games and music?” Will asked.
“I love cooking,” Mike admitted, surprising even himself. “Not that I'm a professional, but I love experimenting. Trying new recipes, adding my own twist. I guess it's my solitary hobby. When I cook, I don't have to think about work or other things, just focus on the process.”
“You love cooking?” Will raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, it's just...that doesn't quite fit your image. That's great! What do you usually make?”
“Well, pasta, for example,” Mike said. “I can do a shrimp or mushroom sauce. Or roast chicken with vegetables. Simple stuff, but I try to make it taste good.”
“I'd love to try your pasta.” Will was flirting with him, right? No way. “Maybe you could invite me for dinner sometime?”
There it was. Mike looked at Will, sitting there with a slight smile, and realized this might be the most important moment of the day. The wind tousled his hair, and for a second Mike imagined what it would be like – spending an evening with him, cooking for him, seeing his smile in the cozy light of the kitchen.
“I'd love to,” he answered hoarsely. “Sometime next week. If you're not busy, of course.”
“I'll make time,” Will said. “And I'll bring wine.”
Mike smiled back. He realized he was falling in love, and it was the most beautiful and at the same time the most frightening feeling he'd ever experienced. It felt like they'd known each other their whole lives.
“So,” Will said, turning to him, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight, “you promised me a dnd game. I'll hold you to that.”
Mike smiled again. “I haven't forgotten. I'll come up with something special.”
And they continued sitting in the park, watching the fountain, listening to the city noise, and talking about books, movies, and what inspired them in life. And every time Will laughed, Mike caught himself falling deeper and deeper in love. He understood that this day had changed his life forever.
They had to end their...date? Was it even a date? Mike didn't want to part with Will indefinitely – he wanted to learn so much more about him, find more things that connected them. But his phone was blowing up with messages from Steve, who hadn't expected his friend to successfully ask someone out and therefore hadn't planned on watching Chewie for so long.
Mike sighed heavily as he walked home. It had been an incredible day – he'd finally gotten lucky. Could it be that after so long, he might finally build a relationship, and with the most wonderful person in the world? He chuckled, kicking a stone, watching it roll down the street.
Most likely, the loser-nerd arc of Mike Wheeler was coming to an end.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
After that, time stopped being linear. It no longer divided into morning, afternoon, and evening, into weekdays and weekends, into hours that needed to be filled so they wouldn't drag on endlessly. Time became thick, like honey, and viscous, like resin, and new landmarks appeared in it – messages arriving on his phone, and green eyes appearing before his mind's eye at the most unexpected moments.
Mike caught himself staring at the screen, waiting for a notification, and every time the screen lit up, his heart did a somersault, and a feeling spread through his chest – incredibly warm and almost painful.
They'd exchanged numbers that same day in the park. Mike, looking at the screen where the name “Will🐕” glowed, felt his fingers tremble as he typed the first message. It was a simple “Hey, it's Mike,” but it carried as much nervousness as the most important letter of his life. Will replied almost immediately, and it felt so natural, as if they'd been texting for years, their voices echoing in every letter they sent each other.
The days were no longer gray. They became filled with colors Mike hadn't noticed before – the golden light of the morning sun reflecting in puddles after rain, the green leaves of maples spinning in the air, and the warm hue of wooden tables in the coffee shop they visited on Friday. He started noticing details again – the curve of a streetlamp that had once seemed like just a metal structure, cracks in the asphalt, reflections in shop windows. The world became more dimensional, more alive, and there was something almost magical about it.
At home, he stopped just lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Instead, he sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and started writing – but this time it wasn't the usual game or movie reviews for which he had no inspiration, but something else, something long forgotten. Mike wrote short sketches, dreamlike fragments, character concepts for future games he might never run. And along with that came strange, disjointed poetry he showed no one. Wouldn't show. He didn't even admit to himself that they existed. He wrote lyrics about someone with green eyes who smiled at dogs, and about how the world changes when you look at it through someone else's eyes. It was awkward and a little embarrassing, but he couldn't stop.
Chewie, who was used to seeing his owner listless and apathetic, now looked at him with confusion when Mike got up at six in the morning to go for a run, or when he came home from work and instead of collapsing on the couch, opened the fridge and started cooking something complicated he'd never experimented with before. It was like someone had rebooted the system, and now it was running at a new frequency.
At work at “The Cube and Die,” he became different. Before, he'd just gone through the motions – consulting customers, organizing boxes, ringing up purchases – but now he did it with an inexplicable lightness and joy. Chris noticed it one day and said, squinting slyly:
“Something's changed about you, Wheeler. Even your voice sounds different.”
“Just in a good mood,” Mike replied, feeling his face spread into a smile he couldn't contain.
Chris just grunted and shook his head, but there was understanding in his eyes, and Mike was grateful he didn't pry. He himself couldn't explain what was happening, but inside him everything was boiling and churning, and this feeling was too new for him to ignore.
Interestingly, he noticed he was reacting differently to praise from other people. Before, when someone said “good job” or “well done,” he'd just nod, not thinking much of it. Now those words resonated with something warm, almost intimate, as if someone were touching his skin.
One time a customer, a young woman with a child, thanked him for helping choose a game for her son, and goosebumps ran down Mike's spine. He stood behind the counter, thinking about how strange the human mind was, how words could evoke such strong sensations. In moments like that, he remembered Will, his soft-looking lips saying “good boy” in a way that still took his breath away.
Evenings, which used to drag on endlessly, now flew by unnoticed. Mike sat on the couch with Chewie, who pressed against him with his warm side, and stared at his phone screen, where messages from Will glowed. They texted about silly things – today Will groomed a poodle that kept trying to lick his face, or Mike finally learned to make risotto and it turned out almost perfect. There was something in those messages that made his heart beat faster. Mike understood that his life had changed not just because he'd met Will, but because he'd started feeling again. He'd started living again.
His copywriting work, which used to feel like a chore, now became something else. He wrote reviews with more enthusiasm, pouring a piece of himself into them, and his editor noticed, commenting: “You've gotten better. What changed?” Mike replied that he'd found inspiration, and it was true. He'd found it in a beautiful boy with fluffy hair, in a voice that echoed in his head when he closed his eyes, and in the feeling that the world was bigger than he'd thought.
Beyond all that, he noticed his inner voice had changed. Before, it had been critical, demanding, always pointing out flaws and mistakes. Now it was quieter, softer, and sometimes Mike heard it when he thought about Will, and that voice said: You can do this. You're worthy. And it was strange – hearing that from himself – but at the same time it felt right, as if he'd finally started believing he could be happy too.
Mike often caught himself smiling for no reason while walking down the street or standing in line at the supermarket. Strangers would glance at him, and he couldn't tell what they saw, but he didn't care. He felt like a lamp had been lit inside him, its light shining outward, making him visible and alive.
He stopped fearing the emptiness that used to scare him at night. Now it was filled with voices – messages he was waiting for, thoughts of Will, plans for the future he'd started making. He thought that maybe his life could be different, that he could be different. He didn't know where this new path would lead, but he was ready to walk it, even if he couldn't see the end.
And this was only the beginning. His life had changed forever – he'd never be the person he was before meeting Will. He'd become someone capable of love, of feeling, of looking at the world with open eyes. And that was the greatest discovery of all.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
Before heading out for that day he'd mentally dubbed “d-day,” Mike met with Lucas and Max at their favorite bar, which smelled of onions, old wood, and strangers' stories. He arrived half an hour early, sat at a table by the window, and twisted a napkin in his hands until it became a wet papery mass. Everything inside him was bubbling like water in a kettle before boiling, and he couldn't calm his hands, which kept gripping the table edge then fidgeting with his shirt.
Lucas and Max arrived together and sat across from him. They ordered beers, and Max, wasting no time on pleasantries, leaned her elbows on the table and fixed Mike with a sly squint.
“So, spill,” she said. “What have you got planned?”
Mike opened his mouth, feeling his heart start racing. He began counting off on his fingers, as if checking a mental list.
“I bought groceries. Pasta, shrimp, cream, parmesan – for the main course. Plus a salad I came up with myself, and chocolate fondant for dessert. I practiced making it three times, and the last one turned out almost perfect. I also got wine, white, dry, because he said he'd bring wine, but I want to have my own, just in case. I set up some music that won't be too intense – something light, jazz, but not too loud. I cleaned the room, well, as much as possible, because–”
“Wait,” Max interrupted, raising her hand. “You said you cleaned. Does that mean you actually looked into that room you call a bedroom?”
Mike froze, his face flushing. He knew what Max was talking about. His apartment was small, and the only room that technically counted as a bedroom actually served as storage for boxes he'd never unpacked after moving in three years ago. Inside were old books, clothes he'd worn in high school, and things he'd promised himself he'd sort through “someday.” That “someday” had never come, and he slept on the couch in the living room, which served as both his bed and his workspace and everything else.
“Well…” he began, feeling his voice go thin. “I moved what was visible. Put the boxes in the bedroom and closed the door.”
“And you think that's okay?” Lucas asked, sipping his beer. “You're inviting a guy you like for dinner, and you're going to sit with him in a room where you've got socks and old magazines on the couch?”
Mike opened his mouth to argue, but realized Lucas was right. He remembered what his apartment had looked like the last time Max and Lucas visited – things everywhere, empty energy drink cans on the table, Chewie dragging all his toys to the center of the room, and the general chaos he'd stopped noticing because he'd lived in it so long.
“Shit,” he exhaled, panic rising inside him. “I have four hours.”
“Then what are you sitting here for?” Max said with a smirk, but her eyes were serious. “Go get everything in order. We'll hold one beer and one fist in the air for you.”
Mike jumped up, almost knocking over his chair, and ran out of the bar. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in pink and gold, but he didn't notice the beauty. He ran down the street, overtaking pedestrians, his heart pounding like he was in a survival race.
At home, Chewie greeted him, wagging his tail joyfully and jumping up to lick his face. Mike waved him off, flew into the apartment, and froze, assessing the scale of the disaster. The living room looked like a hurricane had passed through. Empty cups on the table, socks he'd been taking off and tossing aside for weeks on the floor, magazines scattered everywhere. Chewie, delighted by the commotion, ran over to a stack of books and started sniffing them like they were his personal toys.
“Chewie, move,” Mike yelled, grabbing the first thing he saw – an old tshirt hanging on the back of a chair. He started gathering scattered items, throwing them into the bedroom, which was already packed to the ceiling, and slammed the door to hide the mess. Chewie, thinking it was a game, ran after him, grabbing his pant leg and pulling him toward the kitchen, where apparently a forgotten toy lay.
“Chewie, not now!” Mike groaned, pulling his leg free and grabbing the vacuum cleaner. He turned it on full power, and the roar filled the apartment, drowning out the city sounds outside. Dust flew up, and Mike sneezed, feeling it fill his nose and eyes. Chewie, scared by the noise, backed into a corner and growled at the vacuum, but Mike ignored him. He moved like a robot – vacuuming, wiping tables, stacking magazines, trying to create an illusion of order.
Two hours later, he stopped and surveyed his work. The living room looked somewhat presentable: the table was clean, the floor was clear, and neatly folded throws lay on the couch. But he felt it wasn't enough. He looked at the clock – less than an hour left. Panic washed over him again, and he started darting around the room, trying to figure out what else he could do. He decided to decorate the table – lit a candle he'd bought specifically for this evening and laid out napkins. He checked that everything was ready in the kitchen – pasta was waiting, sauce was almost done, and the fondant was in the fridge.
But still, something was off. He felt like he was missing something important, and the feeling gnawed at him. He darted around the room, adjusting one thing then another, and Chewie, tired of watching his frenzy, lay on the couch and rested his head on his paws, watching his owner.
And in that moment, Mike, backing away from the table, stepped on the edge of a throw rug on the floor. His foot slipped, he flailed his arms trying to keep balance, and with a dull thud, he crashed to the floor, knocking over a nearby chair. Dust puffed up, and Mike froze, feeling his heart pounding in his throat. He got up, rubbing his bruised elbow, and at that moment, the doorbell rang.
The chime sounded like a gunshot in the silence, and Mike froze. He looked at himself – tshirt dusty, hair sticking out everywhere, breathing heavy. Chewie, hearing the bell, jumped up and started barking, running through the hallway, only adding to the chaos in Mike's head.
He walked to the door, his hands shaking, and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Everything will be fine,” he told himself, though he didn't believe it. He opened the door, and on the threshold stood Will. He was wearing a light tshirt and holding a bottle of wine. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and on his face was a warm, slightly teasing smile.
“Hey,” Will said, his voice as soft as that day in the park. “Am I late?”
You're early even...Mike thought, but couldn't say anything out loud. He just stood there, his face flushing, probably looking terrible. Chewie, not waiting for an invitation, ran into the hallway and started circling Will's legs, wagging his tail and nuzzling his nose into his palm.
“No,” Mike finally managed hoarsely. “You're right on time. Sorry, it's a bit...messy in here.”
He stepped aside, letting Will into the apartment, and closed the door behind him. Inside him, shame, relief, and that warm fire that kindled every time he saw Will all mingled together. This evening was definitely going to be awkward – Mike would stumble and fumble – but he knew he wanted to spend it with this person, even if it meant enduring another fall.
Will looked around, his gaze sweeping over the walls, the old couch, and the stacks of books Mike still hadn't sorted. A barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips, one Mike was starting to recognize.
“It's cozy,” Will said, and his voice sounded like he truly meant it, not just being polite.
Mike wanted to say something witty, but his tongue, as if on cue, stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he just managed something unintelligible that sounded like “thanks.” He could feel his shirt sticking to his back.
“Sorry,” Mike said. “I look like I've been digging through rubble. Give me five minutes to get myself together. You can...make yourself at home. Chewie will show you everything you need to know.”
Will laughed that quiet laugh that made Mike forget what he was about to say. “Go,” he said. “Chewie and I will figure it out. We have common ground.”
Mike nodded and quickly went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He leaned his back against it, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. In the mirror across from him, he saw his reflection and confirmed he looked awful. He turned on cold water, splashed his face, water streaming down his face and neck, and fixed his hair. Took off the dirty shirt, put on a dark blue one he'd bought last year and never had occasion to wear. Everything will be fine.
When Mike came out, his gaze fell on the living room, and he froze on the threshold. Will was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, and Chewie lay on his lap, belly up for scratching. The dog looked like he was in seventh heaven, and Will, looking at him, was murmuring something softly, his voice like a soothing hum. Light from the window fell on his hair, making it almost golden, and his face held a peaceful, joyful expression.
“I told you,” Mike said, his voice softer than he'd intended. “Chewie bonds quickly with people he likes.”
Will looked up, a teasing spark in his eyes.
“He told me you like to stay up late and that you sometimes talk to him when you think no one's listening.”
Mike blushed, but laughed, unable to help himself. “That was a secret, Chewie. I trusted you.” Mike dramatically pressed a hand to his heart, pretending to be deeply wounded by his dog's betrayal.
Chewie, hearing his name, lifted his head and wagged his tail, barking at the sight of his owner. Will laughed, his laughter filling the room, making the air around them vibrate.
Mike went to the kitchen, turned on the stove, and the flame licked the bottom of the pot. He could feel Will's gaze on him as he left Chewie on the couch and walked over to the kitchen counter, leaning his elbows on its edge.
“Need any help?” he asked.
“No,” Mike answered without turning around. “I've got it. I want to make an impression.”
“You already have.”
Mike turned and met his gaze. Will stood in the light of the lamp hanging above the stove, and his eyes were just as green. Mike looked away and returned to cooking, warmth spreading inside him.
When the pasta was ready, Mike plated it, added the sauce, and sprinkled parmesan. He set the plates on the table, and they sat across from each other. Chewie, tired of waiting, lay under the table, resting his head on his paws, his eyes following every movement in hopes of a scrap.
“So,” Mike said, his voice threatening to tremble, “I hope you're not disappointed.”
Will lifted his fork to his mouth, and his eyes closed for a moment as he tasted the pasta. When he opened them, there was surprise in them. “This is incredible,” he said. “You really can cook. I didn't expect it to be this good.”
“I tried,” Mike replied, smiling. “I wanted you to like it.”
They ate in silence, but that silence was filled with sounds – the clinking of forks on plates, quiet hums of approval from Will. Mike watched him, and something warm spread inside him, something he couldn't name.
“I had a client this week,” Will said, pausing for a moment. “A bulldog. Can you imagine, he wouldn't stay still. Kept trying to escape – not through the door, but through the window. I spent half the day chasing him around the salon until he got tired and fell asleep right on my table. The owner came in, and his dog was sleeping on my workspace like it was his own home.”
Mike laughed, picturing the scene, and his shoulders finally relaxed. ‘I can imagine. We get that at the store too. A couple days ago, a guy came in wanting to buy a game for his girlfriend. He didn't know what she liked, and I spent half an hour helping him choose. Then he left and bought something else because he changed his mind.”
“Gosh, that's so familiar,” Will said with a sigh. “Clients are always like that. They come in with one thing and leave with another.”
Mike nodded. He raised his glass of wine, the one Will had brought, and tilted it slightly toward Will.
“To clients always knowing what they want.”
“Cheers,” Will agreed, and they clinked glasses.
Silence fell again, but it wasn't tense – pleasant and comfortable. Mike watched Will, his hands holding the glass, his fingers lightly tapping the stem, and something stirred inside him that he couldn't control.
“You know,” he said, his voice wavering, “I've been thinking all this time about how beautiful you are.”
What? Did he just say that? Seriously? God, Mike, you idiot.
His whole face flushed, and Mike realized it was too forward. How embarrassing, how awkward. He wanted to shut himself up, but the words had already escaped.
Will looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes, then a slight smirk. He set his glass down and tilted his head, looking at Mike with curiosity.
“Are you serious right now?” he asked, a barely perceptible teasing note in his voice, but not unkind.
Mike grew even more flustered and dropped his gaze to his plate.
“Sorry, that was stupid. I don't know how to give compliments. They always sound awkward.”
“No,” Will said, shaking his head. “It was sweet. Really.”
When the plates were cleared and the kitchen finally stopped looking like a battlefield, they moved to the living room, where Chewie was already waiting, having strategically positioned himself in the center of the couch. The dog lay stretched out full length, looking at them with an expression that left no doubt: he wasn't going anywhere, and if they wanted to sit, they'd have to find room around him. Mike chuckled, nudged Chewie, who sighed and rolled onto his side, making space. Mike sat on the edge of the couch, feeling the old springs sag under his weight.
Will sat down beside him, leaving a distance that Mike interpreted as polite, but which immediately felt too large. Mike grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and the screen glowed blue, dispelling the room's dimness. He scrolled through channels, landing on some old movie – a black-and-white comedy he'd reviewed ages ago and remembered didn't require attention. He didn't need a plot right now. He needed background noise that would let them just be together.
He leaned back on the couch, relaxing his back for the first time all evening. The TV light fell on the walls, creating dancing shadows, and the room was quiet – only the actors' voices from the speakers and Chewie's soft breathing, already starting to doze at their feet. Mike watched the screen but didn't see a single frame. He felt the warmth radiating from Will beside him, and the sensation was so new that he was afraid to move, afraid to break it.
Mike caught himself thinking about how nice it would be to spend every evening like this. To have someone beside him, shoulder touching shoulder, the room quiet not because there was nothing to say, but because words weren't needed. He imagined doing this again and again – sitting on this couch, watching old movies neither would remember, feeling each other's warmth. He imagined Chewie lying at their feet, the TV light falling on Will's face, softening his features, making them almost unreal.
He didn't know how long they sat like that. Time had lost its meaning, dissolving in the bluish light of the screen and Will's quiet breathing. The movie played on, but Mike was watching how Will sat beside him, how his hand rested on his knee, fingers lightly tapping the denim in time to some melody only he could hear.
And then Will moved.
It was barely noticeable – he just shifted slightly toward Mike, closing the distance. His shoulder touched Mike's shoulder, and goosebumps ran down his arm from the contact. Mike froze, feeling his heart start to race, afraid to breathe. Will rested his head on Mike's shoulder, and Mike could feel his hair brushing his cheek, soft, slightly damp from washing. He could hear Will's breathing, steady and calm, and the sound of it spread something warm, almost painful, inside him.
Will's hand slid across Mike's knee, his fingers resting on the denim, lightly stroking the fabric. It was a simple, almost weightless gesture, but it took Mike's breath away. He felt the heat from those fingers through the fabric, and the sensation was so intense that he was afraid to move. Mike hadn't thought it would happen this fast. He couldn't have imagined Will would be this close and that it would all feel so right.
Mike didn't know what to do. He wanted to say something. But what? He wanted to move, but was afraid to break the moment, to scare Will off. Mike could only sit there, hoping Will couldn't hear how fast his heart was beating.
“Mike,” Will whispered. “I didn't expect it to feel this good.”
Mike's throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. Will lifted his head, turning slightly to look at him, and his eyes glowed in the TV light.
“You made this evening special,” he continued, his voice soft, weightless. “Really. I haven't felt this peaceful in a long time.”
The words hit Mike like an avalanche. He felt warmth spreading inside him, starting somewhere in his chest and radiating through his whole body, making his skin burn. Praise, so simple and sincere, resonated with something new inside him, something he couldn't control. His breath hitched, his fingers trembled, and blood rushed to his groin. His dick twitched in his jeans, pressing against the fabric, and Mike froze, feeling his face go red. He hoped the dim light of the room would hide it, but his body seemed to betray him with every passing second.
Mike tried to hide it. All of it. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He looked at the screen, pretending to watch the movie, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel his body responding to Will's words, and it was both terrifying and wonderful. He was afraid Will would notice his uneven breathing, or how his fists clenched. And more than that, he was afraid he'd see the tent in his jeans. His dick kept pulsing in his jeans, and the sensation was so strong he could barely think about anything else.
He didn't know what to do. He wanted Will to move his hand because it was unbearable, but at the same time, he needed him to leave it. Mike sat frozen, his skin burning under the other's fingers, and he was terrified this moment would end.
“You okay?” Will asked, looking concerned.
Mike nodded. “Yeah,” his voice broke on the reply. “Everything's fine. Just...I'm not used to this.”
Will smiled.
“That's good,” he said. “Get used to it.”
And he rested his head back on Mike's shoulder, his hand staying on his knee.
At some point, he dared. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Mike tilted his head, brushing his cheek against Will's hair. It smelled of shampoo, light, floral, with a hint of freshness, and Mike closed his eyes for a moment, breathing it in. His hand, resting on the couch beside Will's knee, began to move slowly. He didn't know what he was doing, just acting on instinct. His fingers touched Will's, and Will froze for a moment, then his hand relaxed, letting Mike intertwine their fingers. The gesture made the air in the room feel thicker.
They sat like that, and time ceased to exist. Mike watched his long fingers wrap around Will's smaller ones. He thought about how wonderful it would be to stay here forever, in this moment that felt perfect.
Then Will stirred slightly. First, he turned his head, lifting it from Mike's shoulder. The warmth of his body disappeared, and something inside Mike tightened. Well, he'd ruined it. He pulled back, turning to Will, and froze. Will's eyes were fixed on Mike's face, tracing his features, pausing on his lips. His lower lip was bitten, and Mike noticed it was trembling slightly.
Mike's own gaze dropped to Will's lips. They were soft, slightly parted, and in the TV light they looked almost rosy. He watched them, and something flipped inside him, a wave rising from somewhere deep, making him forget how to breathe.
Their eyes met. In Will's green eyes was something new – dark, almost hungry – that made Mike forget all his fears. They were drawn to each other, the distance between them shrinking, growing smaller and smaller. Mike could feel his breathing becoming ragged, and his dick pulsing harder, demanding attention.
But at the moment their lips were barely a breath apart, the air was torn by the ringing of a phone.
Mike jerked back as if shocked. He looked at Will, who was already reaching for his pocket, and everything inside him shattered. Will swore, short and quiet, and answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear. His voice was tense, almost annoyed, but he tried to speak softly, not to wake Chewie.
“Yeah, Jane,” he said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Yeah, I remember. No, I didn't forget. I'll be there soon.”
Mike watched him, cold disappointment filling him. He caught snippets of the conversation: something about some Jane needing Will to come over, something urgent. Will listened, nodded, his body growing more tense.
“I got it,” he finally said. “I'm on my way. Be there in twenty.”
He put the phone down, and his gaze met Mike's. There was an apologetic shadow in his eyes that made Mike's heart clench.
“Sorry,” Will whispered. “It's my sister. She...needs me to come over. Urgently. I have to go.”
Mike nodded, he wanted to stop Will, grab his hand, but couldn't let himself. They walked to the door, and each step was harder for Mike. Emptiness spread inside him, filling the space Will had left.
At the door, Will stopped, turned to him, and Mike's heart began to pound again. Will rose on his toes, his face level with Mike's. He leaned in, and his lips brushed Mike's cheek. It was quick, almost weightless, but it made Mike freeze.
“Thanks for the evening,” Will said, smiling softly. His cheeks had turned a lovely pink. “It was...really good.”
He opened the door, and Mike, like an idiot, watched him leave until his figure disappeared down the hallway.
Mike stood there, his body still burning from that innocent kiss. No one had ever done that to him. Well, he'd been kissed on the cheek before (and not just by his mom!), but that light touch had never given him so many emotions. He traced the spot where Will's lips had been with his fingertips and smiled foolishly. He closed his eyes, leaning his back against the door. He ran a hand over his face, feeling his fingers shaking.
“Shit,” he whispered, his voice breaking into a groan.
Chewie, hearing his voice, came over and rubbed his head against Mike's leg. Mike looked at him, and emptiness spread inside him. He crouched down, hugged the dog, burying his face in his soft fur, and his eyes started to sting. He knew this was only the first evening, that they'd see each other again, but in that moment it felt like he'd lost something important.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
The night after Will left was the longest of Mike's life.
He stood at the door for a long time, pressing his forehead against the cool wood. Chewie, though used to seeing his owner listless and apathetic, still watched him with worry, nudging his wet nose against Mike's palm, but Mike couldn't move. He was afraid that if he moved, he'd lose the feeling of Will's lips on his cheek.
The apartment was quiet not the familiar silence that had accompanied his evenings before, when he'd sit in front of the TV without watching, or throw Chewie a ball while thinking about his endless reviews. This time the silence lacked breathing, footsteps, laughter. It rang in his ears and pressed on his shoulders, reminding him that Will had been here only hours ago, and now he was gone, and there was no telling when he'd return.
If he ever does.
Mike walked to the living room and stopped by the couch. The throw they'd used was still on the seat, and Mike ran his hand over it, feeling the fabric hold onto the remnant of someone else's warmth. He sat where Will had sat, closed his eyes, and let the scent fill his lungs. Chewie came over and rested his head on his knees, and Mike absently petted him, but his mind was elsewhere. He replayed every moment with Will. Each image etched into his memory with such sharpness that it left a dull ache inside.
He couldn't sleep. Mike lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling where the streetlight cast stripes, thinking about how one evening could turn everything upside down. Before meeting Will, his days were gray, but he'd grown used to that grayness, considered it normal. Now he knew what it was like when the world became brighter, when every sound had meaning, and you wanted to stop time just to hold onto someone else's smile. And that knowledge made returning to his old life unbearable.
He got up in the mornings, made coffee, fed Chewie, but did it all on autopilot, like a robot whose script had run out. The world outside remained the same, but now it seemed deceptively flat, like a picture with no depth. He watched passersby rushing about their business and thought about how none of them knew what was pulsing inside him – a new feeling he was afraid to name even in his own head.
Mike opened his laptop to work, but his fingers found their way to forums on their own. Now he was searching not just for information about fetishes, but for advice on how to act with a guy he liked. He read about people waiting days for a call, afraid to text first, others going crazy from uncertainty. Mike found reflections of his own anxiety in those stories, and it was both comforting and agonizing.
Mike checked his phone every ten minutes. Every time the screen lit up, his heart jumped, but it was usually notifications from Lucas or Max. They'd text, asking how he was, but Mike would reply briefly, one word, because he couldn't explain what was happening to him. How do you explain that someone has taken up residence inside you, and now you carry him everywhere – on the subway, at work, in the grocery line – and there's no escape?
When Will finally texted, briefly, apologizing that he couldn't meet because of his sister's move. Mike read his messages over and over, staring at the words, trying to guess the tone behind them. He replied calmly, trying not to show how much he missed that voice. “Good luck with the move,” he wrote. “See you when you have time.” But inside he thought: when? When would that be? And what if it took a week, a month, more?
He turned to his notes again. It was the only way to release what was building inside him without letting it tear him apart. He wrote about how the silence in his apartment had become louder than any noise. How he caught himself smiling for no reason, remembering someone else's laugh, and how that smile would fade when he realized Will wasn't there. He was afraid his feelings were too strong, too fast, and that he might scare away what was just beginning to grow.
The bell over the store door jingled, and Lucas burst in with the look of someone who'd just run a marathon and whose only goal now was to claim the most uncomfortable chair in the place and never move again. He collapsed into a chair by the display window, which creaked in protest under his weight, and stretched out his long legs, nearly blocking the aisle between the shelves of board games. In his hands he held two paper coffee cups, one of which he offered to Mike.
“Here,” he said, his voice sounding like he'd just saved the world from disaster. “I know you're existing on caffeine and longing for the green-eyed dog groomer right now.”
Mike took the cup and took a sip, burning his throat. He stood behind the counter, rearranging game boxes, trying to look busy while his mind wandered elsewhere.
“I'm serious,” Lucas said, sipping his coffee. “You've been walking around for days with a face like something inside you broke.”
“Everything's fine,” Mike replied without looking up. “Just tired.”
“Uh-huh,” Lucas drawled, a teasing edge in his voice. “You're tired because you spend all day staring at your phone and sighing like a melodrama heroine.”
Mike opened his mouth to object, but at that moment the bell over the door jingled again. Who else at this hour? The sound was sharp, piercing, carrying through the store. Mike looked up, and his hands, holding a game box, suddenly went slack. The box slipped from his fingers and thudded onto the counter, but he didn't notice. He didn't even register Lucas flinching at the sound.
In the doorway stood Will.
On his face was a slightly embarrassed smile. He wore a yellow tshirt and held a small paper bag in his hands. Will was looking at Mike, and Mike's heart began to race. He gripped the counter, afraid his legs would give out and he'd collapse.
Lucas, who'd noticed his frozen friend and followed his gaze, slowly turned to the door. His eyebrows shot up, and his mouth opened as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. He looked at Will, then at Mike, then at Will again, and his eyes held something between surprise and genuine amazement.
“You…” he breathed. “You're the one? The green-eyed dog groomer?”
Will looked at Lucas and smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Hey,” he said, his voice almost weightless. “I'm Will. And you must be Lucas? Mike's told me a lot about you.”
Lucas opened his mouth, but his eyes kept darting between Will and Mike, as if trying to reconcile two images into one. He clearly wanted to say something else, but at that moment Mike, finally pulling himself together, stepped out from behind the counter and positioned himself between him and Will.
“Lucas,” he said. “You need to go. Really. Thanks for the coffee, but I need to talk to Will.”
Lucas raised his hands in a placating gesture, but his smile was too wide to be sincere.
“Fine, fine, I'm going,” he said, getting up from his chair. He paused for a moment, looking at Will, and shook his head. “You're just...wow. I thought Mike was exaggerating.”
“Lucas!” Mike snapped, instantly red-faced. “Get out!”
Lucas laughed and headed for the door, but before leaving, he turned and winked at Will, who just smiled back. The door closed, and the bell jingled again, but now the store was quiet – just Mike, Will, and the soft hum of the refrigerator behind the counter.
Mike stood in the middle of the store, his heart pounding in his throat. He looked at Will, standing before him, trying to find words.
“I can't believe you're here,” he said hoarsely. “How did you find me?”
Will smiled sheepishly and touched his elbow. “Well...I did a little research and picked a few potential game stores where you might work. Then it was easy – you mentioned there was a music store nearby, so that narrowed it down. I wanted to surprise you.”
Mike froze, unable to believe Will had gone to all that trouble to find him. He hadn't asked Mike for the address directly, hadn't called or texted, just searched the map on his own to surprise him.
“But you said you were busy with the move,” Mike said, a note of sadness in his voice.
“We're almost done,” Will replied, his eyes gleaming. “And I thought I didn't want to wait anymore. I really wanted to see you.”
Mike's eyes nearly welled up, but he held back, not wanting to seem like a child. Will had missed him. Will had wanted to see him again and had been waiting two weeks for this moment.
“Will you stay? I still have an hour left of my shift.”
Will laughed softly.
“I'm in no rush,” he said. “I'll stay.”
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
The city was gradually transitioning from daytime noise to the evening hum, lights coming on in shop windows and upper-floor windows, and above it all hung a pale lilac sky lit by a sunset that refused to give way to darkness.
They walked along the sidewalk, not too fast and not too slow, their shoulders occasionally brushing then separating by a few inches, so that Mike felt each contact like an electric shock passing through the fabric of his shirt and settling somewhere beneath his ribs.
In their hands they held ice cream – vanilla in a sugar cone for Will, chocolate with caramel crumble for Mike, which was already melting and dripping down his fingers in sticky sweet streams. He licked the edge of the cone, trying not to think about how that must look from the outside, but Will, noticing his struggle, smirked and said: “You eat like a kid, seriously.” There was no judgment in his voice, just the light teasing that had become their common language over the past weeks, and Mike snorted in response, pretending to be offended, but inside something fluttered at the tone.
“I eat like someone who knows how to enjoy life,” Mike shot back, biting off a piece of the cone and feeling the waffle crunch between his teeth. “And you, of course, are the picture of elegance.”
“I'm careful, for the record,” Will answered, and Mike noticed how he held the edge of his cone to keep drops from falling on his shirt. “And I have a sense of proportion. You keep mixing caramel with chocolate like you're twelve.”
“I'm twenty-four, and I'm entitled to life's small pleasures.”
They passed an old brick building where light glowed from a bookstore on the first floor, and Mike paused for a moment to look at the window display of new paperbacks. He thought he'd like to go in there with Will someday, spend an hour browsing spines and whispering about plots, the way people do who aren't in a hurry and have nowhere to be. The thought was so simple and so impossible just months ago that it took his breath away.
They kept walking, and the evening Brooklyn wrapped around them from all sides – voices of passersby, a distant siren interrupted by laughter, and the light of streetlamps flickering on one by one, creating a chain of warm yellow circles along the sidewalk. Mike watched their shadows lengthen and shorten in that light, how Will's shoulder touched his, and felt something growing inside him that he couldn't name, but it was too big to fit in his chest.
“You know,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though everything inside trembled, “I never thought I'd be eating ice cream in Brooklyn and talking about bicycles. It sounds like a scene from some movie.”
“What kind?” Will asked, turning his head, and the streetlight reflected in his eyes, making them almost translucent.
“I don't know,” Mike answered, his voice softer. “Maybe the kind where everything ends well.”
He didn't know if Will noticed how his fingers gripping the cone trembled, or how he held his breath for a moment, but he understood that now, right now, he had to take the next step. No, he wasn't ready. But if he didn't do it now, he might never.
They stopped at a corner where an old cast-iron streetlamp stood, its light falling on the sidewalk, creating a circle they were both inside. Mike finished his ice cream, tossed the napkin in a bin, and when he turned back to Will, his hand, as if of its own accord, reached forward. He didn't think about what he was doing. He hadn't planned it. His fingers found Will's and intertwined, lightly, almost weightlessly, as if testing whether something would break from the touch.
Will froze. He looked at their hands, at how Mike's long fingers wrapped around his, and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Mike felt his heart skip a beat, then start pounding twice as fast, and he'd already mentally braced himself for Will to pull away, to say something that would shatter the moment. But instead, Will looked up, and a warm, soft smile spread across his face.
“You're always this brave after finishing ice cream?” Will asked in such a warm voice that Mike's stomach ached.
Mike didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat tightened, and he just kept walking, holding Will's hand, pretending this was the most natural thing in the world, though inside him everything boiled and churned like lava in a volcano. Will's fingers squeezed back slightly, and that simple gesture spoke louder than any words.
They walked on, their hands now intertwined, and the feeling: the warmth of Will's palm, slightly damp from the ice cream but so alive and real filled every space inside Mike. He could hear his heart beating, blood rushing in his ears, and somewhere in the distance music playing from an open window, but it was all background to one single feeling – that he was holding the hand of someone who had changed his life.
They stopped at the next lamppost. It stood a little apart from the others, its light falling on their faces, highlighting their features, making them sharper and yet softer at the same time. Mike turned to Will, and at that moment their eyes met, and the world around them ceased to exist. No cars, no pedestrians, no noise – just him and Will, standing in a circle of yellow light, as if at the center of the universe.
Mike could see Will's pupils dilating, his lips parting slightly, his tongue darting out to wet them, and that gesture was so unbearable that Mike's breathing grew ragged. He felt Will's fingers tighten on his palm, as if afraid Mike would disappear.
They stepped toward each other at the same time. Mike didn't know who started it – or if they started together – but in the next moment his lips were touching Will's. It was a weightless touch at first, tentative, like a question afraid of an answer. But Will answered. His lips parted, and he tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Mike felt the world turn upside down.
Will's lips were soft, slightly damp, and tasted of vanilla from the ice cream he'd just eaten. Mike could taste it on his tongue – sweet and faint, mixed with his own chocolate flavor – and the combination was perfect, as if they were made to complement each other. He felt the warmth radiating from Will's body, how his fingers still held his palm, how his other hand came up to touch his cheek and the touch felt too intimate.
The kiss wasn't rushed. It was slow, deep, as if they were trying to memorize this moment forever. Will's tongue brushed his lower lip, and Mike responded, letting himself get lost in the dance, in how their breath mingled, how their bodies pressed together, becoming one whole in that circle of light. He could feel his heart about to burst from his chest, his fingers trembling as they held Will's palm, and something hot and almost painful spreading inside him, but that “something” was the most right feeling in his life.
When they finally pulled apart, Mike was irrevocably lost. He looked at Will's swollen lips, at his eyes reflecting the lamplight, and couldn't believe this was really happening. Will smiled shyly, and in that smile was so much that Mike couldn't utter a word.
“I've wanted to do that for a while,” Will whispered, his voice hoarse, as if he'd just woken up.
Words stuck in his throat. Mike just stood there, still feeling Will's warm fingers in his palm. He felt fully alive now. He didn't know what would happen next, but in this moment he knew one thing: he wanted this evening to never end.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
Their days wove together into one continuous stream, and Mike was surprised to notice how his life was now filled with new rituals he anticipated with the eagerness of a child waiting for Christmas.
Morning walks with Chewie became an event, because Will often joined them now. He'd appear at Mike's apartment door with two cups of coffee in hand, his hair slightly wind-tousled, and that familiar smile on his face.
Chewie seemed to sense the change too. He greeted Will with such enthusiasm, as if he were his best friend, and the three of them would wander through the surrounding parks where sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating a whimsical pattern of light and shadow on the grass. Will would talk about his clients, and Mike would listen, laugh, and catch himself staring at Will – at how he gestured when he spoke, how his eyes lit up when he talked about dogs.
They started spending time together beyond just walks. Mike often stopped by “Fur Symphony” after work, bringing coffee or pastries from the bakery on the corner. He'd sit in the corner on the soft couch that smelled of shampoo and dog fur, and watch Will work. It was mesmerizing – how his hands moved smoothly and confidently, how he talked to the dogs, leaning close and murmuring softly. Sometimes Will would look up and catch his gaze, and a slightly embarrassed smile would appear on his face, making Mike happier than any trophy.
Once, the girl at the front desk noticed them when Will was in the back, came over to Mike, and whispered: “He's never smiled this much as he has these past few weeks. I think that's your doing.” Mike chuckled, but inside he felt warm knowing he was the reason for Will's smiles.
They met each other's friends, which was both exciting and strange. Mike introduced Will to Lucas and Max at their usual weekend bar meetup. Lucas, seeing them together, raised an eyebrow and exchanged a meaningful glance with Max, but said nothing, just shook Will's hand with a warmer smile than usual. Max, unlike her boyfriend, was more direct. She stared at Will with curiosity, then looked at Mike and smirked: “Well, I get what you were talking about now.” Mike instantly turned red and started mumbling something about the weather, but Will, sitting beside him, squeezed his hand under the table, and Mike suddenly realized the awkward introduction wasn't awkward at all.
In turn, Will introduced Mike to his sister Jane and her boyfriend Dustin. They met at a small café, and Mike immediately noticed how Will changed in their presence: he became more relaxed, his laugh louder, and a playful spark appeared in his eyes that Mike only saw when they were alone. Jane looked a lot like Will, and she was incredibly beautiful. She looked at Mike with interest but didn't ask too many questions, only saying: “I'm glad Will found someone.” Dustin, on the other hand, was very curious and grilled Mike about his work, his favorite board games, and why he'd chosen the paladin class in dnd. And Mike answered, feeling almost like he was in an interview, but in a good way.
They were constantly holding hands now. Often when walking down the street, sometimes when sitting in cafés, and always when watching movies on the couch in Mike's apartment. It became their language, a way of speaking without words. When Will's fingers intertwined with his, Mike felt calm spreading through him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He found himself waiting for those touches the way you wait for warmth on a cold day.
And of course, there were kisses. They were everywhere. When saying goodbye, Will would linger in the doorway for a few extra seconds to press his lips to Mike's. When they met, Mike would walk into the salon and Will would look up from work and smile, and they'd exchange a quick, almost weightless kiss no one noticed but them. Sometimes they'd kiss for no reason at all, when one said something that made the other smile and they couldn't help themselves.
But for all this, they hadn't had The Talk. No “what are we doing?”, no “what does this mean?”, no “are we dating?” That word hung in the air, but no one said it aloud, as if afraid that uttering it might shatter the fragile magic between them.
Mike felt the absence of a label like a splinter under his skin, a constant reminder. He wanted to ask, wanted to know that this wasn't just a game, just a pleasant way to pass the time that could end any moment. But he was afraid. Afraid that if he asked, he'd get an answer he didn't want to hear. Afraid that Will would say this was temporary, that he wasn't looking for anything serious, that this was just a summer fling. So Mike stayed silent, enjoying what he had and trying not to think about how it might end.
Max caught Mike off guard one evening as he was returning from a walk with Chewie. The dog, tired after the long day, was dragging behind, his tongue lolling, his breathing heavy and rapid. They ran into each other at Mike's building, and he immediately noticed she hadn't come just by chance. Max stood with her shoulder against the brick wall, finishing the last of her soda.
“Right on time,” she said. “I was just about to come find you.”
Mike stopped, feeling something anxious brewing inside him. A dozen reasons why his friend might have come flashed through his head. Chewie, exhausted from the long walk, plopped down on the sidewalk at his feet, making it clear he wasn't going any further. Mike looked from the dog to Max and realized he couldn't avoid this conversation.
“Something wrong?” he finally asked, hoping she'd come for something trivial.
“Nothing's wrong,” Max replied. “I just wanted to ask how things are going. With Will. You two are dating now, right?”
The question, stripped of all ambiguity, caught him off guard, though he should have expected it. He looked down at Chewie, who was panting heavily at his feet, as if he too understood this wouldn't be an easy conversation. Mike's fingers tightened on the leash, and he felt the leather strap bite into his palm.
“No,” he said, the word coming out before he'd planned it. “We're not dating. Just...spending time together.”
Max raised an eyebrow, her gaze becoming sharp, almost piercing. She stepped closer, making it clear she wasn't backing down. Mike knew that look – it meant she was about to get to the bottom of things.
“Just spending time together?” she repeated. “Mike, I've seen you together. You hold hands, you kiss, you can't tear yourselves apart like you've been glued together. That's called dating.”
Max was right. She was absolutely right. But Mike couldn't tell her what he was afraid to admit even to himself.
“We haven't talked about it,” he finally said, sounding tired. “I don't know what this is between us. I don't want to ask because I'm afraid I'll ruin everything.”
Max sighed and moved closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her palm was warm despite the cool wind.
“Mike,” she said more softly, “you can't live in fear. If you don't ask, you'll never know. And if you don't know, you'll torment yourself with uncertainty, and it'll eat you up inside.”
He looked up and met her gaze, but found no judgment in her eyes, which made him feel slightly less broken. He looked away, sighing heavily.
“What if he says it means nothing? What if for him this is just a summer fling?”
Max shook her head, her smile widening slightly. “Have you seen how he looks at you, Mike? He smiles every time you walk into a room. You're definitely not a summer fling to him. He sees something more in you, and you know it.”
He definitely needed to talk to Will and clear things up. Maybe it was time to stop being afraid and find out what this really was.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
Will's apartment was on the fifth floor of an old Brooklyn building that smelled of wood and coffee from the bakery next door, where creaking floorboards sang their ancient songs underfoot. Mike stood on the landing, adjusting his glasses and holding a bottle of wine that might slip from his sweaty palms. He'd mentally rehearsed this evening a hundred times, but he was still nervous. He climbed the last flight, stopped in front of door 5B, and held his breath for a moment, trying to calm the childish excitement spreading through him at the thought of seeing Will in his own space.
The door opened before he could knock. Will stood on the threshold, and the light from the hallway fell on his face, making his green eyes almost translucent, like seawater on a sunny day. He wore a simple white tshirt and jeans, and he looked so domestic that Mike's breath caught. Behind him, he could see the room: narrow but cozy, with books on shelves and a painting on the wall that Mike recognized instantly: a watercolor ocean Will had once mentioned he'd painted himself.
“Hey,” Will said, his voice warm. “You came. I was starting to think you'd changed your mind.”
“I never change my mind when it comes to you,” Mike replied. He held out the wine with slightly trembling fingers. “This is for you. Hope you don't mind I picked this one.”
Will took the bottle, their fingers brushing briefly. He looked at the label and smiled. “Perfect. I just made pasta using your recipe, and I needed someone to share it with. Come in.”
Mike stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a soft click. He was in a space that was so thoroughly Will's that it seemed to breathe his presence. The walls were painted a pale green that reminded him of the shade of Will's eyes, and herb pots sat on the windowsill, which he watered from a small watering can. Open books and a notebook with pencil sketches lay on the table in the corner – Mike recognized the familiar outlines of dog heads and immediately knew they were work sketches. The air smelled of basil and something sweet.
“Your apartment is amazing,” he said, walking deeper into the room and looking around. “It's so...you. Like you've always lived here.”
Will chuckled, walking to the kitchen and setting the wine on the counter. “I've only been here alone for a couple of weeks. After Jane moved out, I realized I could finally make this place my own. She took all her stuff, and I had freedom. Though I'm still not used to how quiet it is here.”
“Sometimes quiet is good,” Mike said, walking to the window and looking out at the street where lamps were already being lit. “It gives you time to think.”
He turned and watched Will take plates from the cupboard, moving with an easy casualness that spoke of years of doing this alone. His hands moved confidently, and Mike noticed how he bit his lower lip when he focused on plating the pasta without burning himself. They sat at the small table by the window, and the lamplight fell on their faces, creating a warm twilight that softened features and slowed time.
Mike talked about work and how Chewie had eaten his favorite pair of sneakers, and Will laughed his low, melodic laugh. Will shared stories about a new client with a dachshund, how sweet she was until she started spinning around on his worktable, knocking over his supplies.
When they finished, Mike insisted on doing the dishes, and they stood side by side at the sink, their shoulders touching in the cramped kitchen, and every time Mike's hands brushed Will's, he felt an electric current run through his skin.
Then they moved to the living room, and Will put on music – something quiet with guitar, almost imperceptible but creating a backdrop that didn't require words. They sat on the couch, and there was distance between them that Mike didn't know how to close. He watched Will, how his fingers lightly tapped his knee, his eyes following the shadows moving on the wall. And inside him, the fear he'd been carrying for weeks began to boil over.
Will turned to him and leaned in, touching Mike's cheek. And before Mike could say anything, Will kissed him. The kiss was deep, slow, as if Will wanted to memorize every moment, afraid it might disappear. Mike responded almost immediately, his hand sliding to the back of Will's head, fingers tangling in his soft hair. The world began to fade away, leaving only the two of them in that touch.
But something inside Mike made him stop. It was deeper than fear – something that demanded an answer before he could give himself over to the feeling completely. He gently pulled back, placed his hand on Will's chest, and could feel his heart beating beneath his shirt. He looked into his eyes.
“Will...wait. I have to ask you something,” he said, his voice trembling, but he forced himself to continue. “We haven't talked about this, but I can't go on like this. I need to know what this is between us.”
Will froze, his hands still on Mike's shoulders, and something flickered in his eyes – surprise? or maybe understanding?
“What do you want to ask?” he said softly.
Mike looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Come on. Now or never.
“I want to know what this is. We spend every free evening together, we always kiss, but we've never talked about what it means. I don't want this to be just a casual thing that ends. Will, I need to know if we have a future, or if I'm just being a fool in love with no hope.”
He fell silent, ready to sink through the floor from his own honesty. Will looked at him for a long moment, and then smiled gently, taking Mike's hand in his.
“I thought you knew,” Will said softly but firmly. “To me, this isn't just entertainment, Mike. I don't date just anyone, and I don't let myself fall for just anyone. But with you, it's different. You made me feel something I've never felt before. When I'm with you, I feel like I'm where I belong. That I can be myself without fear of judgment.”
“What about you?” Will whispered, a note of hope in his voice. “How do you feel?”
Mike took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in his body. “I feel like I'm falling in love with you. I'm scared because I don't know where this will lead. But I know I want to be with you. I want this to be real.”
Will leaned closer, his hand touching Mike's cheek, his fingers trembling slightly. “Then let's make it real,” he said. “Let's date. I want to be your boyfriend. And I want you to be mine.”
Someone pinch Mike, he's probably dreaming. Did Will just say what? Oh my god, Will said he wants to date. Will wants to date Mike!! No way. This has to be a dream. Will wants to be Mike's boyfriend, wants to do all those cute things other couples do. Will wants to go on dates with Mike and no one else. If someone had told Mike this three months ago, he would have told them to fuck off, not believing his ears.
“I want that too,” he said softly. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
Will smiled wider, and his eyes sparkled in the lamplight. He leaned in, and their lips met again – this time more confidently, leaving no room for doubt. Will's fingers slid through Mike's hair, his other hand settling on his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Mike could hear his own breathing becoming ragged. The taste of Will – a mix of wine and something sweet – filled his mouth, making him forget where they were.
The kiss deepened, and Will's tongue brushed Mike's lower lip, asking permission, and Mike parted his lips, letting it happen. Their tongues met, and it was like an electric shock that traveled through his entire body, making his fingers grip Will's shirt tighter. His breathing grew more rapid, his knees started to tremble, and his body pressed against Will's, seeking more contact.
Will bit his lower lip, gently but enough that Mike let out a soft, muffled sound he didn't recognize. That sound seemed to spur Will on, because his hand slid lower, down Mike's back, pulling him even closer until their bodies became one.
They kissed for a long time, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, and every time their lips parted, they'd find each other again immediately, as if they couldn't bear even a second apart. Mike could feel his fear melting away, his doubts disappearing, leaving only this closeness, this moment he wanted to remember forever.
Finally, Will pulled back, but didn't take his hands away. He sat so close that Mike could see his chest rising and falling, his half-lidded eyes looking at him with a tender smile. He ran his thumb along Mike's cheek, and his voice when he spoke was hoarse, low, as if he too was lost in the moment.
“You know,” he said, his breath brushing Mike's lips, “I never thought kissing could feel this...good. With you, it's like finding what I've been looking for my whole life. You're such a good kisser, Mike.”
The words fell on him like warm rain, seeping under his skin, spreading something hot, almost unbearable through his body. Such simple, sincere praise hit the center of his chest, and he felt his pulse quicken, his breathing grow shallow. His fingers tightened on Will's shirt. He could feel the warmth starting somewhere in his stomach, traveling lower, and his body beginning to respond to those words and that gaze fixed only on him.
“You have no idea,” Will continued, his voice growing softer, “how much I love looking at you. How much I love feeling you melt when I kiss you. You're so good, Mike. So right.”
Those words, spoken with the same tone he'd used to say “good boy” to the dog, but now directed at him, hit Mike with new force. His dick started to harden, pressing against his jeans, and when Mike noticed, his face flushed. He tried to pull back, tried to hide his erection, but Will wouldn't let him. His hand on Mike's waist tightened, holding him in place, and he leaned closer, his lips brushing the corner of Mike's mouth, then his cheek, his jaw, leaving hot, wet trails on his skin.
“You're blushing,” Will whispered, a slight smirk in his voice. “That's so cute. Do you always do that when you're praised?”
Will's lips slid down his neck, leaving a trail of kisses, each one like an electric shock that echoed in his lower abdomen, making his dick pulse in his jeans.
“You're such a good boy,” Will whispered, his voice low, almost purring, as his lips touched the spot behind Mike's ear. “So obedient. I could kiss you forever and it still wouldn't be enough. Do you like it when I talk like that? When I tell you how good you are?”
Mike couldn't speak. He could only nod, his head empty, his body melting under Will's touch. His own hands slid down Will's back, gripping his skin, trying to hold onto something real as the world dissolved around him.
Will pulled back for a moment, his eyes meeting Mike's. He smiled, and his hand slid across Mike's chest, stopping over his heart.
“I want you,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I want all of you. Are you ready?”
Mike nodded and reached for Will, pulling him closer, pressing into his body as if afraid he'd disappear if he loosened his grip. His own heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the city sounds outside. He kissed Will hungrily, demandingly, as if it were the last kiss of his life, his tongue sliding over Will's lips, seeking more contact.
His glasses slipped down his nose, and Will, smirking, pushed them back up, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Mike's hands moved over Will's body, sliding across his chest, his stomach, lingering at the hem of his shirt, and he was about to pull it off when Will softly but firmly caught his wrist.
“Not so fast,” he whispered, pulling back a millimeter to look into Mike's eyes. “I want you, but I want to do this slowly. I want to remember every moment.”
Mike opened his mouth to argue, but Will was already at his neck, leaving wet traces, and the words died in his throat. His body tensed with every kiss, his dick pulsing in his jeans, demanding attention.
But Will didn't give him more. He kissed his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders, leaving a trail of wet marks, and every time Mike tried to pull him closer, he'd gently pull back, whispering “wait,” “don't rush,” “I want to savor you.” Mike could feel his patience wearing thin, his body burning, and he was ready to beg when Will suddenly slid off the couch and knelt down.
Mike froze, looking down at him. Will knelt on the old wooden floor, and the lamplight fell on his face, making his features almost unreal. He looked up at Mike with a hungry gaze that made Mike nearly choke.
“I want to taste you.”
His fingers slid to Mike's belt, and he slowly, almost ritualistically, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled the zipper down. The sound of metal in the quiet room was louder than it should have been, and Mike felt like he might pass out right there as Will pulled his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock.
It was hard, pulsing, the head red and glistening with precum. Mike watched Will hold his breath for a moment, looking at him. His gaze traveled down the length, and there was a mix of awe and hunger in his eyes. He licked his lips, and Mike's dick twitched at the sight.
“God,” Will whispered, swallowing. “You're so big. I knew you'd be big, but not this much.”
Mike's body reacted instantly, his dick twitching again, and he could hear his breathing becoming ragged. Will leaned in, and his hot breath touched his skin, making Mike shudder.
“I've been dreaming about this for so long,” Will said, before running his tongue over the head, collecting the drop that had beaded there. “I imagined what you'd look like when I was on my knees for you. How you'd moan when I took you in my mouth.”
He wrapped his lips around the head, and Mike's body arched toward him, his fingers digging into Will's shoulders, trying to hold onto something. Will moved slowly, taking him deeper, his tongue sliding down the length, leaving wet trails.
“You're such a good boy,” he whispered, pulling back for a moment. “You sit so well, you take it so well. I want you to feel how much I want you. I want you to know what I'll do to you when we're in bed.”
And Mike's head emptied with every word falling from Will's beautiful lips.
“I want you inside me,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around the base of Mike's cock. “I want to feel you inside me, you'd fill me so well, wouldn't you? Would you do that? I've been dreaming about it since I first saw you.”
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and Mike could only make soft, ragged sounds that escaped his throat as Will quickened his pace, his tongue sliding over the sensitive head while his hand moved in rhythm with his mouth.
“You're so well behaved,” Will whispered. “So obedient. I want you to come for me, Mike...fuck...how I want to taste you.”
He took him in his mouth again, this time deeper, and Mike's body tensed further, knowing he was close. His dick pulsed in Will's mouth, and all those sensations of wetness were making him melt.
“I'm...fuck...close,” he breathed, his voice almost pleading. “W-Will...I'm–”
Will didn't stop. He only sped up, his head moving faster, his hand tightening at the base, and Mike arched, digging his nails into Will's shoulders, leaving marks as he came, filling Will's mouth.
Will didn't pull away, swallowing everything, his tongue still moving, collecting the last drops. Mike shook, his fingers going slack, his legs barely holding him. Will stood, his face flushed, lips swollen, but he looked so cute smiling that Mike wanted to devour him.
“So good for me,” Will said, pecking Mike's lips.
Mike couldn't wait. Every second spent in the living room felt like an eternity. And now his patience had snapped like an overstretched thread. He grabbed Will's wrist, his fingers closing around the thin bone, and pulled him along, not caring that his jeans were still down, his cock already hard again and wet with saliva, sticking out, his glasses sliding down his nose.
He walked across the room without looking back, knowing Will was following, only hearing his quiet, stifled laughter filling the quiet apartment.
“You're so impatient,” Will said as they crossed the bedroom threshold. “Like a naughty puppy who can't wait for his reward.”
Mike tightened his grip on Will's wrist, feeling his pulse under his fingers. He pushed Will onto the bed, and he fell onto the soft mattress, his body bouncing slightly, his laughter growing louder as he threw his head back, looking up at Mike.
“You're not even letting me catch my breath,” he whispered, smirking.
Mike leaned over him, bracing his hands on either side of his head, his body hovering over Will, blocking the lamplight. He looked down at him, studying every part of his face.
“I can't wait,” he rasped, his voice low as if the words were being ripped from the depths of his chest. “I want you now.”
Will smiled, his hand coming up to stroke Mike's cheek, adjusting his glasses before they fell.
“Then do it.”
Mike didn't need to be told twice. His fingers found the hem of Will's shirt, and he pulled it over his head, watching the fabric slide over his skin, revealing his chest. He looked at him – at his collarbones, shoulders, his chest rising and falling with each breath – and a possessive feeling spread through him. He leaned down, his lips brushing Will's neck, leaving a wet mark, and Will's body shuddered beneath his touch.
Mike kissed him slowly, moving down his body, leaving a trail of kisses that grew wetter and hotter. His lips slid over his collarbones, chest, and stomach. Will's skin was so hot, almost burning Mike's lips.
“You're so beautiful,” Mike whispered, lifting his head to look at Will. “I want to remember every moment.”
Will smiled and ran his fingers through Mike's hair. “I'm counting on it,” he said. “Because I'm not letting you go.”
Mike leaned in again, his lips meeting Will's, their tongues sliding against each other, and Mike could swear he could taste himself. He kissed him long, slowly, his hands moving over his body, exploring every line and muscle.
Mike pulled Will's jeans and boxers off, trying not to linger on the beautiful pink cock longer than he wanted to. Then he pulled back and reached for the bedside table, where the lube sat. His fingers shook as he picked it up. He looked at Will, lying before him, completely naked and ready.
“Are you sure?” he asked low.
Will nodded. “I've never been more sure.”
Mike opened the tube and applied lube to his fingers. He tensed as he lowered his hand to Will's entrance, his fingers brushing his skin.
“I'll be gentle,” he whispered.
Will nodded, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at Mike.
Mike slowly pushed in his first finger, feeling Will's muscles contract around him. Will's body tensed for a moment, then relaxed. Mike moved slowly, giving Will time to adjust, and he could hear his breathing grow ragged, his fingers gripping the sheets.
“You're taking me so well,” Mike murmured, adding a second finger. “So warm and soft.”
Will exhaled, his body arching toward him. Mike's fingers slid deeper, stretching him, preparing him for what was to come.
“Please...ngh...Mike…” Will moaned pleadingly. “I'm ready...fuck...I want you.”
Mike pulled his fingers out slowly, hearing the wet sound of their removal echo through the quiet bedroom. Lube glistened on his fingertips, mixed with Will's warmth, and he paused for a moment, watching Will's muscles clench around the emptiness, his entrance twitching slightly, as if seeking return. His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, fogged from the heat radiating from his skin, and he could hear his own breathing becoming ragged, his lungs burning from lack of air.
He applied lube to his cock, his fingers sliding over the hot, pulsing flesh, every nerve responding to the touch. The head was wet, glistening in the dim light, and he watched Will look at it, his pupils dilating, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.
“I want you,” Mike whispered.
He leaned in, and his cock touched Will's entrance, hot and pulsing. Will's muscles twitched, and he began to push in slowly, almost ritualistically, feeling the tip penetrate the ring of muscle, sinking into the hot depth. Will exhaled, his fingers digging into Mike's shoulders, leaving red marks.
Mike paused for a moment, fully inside, Will's muscles clenching around him, enveloping him in their warmth.
“Fuuuck, baby, you’re so tight…You take me so perfectly,” Mike practically purred. “I can feel you clenching around me, like you were made for me.”
He started moving. His hips pulled back, almost fully exiting, leaving only the head inside, then pushing back in, deep and slow, sliding along the hot walls until his balls touched Will's body with each thrust.
Mike quickened his pace, his thrusts growing deeper, more confident. His hands slid under Will's thighs, lifting them, changing the angle of entry. At that angle, his head hit Will's prostate, making him arch toward him, his voice growing louder and more desperate.
“Can you feel it?” Mike rasped. “Feel me touching you from the inside?”
Will couldn't speak, could only nod. Mike smirked and moved faster. His forehead was slick with sweat, streaming down his temples, fogging his glasses.
But suddenly Will flipped them. Mike fell onto his back, his cock slipping out of Will for a moment, as Will straddled him, his eyes gleaming in the half-light. He loomed over Mike, his body hot and slick, and he lowered himself slowly, feeling Mike's cock enter him at a new angle, filling him completely.
“Now it's my turn.”
Will began to move, his hips rising and falling, sliding along Mike's cock. He could feel the long length push into him, pressing against every spot inside, making his head spin. Mike grabbed Will's hips desperately, afraid to let go.
“You're so pretty, Mike,” Will moaned as the cock hit his prostate. “Letting me do whatever I want with you. You're my good boy.”
Mike had reached heaven, where Will called him all those names, and he didn't want to come back. He watched Will, studied every desperate movement. It was an incredible sight that turned Mike on even more, making his cock pulse.
“You fuck me so good,” Will whispered, his voice hoarse. He tried to speed up. “I can feel you with every inch of my body. Your head touches me from the inside, and I melt...ah–”
But suddenly his movements grew less steady. His muscles started to betray him. His hips trembled, and Will paused for a moment, trying to lower himself again, but his body wouldn't obey – his knees buckled, his fingers gripping Mike's shoulders weakened. He groaned, low and desperate, and his head fell forward, forehead touching Mike's.
“I can't,” he breathed, his breath hot on Mike's lips. “I can't anymore...ngh...please, Mike...fuck me...ah...please...I want to feel you so deep.”
His voice broke into something pleading, and he tried again, but his body refused to obey, and he only buried his face deeper in Mike's neck, his hands sliding down to grip his shoulders, as if seeking support.
Mike flipped them in one quick, confident motion, now on top, his body hovering over Will, still inside him. He tossed his glasses onto the pillow with a flick of his head, and the world became slightly blurrier, but it only sharpened his focus on Will.
“I'm here,” he said, his voice almost growling. “I'll take care of you.”
His hips drove forward, entering Will deep. He pulled out almost completely, leaving only the head inside, then pushed back in, hard and sure.
“Feel me filling you?” he whispered, biting Will's earlobe.
Will couldn't speak. His mouth was open, but only low, ragged moans escaped him, growing louder, more desperate. His eyes were half-open, but his gaze was empty, fixed on nothing, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. His thoughts had narrowed to one point – the feeling of Mike's cock inside him, how his head pressed against his prostate. Everything else had disappeared, dissolving into that single sensation.
“You're getting dumb on my cock, aren't you?” Mike purred, his tongue sliding along Will's neck, feeling his pulse beating under his skin. “Your walls are so tight around me. You can't think of anything but me fucking you.”
He quickened his pace, shifting to more frantic movements. His hips slammed into Will's body with a wet, rhythmic sound. He looked down at Will – his parted lips, his empty gaze – and the sight turned him on to the limit.
“Feel me fucking you, Will?” he rasped right into his ear. “Does it feel good when my cock slides inside you? I want you to not be able to think about anything but my big cock fucking you so good.”
Will's fingers clawed at the sheets, his hips arching to meet him, seeking more contact. His mind was empty, feeling only Mike's cock inside him. He felt broken, emptied, but there was something liberating in the emptiness.
“Can you hear me?” Mike's fingers tightened on Will's hips, feeling them tremble under his touch. “Can you hear what I'm saying to you? You're all mine. I want you to remember this feeling forever.”
Will opened his mouth, but only a broken moan came out, his eyes rolling back, his head dropping back, exposing his throat. His body clenched around Mike's cock, and his orgasm crested. Sperm shot onto his stomach, but he couldn't speak. His body shook, his muscles pulsing around Mike's cock.
The clenching walls pushed Mike over the edge. His breathing grew more rapid. His cock pulsed inside Will, his balls tightening, ready to release.
“I'm close,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, almost pleading. “Can I come, Will?...fuck...please tell me. Can I...ah...come inside you?”
Will couldn't speak, but he nodded, his head hitting the pillow, and he tried to whisper “yes,” but only a broken gasp left his throat. Mike saw the nod, felt Will's muscles clench around him, and it was all he needed.
“Imcoming,” he said. “I'm coming inside you.”
His hips slammed into Will's body one last time, and he felt his dick pulse, releasing deep inside, his balls contracting, warmth spreading inside Will. Will let out a long breath, his body clenching around Mike's cock. And they lay there, their breath mingling. His glasses lay on the pillow, fogged and forgotten, and Mike felt his world shrink to the one person lying beneath him.
˚.🦴 ᵎᵎ
The sun rose slowly in Brooklyn, seeping through the blinds and spreading warm golden light through the apartment, settling on the old wooden floor, on stacks of books, on the slightly reddish fur of Chewie sleeping stretched out full length on the couch, and on two cups of cold coffee sitting on the table by the window. The apartment smelled of morning: coffee, pastries from the bakery on the first floor, and that particular scent that appears when two people and a dog have lived together long enough for their smells to mingle into one, shared and warm.
Mike stood at the stove, stirring eggs in a pan, and felt his lips stretching into a smile as he heard Will's footsteps behind him. Chewie, hearing the movement, lifted his head and wagged his tail, thumping it against the couch cushion, but didn't get up – he knew breakfast would be ready in five minutes, and his patience would be rewarded.
Will came up behind him, wrapped his arms around Mike's waist, and buried his nose in his neck, breathing in the scent that had become as familiar to him as his own skin. His breath was warm and steady, his fingers tracing patterns on Mike's stomach, stopping at the hem of his shirt.
“You smell like eggs,” he whispered, his voice sleepy, low, with that particular rasp that only appeared in the mornings.
“And you smell like a sleeping baby,” Mike replied without turning around, but smiling. “Go sit down, I'm almost done.”
Will didn't leave. He stayed, holding Mike, his thumb drawing circles on his shirt, as if he couldn't tear himself away from the touch.
“I love when you cook,” he said softly. “You look so right in my...our kitchen. Like you've always been here.”
Mike's heart tightened at the words. He set down the spatula, turned, and hugged Will back, his hands sliding over his back, fingers tangling in his still-damp-from-the-shower hair.
“I'm here now,” he said in reply. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Chewie, hearing their soft voices, finally got up from the couch and walked over, nudging his nose against their intertwined legs. He wagged his tail and looked at them with the familiar expression of canine patience.
They had breakfast at the small table by the window, and the sunlight fell on their faces. Chewie sat under the table, his head resting on Will's knees, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. Mike watched Will eat, and warmth, almost weightless, spread inside him, a feeling he experienced every day waking up next to him.
“You know,” Will said, setting down his fork and leaning back in his chair, “I've been meaning to ask you something for a while.”
Mike looked up, his eyes meeting Will's, which reflected the sunlight, making them almost amber. He set down his own fork and felt his heart begin to beat faster, though he knew this conversation wouldn't be heavy.
“What?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Will leaned forward, elbows on the table, his smile widening.
“How did you find out...um...how do I put this...How did you find out about your praise kink? I've never asked you about it. You said it started the first day at the salon, but how did you realize that's what you like?”
Mike dropped his gaze to his plate, gripping his fork tighter. He knew this conversation would come eventually, but he hadn't expected it to happen in such an everyday setting, over breakfast.
“I googled it...?” he said, almost embarrassed. “After that day when you called Chewie a ‘good boy,’ I couldn't stop thinking about it. I didn't know what was happening to me, so I just...googled it. Found a post on reddit.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Reddit?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, gaining confidence when he saw Will wasn't laughing at him. “There was a post from a guy asking if he was normal for getting turned on by stuff like that. And I read the comments, and I realized I wasn't the only one. It was such a relief, I guess. That I wasn't some weird pervert.”
Will smirked, sipping his coffee, a spark in his eyes. “You know, I left a comment on that same post.”
Mike froze, his fork hovering in midair, and he stared at Will as if he'd just said he could travel to another dimension with monsters.
“You...what?” he breathed, his voice breaking into a laugh, because it was too absurd to be true. “You're kidding.”
“No,” Will said, his smile turning almost mischievous. “I'm serious. I googled it too after that day at the salon. I couldn't stop thinking about how you dropped your wallet twice in a row, and I thought: ‘This guy is definitely doing something to me, and I need to understand what it is.’”
Mike laughed, leaning back in his chair until it creaked under his weight. Chewie, hearing the noise, lifted his head and stared at them with deep disapproval, but seeing no one was getting up to open the fridge, he lowered his head again.
“So we both read the same posts and commented on them, not knowing we were thinking about each other?”
“Looks like it,” Will said. “It's kind of funny. We could have just talked, but we used good old reddit instead.”
Mike shook his head, his face hot with laughter, and reached across the table, squeezing Will's fingers.
“I love you,” he said, his voice growing softer, almost tender.
Will smiled before leaning in and kissing Mike on the lips, so gently it felt like their first kiss.
“I love you too.”
Fin