My Best Friend's Brother Dylan Ch. 02

My Best Friend's Brother Dylan Was Supposed to Be Straight Part 2

Part 2: Dylan Was Right Behind Me

I froze in the doorway.

His voice stopped me cold, low and rough behind me like a half-caught thought.

"Yo, Troy. Were you..."

Every molecule in my body held its breath.

Was I what? Looking? Staring? Getting hard at the sight of his flexed back in the mirror while he adjusted his waistband, abs catching the light like something sculpted?

My throat dried out in real time.

I turned around, heart punching my ribs.

Dylan stood half-shadowed by the hallway light, arms crossed against his chest. His biceps looked stupid big in the short sleeves of that faded tee. He gave me a look that was hard to read--serious, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe I was just projecting everything I didn't want to admit onto the curves of his mouth.

He blinked. "Were you... pissed earlier?"

I stared.

"Like, when I called you spaghetti noodle or whatever. You dipped a little after that, and I was like--shit, maybe I pushed too hard. I'm just messing, bro. You know that, right?"

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Yeah," I said quickly. "No, it's fine. I wasn't pissed. I just needed to pee."

Dylan scratched his neck. "Cool. Just checkin'. You seemed quiet, and Jake mentioned you've been going through some stuff with school and shit, so..." His voice softened just a notch. "Didn't wanna be a dick."

It was probably the most earnest thing I'd ever heard him say. It almost made me feel worse.

Because it meant he had no clue.

I smiled a little, kept it safe. "Thanks."

He nodded once, then stepped back into his room. The door clicked shut behind him.

And I stood in the hallway like a complete idiot, warm all over, trying not to relive the exact moment when I'd watched him in the mirror--shirtless, posing without realizing it, muscles flexing casually like he was born in a Nike ad. I hadn't meant to look. I just... hadn't stopped myself. And when he tilted his head slightly, almost like he saw me in the reflection--

God. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Later that night, Jake and I were already halfway through The Prestige, lights low, the glow of the TV flickering over us while we lounged on the big floor mat he kept rolled up in the basement. It was this old camping thing--soft enough to be comfy, but thin enough to feel every shift of the other person's body.

Jake had tossed a blanket over us both and was halfway into a bag of kettle corn.

"I swear this is Nolan's best movie," he said, mouth half-full. "Bale's insane in this."

"I'm just here for Bowie as Tesla," I muttered, already lowkey distracted.

And then I heard footsteps.

Dylan.

He came down the stairs in a loose tank top clung to his chest, low at the sides so his ribs and the cut of his torso were on full display., just wearing those soft gym shorts, the waistband slung low. The kind of shirt that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed in it. Soft. Faded. Comfortable in the way only Dylan could pull off.

His gym shorts hung low on his hips, and he scratched absently at his stomach as he yawned, casual as ever.

"You guys still up?"

Dylan didn't answer right away.

Then, with a little grunt, he padded over in his low-slung gym shorts and a loose tank top, the kind that gapped wide at the sides and clung in all the right places.

"Scooch over, spaghetti noodle. This is the best part."

He didn't wait for a response. Just dropped down beside me on the mat, barely any space between us. Then he tugged at the blanket like he owned it and slid under without asking.

I stiffened. Like--everywhere.

His thigh brushed mine. His scent hit me like a sucker punch--clean, warm, something vaguely woodsy, like cedar and sweat and body wash. He laid on his side facing the screen, muscle pressed to muscle, easy like this was normal. Like we did this all the time.

We watched in silence for a few minutes, the movie playing out in flickers of light across our faces. A scene came on--some tense moment between the magicians, one of them bleeding and dramatic--and Dylan muttered under his breath, "Dude needs a spotter. That's why I don't train solo."

I huffed a laugh, trying not to react too much. "Yeah, that's what you took from that scene."

"What? Lifting safely is important," he said, voice low and lazy.

More time passed. I couldn't focus on the film. I was too aware of how close we were, how his arm shifted every so often, brushing my back like an accident. How under the blanket, our legs kept touching, not enough to be obvious, but too much to ignore.

About thirty minutes in, I felt Jake start to nod off beside me.

It always happened around this point. Every time we rewatched The Prestige, he conked out somewhere in act two. Like muscle memory. First came the head droop, then the occasional twitch, and then the deep, unconscious breathing.

First came the head droop, then the occasional twitch, and then the deep, unconscious breathing.

On my right, Jake was out cold--mouth slightly open, one arm still draped over the popcorn bag like it was a teddy bear.

And when I looked to my left, where Dylan was curled under the blanket with me, I saw him asleep too. On his side. Very close to me. His breathing was slow, lips slightly parted, the rise and fall of his chest steady and warm. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful to be real.

I swallowed and reached for the remote, killing the screen with a soft click. The room went dim, all the leftover light pooling around the edges.

And I was just... lying there, like fuck.

He was so close.

I couldn't face him. I didn't trust myself not to stare, not to memorize every little thing about the way his jaw looked in the dark, the curve of his mouth, the way his lashes touched his cheekbone.

So I turned my head toward the right, away from him.

I shifted onto my side--my usual sleeping position, small spoon style, knees tucked up slightly, hands folded near my chest. It was the only way I ever got comfortable.

And the wild part?

Dylan was in the same position.

Mirroring mine. But just a few inches behind me.

I didn't move. I couldn't. If I did, I'd wake him. Or worse--I'd lean back, just enough to close the gap, and feel too much.

So I stayed still, breathing shallow, heart stuttering like it didn't know what body it belonged to.

I tried to sleep.

Tried not to think.

Tried not to feel the heat behind me.

Tried not to wonder what would happen if I pushed back just a little.

But I couldn't stop wondering.

But a few minutes in, Dylan shifted behind me--slow, heavy, like the kind of movement people make when they're deep in sleep. He stretched a little, adjusted, and then... settled back in.

Closer this time.

His thigh slid forward, the blanket rustling softly as his body aligned with mine. I felt his chest warm against my shoulders, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck.

And then--

His hips rolled forward.

His entire front pressed to my back, solid and warm. His muscular thigh tucked behind mine. And right between us, firm and thick and unmistakable, his crotch rested against the curve of my ass.

I froze. My breath caught.

Was he asleep?

Did he mean to do that?

I couldn't tell. He didn't say anything. Didn't move again. He just... stayed there. Curled behind me like it was natural, like this was what we always did.

Every part of me was trembling.

I knew I should stay still. That Jake was just a few feet away, passed out, his arm still draped over the empty popcorn bag. That this could all be some kind of accidental sleep-tangle.

But I couldn't help it.

I pressed back--just a little. Just enough to feel more of him. The heat. The shape. The weight.

God.

I backed my ass into him, slow and careful, like I could pretend it was unintentional. Like I wasn't desperate to feel more.

He was hard.

There was no mistaking it.

My whole body buzzed. My breath came shallow. My dick ached against the inside of my shorts.

Still, he didn't move.

And just when I started to think he really was asleep--that maybe I was imagining it all--

I felt it.

The softest breath, right at the base of my neck. Warm. Intentional.

Then, in a low, husky whisper that slid down my spine like smoke:

"... Troy."

I went still.

His hips shifted again--just the faintest press. Enough to make my skin burn.

"... You awake right now?"

My throat went dry. I couldn't speak.

Another pause. His breath deep, steady.

Then--

" I saw you looking at me earlier tonight. In my room. When I was flexing in the mirror."

- StoriesByTroy

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