StoriesByTroy

The bus doors hissed open and the heat of Camp Blackridge hit me like a slap. Dust swirled around my boots. Barbed wire glinted under the brutal sun. The air smelled thick with male sweat, boot polish, and something sharper like diesel and discipline. I stepped down onto the gravel, duffel bag heavy on my shoulder, and already felt eyes crawling over me.

I was 22. 6’1. Former college lacrosse player with the kind of build that looked good without trying too hard. Defined shoulders, strong legs, lean waist. On paper I looked exactly like the guy who belonged here. In my head I was still the same Callum Rhodes who had proposed to his girlfriend because it was the next logical step in our relationship and then watched the whole thing explode when her father told me I was not man enough and my own father echoed the same shit with a cold laugh. ‘Grow some balls, Callum.’ Public story was that I dropped out and enlisted for discipline and direction. Real story was simpler. I needed to prove I was not weak.

Ryder Callahan spotted me before I even reached the barracks door. Six two of pure American jock energy. Wide shoulders, thick arms, messy brown hair, and a grin that looked like it had never met a problem it could not fuck or fight its way out of. He clapped a heavy hand on my back hard enough to jolt me forward.

"Rhodes, right? Come bunk with me. Come on."

Ryder Callahan did not wait for an answer. He grabbed my duffel bag strap like we had known each other for years and pulled me toward the long low building that served as the main barracks. The common room was wide and open with rows of metal bunks lined up along both walls. Thin mattresses. Gray blankets. The air already smelled like sweat and fresh boot polish even though we had only just arrived. About thirty recruits were milling around, claiming spots, laughing too loud, trying to look tougher than they felt.

Ryder claimed the top bunk in our corner with zero hesitation. He tossed his own bag up and turned to me with that loud golden boy grin. His shirt was already half unbuttoned from the bus ride, revealing a thick chest dusted with dark hair and a dark happy trail that ran down toward the waistband of his pants. His shoulders were wide and powerful, the kind of build that came from years of football and casual lifting. When he reached up to adjust the thin pillow on the top bunk his back muscles flexed under his skin. It was impossible not to notice how solid he looked. "Perfect spot," he said, voice booming even in the noisy room. "Close to the door but not too close to the sergeants. And I get to look down on your ass all night, Rhodes."

He laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world and stripped his shirt off right there in the open common room. No shame at all. Just pure straight guy confidence. His chest was broad and defined, abs tightening as he moved. Sweat from the bus ride still glistened lightly on his skin. He climbed the bunk ladder and his muscular thighs flexed with each step. I felt a strange pull in my stomach as I watched him settle in. It was just appreciation. The guy looked like the kind of athlete I used to compete against back in college. Nothing more.

We started unpacking our gear in the tight space between the bunks. Elbows brushed. Shoulders bumped. The sound of zippers and rustling fabric filled the air around us. Ryder kept talking nonstop about girls back home, some sorority party, and how he was going to crush every PT session. His knee knocked against mine when he bent down to grab something from his bag. The contact was casual but it sent a small jolt through me. He smelled like deodorant mixed with clean sweat and something warmer underneath.

"Here, catch," he said and tossed me one of the issued camp shirts. I caught it and we both changed right there. The common room was full of guys doing the same thing. Fabric whispered against skin. When he turned to slap me on the back his palm landed heavy and warm between my shoulder blades. Then he grinned and gave my ass a firm smack.

"For luck, Rhodes. Don’t be a virgin on day one."

I laughed and shoved him back, telling him to fuck off. The sting from his hand stayed on my skin longer than it should have. It felt too familiar for two guys who had just met. But that was how guys were in places like this. Bro shit. Nothing deeper.

A quieter voice cut through the noise a few minutes later. Julian Park stood near the supply table handing out the rest of the gear. He was five nine, slim but toned, with messy black hair and warm eyes. He wore his glasses even though most guys had already ditched theirs for the day. When he passed me my boots he gave a small calm smile and said, "Hey Callum, nice to meet you. You doing good?"

I nodded. Something about the way he asked made the knot in my chest loosen just a little. First person who actually seemed to notice I might not be as steady as I looked.

The platoon formed up outside under the blazing sun a short while later. Thirty new recruits standing in straight lines, sweat already soaking through our shirts. Then Sergeant Dominic Ashford walked out.

He was six four of pure commanding presence. Dirty blond hair cropped brutally short and sun bleached from years in the field. His skin was weathered from desert tours, stretched tight over a body built for war. Broad shoulders. Thick chest. Powerful arms that made the uniform sleeves look painted on. Veins stood out along his forearms when he moved. His hazel eyes scanned the line like they could cut through every lie we told ourselves. He moved slowly down the ranks. Boots crunching on the gravel. When he stopped directly in front of me the entire world narrowed. He towered over my six one frame. Heat rolled off his body in waves. I caught the faint scent of his sweat mixed with sharp aftershave. His eyes locked on mine. The stare lasted too long. Two full seconds past anything normal.

There was a small smudge of dust on my t-shirt collar. Sergeant Ashford noticed it immediately. He reached out with two thick fingers and brushed the dust away in a slow deliberate motion. His knuckles grazed the hollow of my throat as he cleaned it off. The touch was firm and unhurried. Warm calloused skin against mine.

"Fix your posture, Recruit Rhodes."

His voice was low and clipped with that British accent. Rough around the edges like gravel under boots. The contact lingered for half a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled his hand back.

He stepped back but did not walk away. Instead he began pacing slowly left and right in front of the entire platoon. His broad shoulders rolled with each step. The uniform stretched tight across his thick chest as he moved. Every recruit stood straighter under his gaze.

"Welcome to Camp Blackridge, Recruits" he said, voice carrying clear and commanding without shouting. "You are no longer civilians. You are recruits. For the next twelve weeks you belong to me. I will break every weak habit you brought with you. I will rebuild you into soldiers.” “You will sweat. You will bleed. You will learn that excuses mean nothing here."

He stopped pacing for a moment and looked straight at me again.

"I expect perfection from everyone, Recruit Rhodes."

His hazel eyes pinned me in place. Then he continued pacing, voice rising just enough to reach every man in the formation.

"I expect obedience. And I will know every single one of you better than you know yourselves."

The platoon stayed frozen for half a second. Then the response came, slow and uneven at first.

"Yes sir..."

Ashford’s expression hardened. He took one step forward, voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"I cannot hear you, Recruits."

The entire platoon snapped to attention. Voices exploded together in one loud unified shout.

"Sir, yes sir!"

The sound rolled across the training ground, deep and masculine. Thirty male voices booming at once. Chests puffed out. Shoulders back. The raw energy of it hit me in the chest. It felt like something primal. Something powerful. Manly woo woo in its purest form. Sergeant Ashford turned sharply on his heel and faced us all.

"Dismissed." The squad finally started to disperse. My heart was still hammering against my ribs when Ryder elbowed me with that easy grin. "Dude, he is already eyeing you up. Better watch your ass."

His words landed with a laugh but they stuck in my head like glue. I forced a smirk and shoved him back, telling him to shut the fuck up, but the comment refused to leave me alone. Sergeant Ashford had not just looked at me. He had touched me. Those thick fingers brushing my throat. The way he said my name like he was already tasting it. I could still feel the ghost of that touch hours later.

Back in the common room, the air had grown thicker with the smell of thirty sweaty bodies unpacking and claiming space. Alistair Beckett was already leaning against a locker near our bunks. He was six foot even, lean and wiry with pale skin and sharp cheekbones that made him look like he belonged in some fancy London boardroom instead of boot camp. His dark brown hair was trimmed neat and his cold grey eyes cut through the room like knives. He had clearly overheard Ryder claiming the bunks because the moment we walked closer, he muttered just loud enough for me to hear.

"Daddy’s boy always gets the good bunks, don't they?"

The words dripped with sarcasm. His gaze raked over my body slowly from my chest down to my legs and back up again. It was not friendly. Not even close. There was jealousy burning behind those eyes. Sharp and immediate. Like I had already taken something that belonged to him. I clocked it right away but I did not react. I was still too busy trying to shake the memory of Sergeant Ashford’s fingers on my throat and the low growl of his British voice saying my name.

Alistair did not say anything else. He just kept watching as Ryder and I dropped our remaining gear. The tension rolled off him in waves but I pushed it to the back of my mind. There were bigger things taking up space in my head right now. The rest of the afternoon blurred by in a haze of orientation briefings and more gear checks. By the time the sun dropped low over Camp Blackridge, the common room had settled into a heavy kind of quiet. Guys were sprawled on their bunks, some already half asleep from the long travel day. The lights dimmed for the night and the overhead fluorescents buzzed once before going out completely.

I lay on the bottom bunk in nothing but the thin issued boxers. The mattress was hard and the blanket barely covered me. My skin still felt sticky from the heat of the day. Above me the bunk creaked as Ryder shifted his weight. His thick arm suddenly dropped down from the top bunk. His hand dangled inches from my face. I could smell him clearly now. Sweat. Deodorant. Pure masculine skin that had been working hard all day.

"You smell like nervous virgin, Rhodes," he whispered, voice low and playful in the dark. The proximity made the words feel way too intimate. His fingers brushed my shoulder once. Casual. Accidental. Maybe not.

I did not answer. I just lay there staring at the metal frame above me while my mind spun in circles.

The broken engagement kept flashing behind my eyes. My ex telling me there was no spark anymore. That I felt too safe. Too careful. My fathers voice echoing right after her. Grow some balls, Callum. And now here I was surrounded by shirtless sweaty straight guys who all seemed so comfortable in their own skin. Ryder with his easy laughs and casual touches. Sergeant Ashford with his commanding stare and those thick fingers on my throat.

My body was reacting whether I wanted it to or not. I was rock hard under the thin blanket. I had not jerked off in over a week because of all the moving and stress. Was this just built up tension? Or were all these men around me actually doing something to me that my girlfriend never could?

I did not know what the fuck to make of it.

I told myself it was just the heat. But my cock was already half hard and the bootcamp had barely begun.

---

This scene is from my series The Men In My Barracks. It’s a military love story between Callum, Ryder and their Sarge Ashford.

Checkout my Patreon if you want more of this filthy triangle.

The bus doors hissed open and the heat of Camp Blackridge hit me like a slap. Dust swirled around my boots. Barbed wire glinted under the brutal sun. The air smelled thick with male sweat, boot polish, and something sharper like diesel and discipline. I stepped down onto the gravel, duffel bag heavy on my shoulder, and already felt eyes crawling over me.

I was 22. 6’1. Former college lacrosse player with the kind of build that looked good without trying too hard. Defined shoulders, strong legs, lean waist. On paper I looked exactly like the guy who belonged here. In my head I was still the same Callum Rhodes who had proposed to his girlfriend because it was the next logical step in our relationship and then watched the whole thing explode when her father told me I was not man enough and my own father echoed the same shit with a cold laugh. ‘Grow some balls, Callum.’ Public story was that I dropped out and enlisted for discipline and direction. Real story was simpler. I needed to prove I was not weak.

Ryder Callahan spotted me before I even reached the barracks door. Six two of pure American jock energy. Wide shoulders, thick arms, messy brown hair, and a grin that looked like it had never met a problem it could not fuck or fight its way out of. He clapped a heavy hand on my back hard enough to jolt me forward.

"Rhodes, right? Come bunk with me. Come on."

Ryder Callahan did not wait for an answer. He grabbed my duffel bag strap like we had known each other for years and pulled me toward the long low building that served as the main barracks. The common room was wide and open with rows of metal bunks lined up along both walls. Thin mattresses. Gray blankets. The air already smelled like sweat and fresh boot polish even though we had only just arrived. About thirty recruits were milling around, claiming spots, laughing too loud, trying to look tougher than they felt.

Ryder claimed the top bunk in our corner with zero hesitation. He tossed his own bag up and turned to me with that loud golden boy grin. His shirt was already half unbuttoned from the bus ride, revealing a thick chest dusted with dark hair and a dark happy trail that ran down toward the waistband of his pants. His shoulders were wide and powerful, the kind of build that came from years of football and casual lifting. When he reached up to adjust the thin pillow on the top bunk his back muscles flexed under his skin. It was impossible not to notice how solid he looked. "Perfect spot," he said, voice booming even in the noisy room. "Close to the door but not too close to the sergeants. And I get to look down on your ass all night, Rhodes."

He laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world and stripped his shirt off right there in the open common room. No shame at all. Just pure straight guy confidence. His chest was broad and defined, abs tightening as he moved. Sweat from the bus ride still glistened lightly on his skin. He climbed the bunk ladder and his muscular thighs flexed with each step. I felt a strange pull in my stomach as I watched him settle in. It was just appreciation. The guy looked like the kind of athlete I used to compete against back in college. Nothing more.

We started unpacking our gear in the tight space between the bunks. Elbows brushed. Shoulders bumped. The sound of zippers and rustling fabric filled the air around us. Ryder kept talking nonstop about girls back home, some sorority party, and how he was going to crush every PT session. His knee knocked against mine when he bent down to grab something from his bag. The contact was casual but it sent a small jolt through me. He smelled like deodorant mixed with clean sweat and something warmer underneath.

"Here, catch," he said and tossed me one of the issued camp shirts. I caught it and we both changed right there. The common room was full of guys doing the same thing. Fabric whispered against skin. When he turned to slap me on the back his palm landed heavy and warm between my shoulder blades. Then he grinned and gave my ass a firm smack.

"For luck, Rhodes. Don’t be a virgin on day one."

I laughed and shoved him back, telling him to fuck off. The sting from his hand stayed on my skin longer than it should have. It felt too familiar for two guys who had just met. But that was how guys were in places like this. Bro shit. Nothing deeper.

A quieter voice cut through the noise a few minutes later. Julian Park stood near the supply table handing out the rest of the gear. He was five nine, slim but toned, with messy black hair and warm eyes. He wore his glasses even though most guys had already ditched theirs for the day. When he passed me my boots he gave a small calm smile and said, "Hey Callum, nice to meet you. You doing good?"

I nodded. Something about the way he asked made the knot in my chest loosen just a little. First person who actually seemed to notice I might not be as steady as I looked.

The platoon formed up outside under the blazing sun a short while later. Thirty new recruits standing in straight lines, sweat already soaking through our shirts. Then Sergeant Dominic Ashford walked out.

He was six four of pure commanding presence. Dirty blond hair cropped brutally short and sun bleached from years in the field. His skin was weathered from desert tours, stretched tight over a body built for war. Broad shoulders. Thick chest. Powerful arms that made the uniform sleeves look painted on. Veins stood out along his forearms when he moved. His hazel eyes scanned the line like they could cut through every lie we told ourselves. He moved slowly down the ranks. Boots crunching on the gravel. When he stopped directly in front of me the entire world narrowed. He towered over my six one frame. Heat rolled off his body in waves. I caught the faint scent of his sweat mixed with sharp aftershave. His eyes locked on mine. The stare lasted too long. Two full seconds past anything normal.

There was a small smudge of dust on my t-shirt collar. Sergeant Ashford noticed it immediately. He reached out with two thick fingers and brushed the dust away in a slow deliberate motion. His knuckles grazed the hollow of my throat as he cleaned it off. The touch was firm and unhurried. Warm calloused skin against mine.

"Fix your posture, Recruit Rhodes."

His voice was low and clipped with that British accent. Rough around the edges like gravel under boots. The contact lingered for half a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled his hand back.

He stepped back but did not walk away. Instead he began pacing slowly left and right in front of the entire platoon. His broad shoulders rolled with each step. The uniform stretched tight across his thick chest as he moved. Every recruit stood straighter under his gaze.

"Welcome to Camp Blackridge, Recruits" he said, voice carrying clear and commanding without shouting. "You are no longer civilians. You are recruits. For the next twelve weeks you belong to me. I will break every weak habit you brought with you. I will rebuild you into soldiers.” “You will sweat. You will bleed. You will learn that excuses mean nothing here."

He stopped pacing for a moment and looked straight at me again.

"I expect perfection from everyone, Recruit Rhodes."

His hazel eyes pinned me in place. Then he continued pacing, voice rising just enough to reach every man in the formation.

"I expect obedience. And I will know every single one of you better than you know yourselves."

The platoon stayed frozen for half a second. Then the response came, slow and uneven at first.

"Yes sir..."

Ashford’s expression hardened. He took one step forward, voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"I cannot hear you, Recruits."

The entire platoon snapped to attention. Voices exploded together in one loud unified shout.

"Sir, yes sir!"

The sound rolled across the training ground, deep and masculine. Thirty male voices booming at once. Chests puffed out. Shoulders back. The raw energy of it hit me in the chest. It felt like something primal. Something powerful. Manly woo woo in its purest form. Sergeant Ashford turned sharply on his heel and faced us all.

"Dismissed." The squad finally started to disperse. My heart was still hammering against my ribs when Ryder elbowed me with that easy grin. "Dude, he is already eyeing you up. Better watch your ass."

His words landed with a laugh but they stuck in my head like glue. I forced a smirk and shoved him back, telling him to shut the fuck up, but the comment refused to leave me alone. Sergeant Ashford had not just looked at me. He had touched me. Those thick fingers brushing my throat. The way he said my name like he was already tasting it. I could still feel the ghost of that touch hours later.

Back in the common room, the air had grown thicker with the smell of thirty sweaty bodies unpacking and claiming space. Alistair Beckett was already leaning against a locker near our bunks. He was six foot even, lean and wiry with pale skin and sharp cheekbones that made him look like he belonged in some fancy London boardroom instead of boot camp. His dark brown hair was trimmed neat and his cold grey eyes cut through the room like knives. He had clearly overheard Ryder claiming the bunks because the moment we walked closer, he muttered just loud enough for me to hear.

"Daddy’s boy always gets the good bunks, don't they?"

The words dripped with sarcasm. His gaze raked over my body slowly from my chest down to my legs and back up again. It was not friendly. Not even close. There was jealousy burning behind those eyes. Sharp and immediate. Like I had already taken something that belonged to him. I clocked it right away but I did not react. I was still too busy trying to shake the memory of Sergeant Ashford’s fingers on my throat and the low growl of his British voice saying my name.

Alistair did not say anything else. He just kept watching as Ryder and I dropped our remaining gear. The tension rolled off him in waves but I pushed it to the back of my mind. There were bigger things taking up space in my head right now. The rest of the afternoon blurred by in a haze of orientation briefings and more gear checks. By the time the sun dropped low over Camp Blackridge, the common room had settled into a heavy kind of quiet. Guys were sprawled on their bunks, some already half asleep from the long travel day. The lights dimmed for the night and the overhead fluorescents buzzed once before going out completely.

I lay on the bottom bunk in nothing but the thin issued boxers. The mattress was hard and the blanket barely covered me. My skin still felt sticky from the heat of the day. Above me the bunk creaked as Ryder shifted his weight. His thick arm suddenly dropped down from the top bunk. His hand dangled inches from my face. I could smell him clearly now. Sweat. Deodorant. Pure masculine skin that had been working hard all day.

"You smell like nervous virgin, Rhodes," he whispered, voice low and playful in the dark. The proximity made the words feel way too intimate. His fingers brushed my shoulder once. Casual. Accidental. Maybe not.

I did not answer. I just lay there staring at the metal frame above me while my mind spun in circles.

The broken engagement kept flashing behind my eyes. My ex telling me there was no spark anymore. That I felt too safe. Too careful. My fathers voice echoing right after her. Grow some balls, Callum. And now here I was surrounded by shirtless sweaty straight guys who all seemed so comfortable in their own skin. Ryder with his easy laughs and casual touches. Sergeant Ashford with his commanding stare and those thick fingers on my throat.

My body was reacting whether I wanted it to or not. I was rock hard under the thin blanket. I had not jerked off in over a week because of all the moving and stress. Was this just built up tension? Or were all these men around me actually doing something to me that my girlfriend never could?

I did not know what the fuck to make of it.

I told myself it was just the heat. But my cock was already half hard and the bootcamp had barely begun.

---

This scene is from my series The Men In My Barracks. It’s a military love story between Callum, Ryder and their Sarge Ashford.

Checkout my Patreon if you want more of this filthy triangle.

When Matteo asked me to be his boyfriend, I laughed. Not because it was funny, exactly. More because I thought it had to be a joke. Matteo jokes about everything. He’s the kind of guy who flirts with waiters just to make them blush, then tips them like he’s doing penance for it. So when he leaned across the café table that morning and said, completely straight-faced, “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend,” I nearly spat out my espresso.

He didn’t even flinch.

That was my first clue he was serious.

Now, before I sound like the kind of guy who gets swept into other people’s chaos, I should probably explain something. Matteo Romano has a gift. He can make absolutely anything sound like a good idea. Even this.

He said it like we were planning a road trip or adopting a dog. “Just for a bit,” he told me. “To get her off my back.”

“Her,” of course, being Jessica Moretti.

Jessica and Matteo dated for almost two years, and for a while they were the kind of couple that looked like an ad for Italian summers. Gorgeous, loud, inseparable. But things between them started to crack somewhere between the arguments about work and the jealousy that Matteo swears he never understood. When they finally broke up, it should have been clean. Except it wasn’t.

Because Jessica is still his roommate.

And Matteo, being Matteo, still insists on being the nice guy who won’t kick her out.

They live in a beautiful old apartment near the waterfront in Palermo. Big windows, terracotta walls, a tiny balcony that looks like it should be in a postcard. It’s the kind of place no one gives up easily. Especially not Matteo. He loves that apartment almost as much as he loves his morning cappuccino and his Vespa. And finding a new place in Palermo right now is impossible unless you are either rich or lucky, and Matteo is neither.

So he stayed.

And she stayed.

And now, apparently, she refuses to believe it’s really over between them.

According to him, Jessica has convinced herself that Matteo just “needs time.” She’s been watching him like a hawk, waiting for him to crawl back. He says she still asks who he’s texting, still lingers in the kitchen when he brings someone over. Which, lately, he hasn’t.

That’s where I come in.

Matteo doesn’t want to date anyone right now. He says he is done with women for the moment. Which would have been fine, except his friends will not stop trying to set him up. And Jessica will not stop acting like his fiancée. So, in his head, the logical solution was to tell everyone he is already seeing someone.

A man.

Me.

I swear, I thought it was a prank.

I told him he was insane.

He just grinned at me like he was offering me a cigarette after sex. “Come on, Adrian,” he said, that lazy smirk curling the side of his mouth. “You’re the only one I trust to make it believable.”

Believable. Right.

The word still makes something in my chest tighten a little.

Because the truth is, if there is anyone who could make that kind of lie feel real, it would probably be him.

Matteo and I met five years ago, back when I moved to Sicily for work. He was the first person to show me around Palermo. I was the quiet new guy in the office, the only openly gay one, and Matteo was the loud, charming, everyone’s-favorite-person type. He had a girlfriend back then, a different one, and a laugh that could fill a bar. Somehow we ended up friends.

We still are.

Except sometimes I think being friends with him is like trying to stand too close to the sun. He’s too bright. Too easy to look at.

I have spent years pretending I don’t notice things about him. The way his shirt clings to his chest when he laughs too hard. The small scar on his bicep that he always shows off with a flex. The way he stands with one hand in his pocket like he knows he’s being watched. I have pretended not to look, not to think about how his voice drops when he’s tired or how it feels when he slings his arm around me like it’s nothing.

So when he asked me to be his fake boyfriend, I should have said no. I should have said, find someone else, this is dangerous.

But I didn’t.

Because he looked at me that way he does when he’s asking for something impossible, like it’s already decided.

And maybe because a small, stupid part of me wanted to know what it would feel like.

To have him call me his boyfriend. Even if it was a lie.

So I nodded. Like an idiot.

It was supposed to be harmless.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

Just a bit of acting. A few photos. Maybe a dinner or two. Something to convince Jessica he has moved on. Something to convince his friends to stop throwing girls at him. Matteo gets his peace, Jessica gets closure, and I get… what?

A front row seat to my own emotional disaster, probably.

But I told him yes anyway.

He texted me today with a plan that sounded way too casual for what it was. Come by tonight. Jess wants to meet my boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Even reading it made my stomach twist.

I sat on my bed, phone glowing in my hand, re-reading the message like it might change. The words were so simple. So easy.

And somehow, I already knew this was going to end badly.

Still, I typed back: Sure babe. What time?

Then I tossed the phone aside and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to remind myself this was all pretend.

Just a favor for my best friend.

Nothing more.

Right? ________________

By the time I reached Matteo’s apartment that evening, my stomach was a tight knot of nerves and caffeine. The kind of nerves you get before a first date, except this wasn’t one. Not really.

His building looked the same as always, a faded ochre block with a cracked blue door and potted plants spilling out of the stairwell. The air smelled faintly of basil and sea salt. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside, people talking, scooters passing, someone laughing in the next street over. Palermo on a Friday night always feels alive, and somehow that made me even more aware of what I was walking into.

The second I knocked, the door swung open.

“Babe,” Matteo said with a grin, arms open, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Before I could react, he pulled me into a hug. Tight. Warm. He smelled like cologne and red wine, and his shirt was soft against my cheek. My arms went up automatically, half responding, half trying not to look like a complete idiot.

“Hey,” I managed, my voice somewhere between casual and strangled.

“Come in,” he said, keeping one arm draped over my shoulders as he guided me inside. “Jessica’s in the living room.”

Great. Straight to the lion’s den.

Jessica looked up as we entered, her expression somewhere between polite and suspicious. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed neatly, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked as composed as ever, hair smooth, makeup perfect. She gave me a small smile that did not reach her eyes.

“Adrian,” she said smoothly. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to match her tone. “Good to see you, Jess.”

She set her wine down, head tilting slightly. “So… Matteo tells me you two are together now?”

Her words were sharp, almost playful, but I caught the way her fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Matteo laughed, sitting down beside her. “You sound surprised.”

“Well,” she said lightly, “you could have mentioned that your best friend was suddenly your boyfriend. Bit of a jump, isn’t it?”

Matteo shrugged and looked at me. “It just happened.”

I nodded like a man who had rehearsed this scene all week. “Yeah. Unexpected, I guess.”

Jessica’s smile thinned. “Right.”

Matteo reached for the bottle of wine and poured me a glass without asking. “Relax, babe,” he said, handing it to me. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

I almost dropped the glass. The word babe hung in the air like smoke, curling around the room, thick and deliberate. Jessica’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp and assessing.

“Babe,” she repeated softly, a hint of disbelief curling her mouth.

Matteo ignored it completely. He leaned back on the sofa, arm stretching casually behind me, fingers brushing the back of my neck. It was nothing, just an easy, friendly gesture. Except it wasn’t. Not to me. His fingertips barely touched my skin, but it sent a strange rush through me all the same.

I forced myself to breathe normally.

“So,” Jessica said after a moment, pretending to sound casual. “How did this even start? You two have known each other for years.”

Matteo smirked. “Exactly. Who better, right?”

Her gaze shifted to me, curious and sharp. “Adrian? I thought you were seeing that blond guy last week. The one from the café near the market?”

I could feel my pulse in my ears. “Oh. Him. No, he’s just a friend.”

Jessica’s smile widened, falsely sweet. “You have a lot of those.”

Before I could answer, Matteo jumped in. “Jess, come on. Can we not interrogate my boyfriend at dinner?”

She blinked. “Interrogate?”

He leaned forward, his voice smooth but firm. “Yeah. You are making him nervous.”

“I’m not—” she started, then stopped. Her mouth pressed into a tight line.

Matteo grinned and reached for my hand, giving it a light squeeze. “You’re fine, babe. She’s just curious.”

I nodded, pretending I was completely comfortable. My palm was sweaty against his.

The rest of dinner passed in that strange, careful rhythm. Jessica asked polite questions and smiled too much. Matteo played his part too well. Every time she looked away, he would brush his thumb over my hand or rest his knee against mine, small gestures that probably looked casual to anyone else. To me, they felt enormous.

He poured me wine like it was second nature, laughed a little too loudly at my jokes, leaned in close enough for his shoulder to press against mine. At one point, when Jessica stood to grab another bottle, he leaned back and stretched, his arm settling behind me again, fingers grazing my hair.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured under his breath.

“Am I?” I muttered back. “Because I feel like I’m about to pass out.”

He grinned. “You look perfect.”

Jessica came back before I could respond. Her eyes darted between us, taking in the space that barely existed anymore. She sat down, quieter now, sipping her wine with the kind of silence that says too much.

After a while, she excused herself, claiming she had an early morning.

The moment her bedroom door closed, Matteo let out a low whistle. “That went well.”

I turned to him, still half stunned. “That went… something.”

He laughed, tossing an arm around me again, this time looser, more relaxed. “She totally bought it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely. You saw her face.”

“Yeah. She looked like she wanted to stab you with a fork.”

He laughed harder, the sound filling the small room. “Jealousy looks good on her.”

“On her?” I asked. “You mean terrifying.”

He looked at me then, really looked. “Thanks for doing this, Adrian. I owe you one.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “Just… maybe keep the ‘babe’ thing to a minimum next time?”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “You didn’t like it?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. “It was… convincing.”

“That’s the point.”

He was still smiling when I got up to leave. I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the door, the same lazy warmth in his voice when he said, “Text me when you get home, yeah?”

Outside, the air was cooler, quiet. I started walking, the sound of my shoes on the cobblestones too loud. I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the weight of his arm behind me, the warmth of his voice when he said babe.

This was supposed to be fake.

So why did my heart forget?

When I finally got home, the city was still buzzing outside my window. I dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, running the whole evening through my head. The laughter, the looks, the way his hand lingered on mine longer than it needed to.

It was all pretend. Every bit of it.

Except it didn’t feel like pretending.

I checked my phone without meaning to. No new messages. I told myself to sleep. That I was overthinking. That this was just the first of many awkward nights, and eventually it would stop feeling so strange.

Then the screen lit up.

Matteo: Thanks for helping me dude. I hope she bought it.

I stared at it for a long time before replying.

Adrian: Yeah. Totally.

But even as I sent it, I knew she hadn’t.

And maybe, just maybe, neither had I.

---

This scene is from my series Playing Boyfriends. It’s a love story between Adrian and his straight friend Matteo.