The rental car smelled like stale cigarettes and regret, a fitting aroma for Zeke's eighteen years culminating in being dumped on the doorstep of a father he barely knew existed. Eighteen. Supposedly an adult, but feeling more like a package marked 'Return to Sender' after Mom decided 'another man' was more appealing than, well, him, apparently. The house was a boxy structure on a street that faded into anonymity. He killed the engine, the silence deafening after the road noise. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
The front door opened before he could even get out. Standing there wasn't the vague, flickering image from ancient, faded photographs. This man was solid. Hulking. Mark. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, a few strands of silver catching the weak afternoon sun. Forehead furrowed, a roadmap of lines Zeke didn't recognize. But it was the sheer size of him that slammed into Zeke first. Broad shoulders stretching a simple t-shirt tight across a chest that looked carved from granite. Biceps bulging, thick forearms crossed over a flat stomach. Mark wasn't just tall; he was wide, dense, like a tree trunk. Forty-five, Mom had said. Forty-five looked good, looked dangerously good on Mark, a brutal kind of handsomeness Zeke wasn't prepared for.
"Zeke," the voice rumbled, deeper than Zeke expected, like gravel rolling downhill. No warmth, just recognition.
"Uh. Hey. Mark." Zeke managed, climbing out, feeling small and insubstantial under that gaze. The man's eyes were dark, appraising, giving nothing away.
Mark didn't offer a hand, didn't offer a hug. He just nodded towards the door. "Come in. Got a room ready."
The house inside was sparse. Clean lines, functional furniture. No clutter, no softness. It felt like a place designed for one large man who didn't need much besides space to exist. Zeke hauled his duffel bag, Mark taking the heavier suitcase with ridiculous ease, muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt. Zeke watched the movement, a knot tightening low in his gut that had nothing to do with nerves about meeting his dad. It was purely, crudely, physical.
The room was basic. Bed, dresser, desk. A window looking out onto a patch of dry grass. "Bathroom's down the hall," Mark said, dropping the suitcase like it weighed nothing. "Kitchen's through there. Help yourself." He gestured vaguely, then just stood, watching Zeke. Waiting. It was unnerving.
Days bled into a routine of awkward silences and polite, stilted conversation. Mark worked long hours. Construction, Zeke gathered. It explained the build. When he was home, he was usually lifting weights in the garage or watching sports with the volume low. He cooked simple, large meals -- steak, potatoes, protein everything. He didn't pry, didn't ask about Mom, didn't ask about Zeke's life beyond the bare minimum needed to coexist. The estrangement was a physical wall between them, built over eighteen years of absence. Yet, the house was small, and Zeke couldn't avoid seeing him, couldn't avoid noticing the way the man moved, the sheer mass of him, the way his shirt clung to his back muscles when he reached for something, the scent of sweat and something else, something musky and potent that clung to him after a day's work.
One night, Friday, Mark came home earlier than usual. He had two six-packs of local craft beer and a bottle of something brown and potent on the counter. "Thought we could... uh... unwind," he said, cracking open a bottle of beer. It was the most conversational he'd been all week.
Zeke, surprised, grabbed one too. They sat in the living room, silence still heavy, but the beer chipped away at the edges. Mark talked, slowly, about his work, about the heatwave settling in. Zeke talked about finishing high school, about not knowing what came next. The beers went down easy. Mark opened another bottle, and then another. Zeke followed suit, feeling the familiar buzz loosen his limbs, dull the sharp edges of anxiety.
Mark switched to the whiskey. Poured two fingers into a glass, offered Zeke one. Zeke hesitated, but the need to break the tension, to connect just a little, overruled his caution. The whiskey burned going down, then spread a warm, heavy heat through his chest and belly. It tasted like peat and something earthy, wild.
They talked more freely now. Mark asked about Mom, not with longing, but with a detached curiosity that felt worse than anger. Zeke answered honestly, about her restlessness, her finding someone else who wasn't "stuck in the past." Zeke didn't mention how abandoned he felt. The whiskey made it easier to look at Mark, to really look at him. The lines around his eyes seemed softer now, the hard set of his jaw less rigid. His salt-and-pepper beard, a new addition since the faded photos, was thicker than it looked from a distance, sprinkled with more grey right at the jawline.
"Tough on you, huh?" Mark finally said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His gaze felt heavy.
"Yeah. Kind of sudden."
"She always was like that. Flits. Never sits still." He took a long drink, his eyes fixed on Zeke. Not just looking, but seeing. Really seeing him, maybe for the first time. Zeke felt himself flushing, the whiskey heat mixing with something else, a hot blush spreading up his neck.
Mark's t-shirt was damp with sweat from the evening heat and the beer. It clung to his chest, outlining the hard peaks of his nipples beneath the fabric. Zeke's eyes dropped, lingering there for a moment before snapping back up. Had Mark seen? Did he notice? The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things, with the smell of whiskey and two men breathing the same hot air.
"You grew up," Mark said, his voice low. Almost a growl. "Last time... you were just a kid."
"Eighteen now," Zeke mumbled, feeling awkward again, yet coiled tight with an unfamiliar energy.
"Eighteen," Mark repeated, rolling the word around his tongue like the whiskey. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but intense.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thick thighs. The motion pulled his shirt tighter, the muscles flexing. Zeke couldn't look away. His mouth felt dry. He wanted another drink, badly.
Mark reached across the coffee table for the whiskey bottle, his arm brushing Zeke's knee. It wasn't a casual brush. It lingered for just a second, his large hand closing around the bottle, the veins prominent against tanned skin, before he pulled it back. Even that fleeting touch sent a jolt through Zeke, sharp and unexpected.
He poured another shot for himself, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn't offer one to Zeke this time. He just watched him, a small smile playing on his lips, the kind that didn't reach his eyes but held a wicked secret. Zeke's heart hammered against his ribs. The air felt charged, heavy with something volatile.
"Hot in here," Mark said, though the fan in the corner was pushing air around. He reached for the neck of his t-shirt and pulled it away from his skin, a small, simple gesture that exposed the thick column of his neck, the curve of his collarbone, the upper swell of his pec. Zeke swallowed hard.
"Yeah," Zeke managed, his voice a little rough.
Mark leaned back, sprawling slightly on the sofa, radiating heat. He smelled stronger now, more potent, the mix of sweat, whiskey, and that deep, musky scent. Zeke shifted, uncomfortable, the sofa suddenly feeling too small, their knees almost touching.
"Never thought you'd end up here," Mark mused, not looking at Zeke, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, maybe eighteen years ago. "Never thought I'd... have you here." The phrasing felt strange, possessive.
"Yeah, well. Plans change."
Mark turned his head then, meeting Zeke's eyes head-on. There was no detachment now. Only raw, hungry intensity. The small smile was gone, replaced by a hard, direct stare that pinned Zeke in place. The whiskey had lowered their guards, yes, but it had also stripped away the artifice, leaving only raw nerves and burgeoning, forbidden desire exposed between them.
"They do," Mark agreed, his voice low and husky. He lowered his gaze again, but only as far as Zeke's mouth. Zeke felt a shiver crawl down his spine. His lips parted slightly without conscious thought.
The silence was deafening. The fan whirred, the ice in their glasses clicked, and their breathing seemed unnaturally loud. Every cell in Zeke's body screamed, both in alarm and in frantic, desperate anticipation. This was wrong. So wrong. It was his father. The man who was a stranger, a myth, now flesh and blood and radiating a dangerous, carnal heat that Zeke, eighteen and stupid and filled with whiskey courage, found himself inexplicably drawn to.
Mark's hand, the large, calloused one, moved slowly from his knee. It didn't go far. It just rested on Zeke's thigh, heavy and solid through the thin fabric of his jeans. He didn't squeeze, didn't move his fingers, just let the weight of it settle. It felt like an anchor, or a brand.
Zeke froze, his breath catching in his throat. His mind screamed run while his body arched instinctively towards the pressure, towards the heat blooming where Mark's hand rested. It felt forbidden, thrillingly so.
Mark's dark eyes watched his face, searching. The rough pad of his thumb moved then, a slow, deliberate slide against the denim over Zeke's inner thigh. Back and forth. Slow. Measured. A deliberate violation of the unspoken boundary between them.
Zeke's legs twitched. A low, involuntary sound caught in his throat. His eyelids fluttered closed for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation, the sheer audacity of the touch. The smell of whiskey and Mark filled his head, intoxicating, drowning out the last vestiges of sanity.
