Chapter 2: The Devil's Advocate
The buzz of the fluorescent light in the kitchen was a high-pitched, aggravating whine. It glinted off the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the counter and cast a sickly sheen on everything it touched. Diego sat at the small wooden table, rolling a glass of water between his palms. The ice had long since melted. He was still, a statue of dark patience in gym shorts and a tank top.
The front door rattled open, then slammed shut. Footsteps, heavy and pleased, echoed down the hall.
Jack breezed into the kitchen, a gust of cold night air and cheap cologne following him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with a manic energy. He went straight for the cupboard, pulled down a tumbler, and sloshed a generous three fingers of whiskey into it. He didn’t offer any to Diego.
“Hey, man,” Jack said, taking a gulp. He leaned back against the counter, surveying Diego with a triumphant grin. “You’re up late.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Diego said, his voice neutral.
“Yeah, well, I’m buzzing. Just had the most unreal night.” Jack took another drink, his Adam’s apple working. “Went to that new bar on 8th. Place was packed. And this guy… fuck, Diego. Blond. Blue eyes like a Siberian husky. Dancer’s body. Lean, but you could see the definition.” He shook his head, reliving it. “Bought him a drink. An hour later, we’re in his loft. The things this guy could do with his hips… Unreal. And he was so into it. Begged for it. Like, literally. It was fucking empowering.”
He sighed, a contented, post-coital sound that grated in the silent kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed.
Diego took a slow sip of his water. He said nothing.
“It just proves it, you know?” Jack continued, filling the silence with his validation. “This open thing? It’s the right call. It’s like… you don’t realize how stagnant you’ve become until you feel that new energy. That hunger. Makes you feel alive.”
“I bet,” Diego said, finally. He set his glass down on the table with a soft click. “And Mattew? How’s he feeling about all this new energy?”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. “He’ll come around. He’s just being emotional. He’s attached. But he’ll see the benefits. Maybe he’ll even go out, have a little fun of his own. Loosen up.”
“Maybe he will,” Diego agreed, his tone light, conversational. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. The muscles in his shoulders shifted like tectonic plates. “So what’s the rule, then? For him. If he decides to… explore. Any restrictions? Or is it a true free-for-all?”
Jack’s smile tightened at the edges. He swirled his whiskey. “No restrictions. That’s the point. Freedom.”
“Freedom,” Diego echoed. He nodded slowly, as if considering a complex equation. “So if he meets someone. Some guy with… I don’t know, a bigger dick. A better body. More experience. Who can really focus on him, make him feel things he’s never felt… that’s all good? That’s within the rules?”
The kitchen seemed to grow smaller, the buzzing light louder. Jack’s eyes, which had been gleaming with narcissistic joy, flickered. A tiny crack in the facade. He took another drink, quicker this time.
“Mattew wouldn’t do that,” Jack said, but the statement lacked its earlier conviction. It sounded like a hope, not a fact.
“Do what? Exactly what you just did? Use the freedom you gave him?” Diego’s smile was benign, almost friendly. “It’s not cheating, Jack. You made that very clear. It’s just… exploring the menu. You had your blond husky. He might have a taste for something… darker.”
The word darker landed in the room with the weight of a prophecy. Diego didn’t move, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the cramped space. The shadow he cast on the linoleum floor was long and imposing.
Jack’s jaw worked. He set his glass down too hard, the sound sharp against the Formica. “What’s your point, Diego?”
“No point. Just clarifying the rules.” Diego stood up. He walked to the sink, his movements fluid, and placed his empty glass inside. He turned, leaning against the counter, mirroring Jack’s earlier pose but owning the space completely. “So it’s settled. You’re both free agents. He could bring anyone home. Anyone at all. And you’d be cool with it. Because it’s practical.”
The image materialized between them, unavoidable: Mattew, in their shared bed, with someone else. The fantasy had been abstract for Jack—a hazy notion of Mattew having some polite, forgettable coffee date. But Diego was making it specific. Visceral.
Jack’s eyes dropped, involuntarily, for a fraction of a second. It was a microscopic glance, down Diego’s powerful torso, past the narrow waist, to the pronounced, heavy bulge resting against the soft fabric of his shorts. Everyone in the apartment knew. It was the unspoken, elephantine fact of their shared life. Jack’s own considerable seven inches, a point of pride for years, felt suddenly, shockingly ordinary. Inadequate. The complex he’d carried since moving in with this godlike roommate curdled in his gut.
The complex he’d carried since moving in with this godlike roommate curdled in his gut.
He swallowed it down with the last of his whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. “The deal is the best for me, for us,” Jack said, his voice finding its footing again on shaky ground. He nodded, convincing himself. “I get to keep Matthew—that perfect, tight ass, his loyalty. He’s so damn good at taking it, you have no idea. And I get to fuck around on the side, keep my game sharp. It’s efficient.”
He met Diego’s gaze, forcing a smirk. “He’d never actually do anything. Mattew’s not built like that. Too loyal.”
Diego listened, his head tilted slightly. A faint, almost pitying smile touched his lips. “Loyalty isn’t a cage, Jack. It’s a choice. And choices can change when people feel... unappreciated.” He pushed off the counter and took a single, casual step forward. The space between them charged. “You’re talking about what you get to keep. What does he get?”
“He gets me,” Jack shot back, but it sounded hollow, even to him.
“He already has you. And you just gave half of you to a stranger with blue eyes.” Diego’s tone was still light, conversational. He ran a hand through his dark curls. “Maybe he’s hungrier than you think. Maybe that quiet intensity isn’t just loyalty. Maybe it’s patience.”
Jack’s breath felt tight in his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means everyone has a type, man. A real, deep-down hunger.” Diego’s dark eyes held Jack’s, unwavering. “You like your blonds. Clean-cut. Maybe Mattew’s taste runs… richer. More substantial. He might crave something with a little more leche in it, you know?”
The word—leche—hung in the air, simple and devastating. It wasn’t just a word for milk. It was skin, culture, a whole other kind of heat. It was Diego, in a single syllable.
Jack’s mouth went dry. He saw it, just for a flash: Mattew’s fair hands on Diego’s bronze shoulders, the stark contrast he’d secretly fantasized about but never admitted. The loyalty he’d counted on now seemed like a thin sheet of glass.
Diego saw the fracture. He smiled, not unkindly, and clapped Jack on the shoulder—a heavy, friendly thump that felt like a sentence. “Just saying. The rules are the rules. Night, man.”
Diego’s hand was off his shoulder and he was turning to leave the kitchen when Jack’s voice, sharper than he intended, cut through the buzz.
“Hold up. What do you truly mean by that, dude?” Jack’s question tumbled out, raw and poorly wrapped. “Why would my man want some… some Latin leche when he’s got my male milk right here? He’s satisfied.”
He instantly regretted the phrasing, juvenile and territorial. It hung in the air between them, embarrassing.
Diego didn’t move. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him, rich and unfiltered. It wasn’t mocking, exactly. It was the sound of genuine amusement at a fundamental misunderstanding. He shook his head, a curl falling over his forehead. “Maybe he just wants a single taste of something premium. Something aged perfectly. You’re out here pushing tap water and calling it vintage.”
Jack’s face flushed a mottled red. The whiskey turned sour in his stomach. “Quantity isn’t the prize if the quality’s shit,” he fired back, leaning forward. “My male milk is top-shelf. He told me that. Says it’s better than anything he’s ever had.” The lie felt brittle even as he said it. Mattew had never compared, never spoken of anyone else.
They both knew the code now. They weren’t discussing dairy.
They were drawing battle lines over who could ruin Mattew better, who could claim that loyalty through sheer physical decree.
Diego’s smile was a razor’s edge. “Top-shelf. Sure. But a connoisseur gets curious. Tastes change. Maybe he’s developing a palate for something… imported. More complex notes.” He shrugged, a massive, effortless roll of his shoulders. “It’s not about the vessel, man. It’s about the craftsmanship. The technique.”
“Technique?” Jack scoffed, latching onto the word. “You think you’ve got technique? Mattew needs a virtuoso, not a percussionist just hammering away. He needs a top who plays him like a goddamn Stradivarius, not some blunt tool who just knows how to swing. He stays because I’m the composer and the conductor. You’re just noise.”
The imagery was sharp, deliberately cruel. Jack pictured it as he said it: his own careful, practiced dominance. The way he could make Mattew sing.
Then the picture blurred, corrupted.
It was Diego’s hands on the strings. Diego’s body, that impossible, sun-bronzed instrument, doing the playing. Jack saw it in sudden, horrific clarity: Mattew pinned beneath that v-shaped torso, those thick thighs spreading him, that monstrous, veined weight—not a blunt tool, but a precise, devastating instrument of pleasure—pounding his boy into the mattress with a rhythm that would rewrite his very neural pathways. The ragged gasps wouldn’t be Jack’s name. They’d be wordless, animal.
A white-hot wire of pure anger snapped tight in Jack’s chest.
“He wouldn’t,” Jack hissed, the words ground out between his teeth. “He couldn’t. He’s mine. That tight little ass, the way he arches his back for me… he belongs to me. You don’t get to even think about it.”
There it was. The raw, ugly truth beneath the cool, practical “open relationship” bullshit. Ownership.
Diego’s playful demeanor evaporated. The calm remained, but it cooled, solidified into something immovable. He took one last step, closing the final distance. He loomed, not with threat, but with fact. His dark eyes pinned Jack in place.
“You handed him the keys, papi,” Diego said, his voice dropping, quiet and final. “You don’t get to repo the car now. He doesn’t belong to you. Not his body. Not his needs.” He leaned in, just slightly. “They belong to him. And he’s free to drive wherever he wants.”
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Jack alone with the buzzing light, the empty glass, and the terrifying, silent echo of that freedom.
The hollow click of Diego’s bedroom door down the hall was the trigger.
It snapped the last thin wire of Jack’s control.
The silent echo of freedom became a roar in his ears, drowning out the buzz of the light, the thud of his own heart. He saw nothing but the empty hallway. Heard nothing but Diego’s calm, factual voice. He’s free to drive wherever he wants.
Possession, hot and violent, boiled over. It wasn’t about Mattew anymore. It was about this man in his space, with his smug certainty and his genetic lottery win, dismantling his life with a shrug.
Jack moved.
He didn’t think. His body was a coil of whiskey-fueled fury released. He crossed the kitchen threshold into the dim hallway in three long strides. Diego was just reaching for his own doorknob, back turned, a silhouette of infuriating calm.
“You don’t get to say that!” Jack snarled, the words ripping from his throat.
He lunged.
It was a clumsy, charging tackle, all momentum and malice. He aimed for the center of Diego’s broad back, wanting to slam him into the door, to crack that unflappable posture.
He didn’t connect.
Diego moved with a dancer’s preternatural awareness. He’d heard the footsteps, the shift in air. Instead of turning, he dropped his shoulder and pivoted on the ball of his foot, fluid as a sidestep in a salsa.
Jack’s lunge met empty space. His own force carried him forward, crashing his shoulder hard into the solid wood of Diego’s door with a dull, painful thud. The impact rattled his teeth.
A gasp of pain and shock escaped him.
Before he could rebound, a vise clamped onto his bicep. Diego’s hand. The grip was instant and absolute, pressing into the muscle with a force that promised bruises. Another hand seized the back of his neck, not choking, but immobilizing.
In one brutal, efficient motion, Diego used Jack’s own momentum to spin him and drive him face-first against the wall beside the door. The vintage posters rustled. Jack’s cheek stung as it pressed into the faded paper.
Diego’s body crowded him, not fully pinned, but close enough for Jack to feel the terrifying heat radiating from him, to sense the solid wall of muscle against his back. Diego leaned in, his voice a low, controlled breath next to Jack’s ear.
“That,” Diego whispered, the word chillingly soft, “was a very stupid choice.”
Jack struggled, trying to twist, to shove back. It was like fighting architecture. Diego’s hold didn’t budge an inch. The sheer, effortless strength was a humiliating revelation. This was the difference between gym-strong and functionally powerful.
“Get off me!” Jack spat, the defiance muffled against the wall.
“Or what?” Diego’s tone was curious, almost clinical. “You’ll tell Mattew? Your boyfriend? That you attacked your roommate because he pointed out the logical end of your own brilliant plan?” He adjusted his grip slightly, a subtle flex that made Jack wince. “How’s that conversation go, Jack? ‘Hey babe, I almost got my ass handed to me because Diego made me imagine you enjoying a bigger dick.’ That’ll really sell him on your version of security.”
The truth of it was a needle plunged into Jack’s rage, deflating it into something shameful and acidic. He stopped struggling. His breath came in ragged pulls against the wall.
Diego held him there for three more seconds, making the point, making the power dynamic irrefutable. Then he released him, stepping back cleanly.
Jack pushed himself away from the wall, turning. His shoulder ached. His face burned with more than the impact. Diego stood a few feet away, arms loose at his sides, watching him like a trainer assessing a poorly executed lift. There was no anger on his face. Just a disappointed clarity.
“You don’t get to make the rules and then throw a tantrum when the game doesn’t go your way,” Diego said, his voice flat. “You wanted an open relationship. You’ve got one. That means your claim is void. It’s in the fine print you didn’t bother to read.”
Jack rubbed his bicep, the ghost of that grip already deepening into an ache. He had no retort. The physical defeat was complete. The verbal one had happened in the kitchen.
“Stay out of my way, Jack,” Diego said, finality in every syllable. He turned the knob and opened his bedroom door. The light from inside spilled out, outlining his formidable frame. “And for God’s sake, leave Mattew alone tonight. Let him breathe. The damage you’ve done is plenty for one day.”
The door shut softly behind him, a whisper that felt louder than any slam.
Jack stood alone in the bad light of the hallway, the phantom taste of cheap whiskey and cheaper decisions thick on his tongue. The silence now was different. It wasn't just an echo of freedom.
It was the sound of a door closing, and the awful, dawning realization that he might not be the one to open it again.