Chapter 3: Ready or Not
The shower's steam still clung to the bathroom tiles like damp breath. Dominic stood before the fogged mirror, a towel wrapped tightly around his chest, his preference for camouflage even reached the bathroom. He usually avoided this, the confrontation. Today, the condensation was receding, revealing slivers of his reflection. His gaze snagged on it: a distinct, stiff ridge pushing insistently against the terrycloth. His penis. Hard. Unmistakable. It had been decades since he’d seen it like this without a deliberate, concerted effort – maybe never with this insistent, almost angry rigidity.
A hot wave of fury surged through him, burning away the lingering fog of the shower. He slammed a fist against the sink counter, the dull thud echoing in the small room. "Why now?" he hissed, the words clawing their way from his throat. The anger was molten, irrational. "Where the hell were you thirty years ago? Forty?" He pictured the men from last night’s desperate online search – thick, veined, imposing. Symbols of a masculinity that felt galaxies away. His own felt pathetic. Insulting. A cruel joke. Three inches of useless defiance.
He stared at the reflection, truly seeing himself: the soft, undeniable swell of his chest beneath the towel’s edge, the pale skin, the hair, once thick and black, now stained salt and pepper, his skin blotchy with rosacea, so much looser and sagging with age. Shapeless. Unfit. A nothing. A husk of a man playing businessman, playing husband, playing mentor. Shame curdled the anger into something colder, more despairing. "Why is this happening?" The whisper was choked. Was he sick? Dying? Was this some bizarre neurological meltdown, a fever dream brought on by... by what? Daveed’s smirk? The terrifyingly intimate discoveries of his own body? The lingering echo of that shocking touch in the shower?
Panic tightened its grip. He needed grounding. Proof. He needed Hilary. She’d know if he had a fever. She’d check his pulse, his blood pressure. Make it make sense.
He moved mechanically, driven by the need for diagnosis. He started his usual rough, thorough post-shower wipe down, but he quickly had to stop. His skin was too sensitive, almost dry, despite the gently moisturising soap he'd used. Should he lotion? He never had before. No, let's not give this traitorous new body any more attention right now. He yanked open drawers, pulling out clothes without seeing them: the usual thin, white undervest, desperately trying to keep his bouncing chest under control, and often failing, a pale blue V-neck t-shirt Hilary had bought him years ago, softer and looser than his usual stiff polos. Khaki trousers, lightweight summer ones, usually ignored as they were lacking the bag and flow of his usual choices. He dressed quickly, fumbling with buttons, his mind replaying the shower’s accidental touch – the alien, insistent pulse that had radiated from a place he'd never before considered more than a dirty, ignorable recess. It felt connected to the maddening sensitivity in his chest, to the confusing rage directed at his own flesh. Was his body betraying him entirely? He checked himself briefly in the small mirror. Tidy enough, he thought.
He stopped and took a breath. He felt suffocated. He pulled at his clothes. The undershirt, never having left the house, even the bedroom, without it for longer than he could remember, felt... too much. Too tight. Too restrictive. A squeeze and a pressure he couldn't ignore. He hated this. Stop messing with my routine, he internally screamed at himself. He quickly removed the shirts, discarding the under layer and replacing the pale blue tee. He hurried quickly from the room, desperate to find Hilary's soothing thoughts.
Downstairs, the scent of toast and coffee offered a jarring counterpoint to his inner chaos. Sunlight streamed into the kitchen, highlighting the cheerful yellow walls. Hilary stood at the counter, spreading marmalade with deliberate calm. She glanced up as he entered, her smile warm but concerned. "Morning, love. You slept late." Her eyes flickered over him, taking in the unfamiliar outfit – the deep V-neck revealing more of his upper chest than usual, the drape of the thin fabric hinting at the soft contours beneath. The fitted trousers outlined the curves of his legs and buttocks. A look of concern hung about her, brief thoughts of how exposed and vulnerable he looked crossed her mind, but she quickly refocussed on his mood. He didn’t notice.
"I... er... I feel... strange," Dominic mumbled, his voice thick. He pulled out a chair, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen. He sank into it, avoiding her gaze, focusing instead on the grain of the wooden table. "Dizzy. Hot. Like… like I’m burning up inside." He lifted a trembling hand, pushing it through his mottled hair. "Could you check my temperature? Pulse? Something? Please?"
Hilary set down the knife, her brow furrowing. She came around the counter, her movements steady. She placed the back of her cool hand against his forehead, then his cheek. Her touch was gentle, almost professional. "You don’t feel feverish, Dom," she said softly. She took his wrist, her fingers finding his pulse point. Her eyes met his, searching. "Pulse is a bit fast, but nothing alarming. Just slightly elevated. Nothing as bad as your palpitations were." She held his wrist for a moment longer, her thumb resting lightly on his racing heartbeat. "What kind of strange? Is it the dream again? Something else?"
He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t articulate the maelstrom of shame, rage, and terrifying new sensations. Couldn’t confess the images haunting him, the phantom feel of Daveed’s eyes, or the shocking intimacy of his own explorations. "Just off," he managed, pulling his wrist away gently. "Like… like I’m not quite in my own skin." He gestured vaguely towards the window, towards the world outside. "Maybe… maybe I should call Daveed. Postpone. I’m not sure I’m… up for mentoring today."
Hilary’s expression softened into sympathetic understanding, but it was firm. "Oh, Dom, no. Don’t cancel." She returned to her toast, her tone practical, reassuring. "Honestly, love, sitting around dwelling on feeling ‘off’ is the worst thing. You might be fighting something off, but you've got no obvious symptoms that might make you contagious. And it could be anxiety because of your heart troubles. Which are all under control now. You need a distraction. Something to focus on besides whatever this is." She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "Daveed needs you. And frankly, you need the structure. Talking to him, focusing on his problems for a bit, it’ll take your mind off your own worries. Good medicine, that." She poured him a cup of coffee, sliding it across the table towards him. The rich aroma felt like grounding. "Besides," she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, "I’m off to Mum’s soon. You’ll just brood here alone. Much better you have company."
Dominic stared at the dark liquid in the mug. A distraction. From the hard knot of confusion and anger in his gut? From the humiliating awareness of his own body beneath? From the terrifying anticipation of Daveed’s arrival? He took a sip. The coffee tasted like nectar, helping to focus his mind and settle his body. He felt Hilary’s gaze on him – kind, oblivious, utterly convinced this was simple anxiety or fatigue. She didn’t see the cracks widening.
"You’re probably right," he heard himself say, the words hollow. He forced a tight smile. "Just nerves, I expect."
"Exactly," Hilary nodded, satisfied. She finished her toast, brushed crumbs from her hands. "Right then. I’ll get my bag. Mum’s expecting me for lunch." She leaned down, kissing the top of his head. Her familiar scent – lavender soap and chamomile cream – usually a comfort, now felt like a repellent. "Try not to worry, Dom. Have a good chat with Daveed. It’ll do you good." She bustled out of the kitchen, her footsteps fading towards the hallway.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. Dominic remained at the table, the cooling coffee helping to keep him focussed. He looked down at himself. The V-neck gaped, revealing the pale swell of his chest, two mounds of flawless, soft, supple skin, with swirls of downy dark grey hair. He leaned back and noticed the faint outline of his nipples visible through the thin fabric. As he stared, they swelled and the central nubs grew stiff. He sat forward again and the view of his naked chest came back into sight. As he was staring, transfixed, a glob of saliva dribbled down into the valley. He watched it run down, coating the skin and hair in a glistening sheen. he shook his head and quickly grabbed a napkin to clean up before it stained his top. Looking further down he suddenly noticed the fit of his trousers. Not the softly draping bagginess he was used to. These conformed to every curve of his hips and thighs and deftly outlined the lack of bulge. The smooth contour of his crotch, like a doll. The flat of his palm moved down to mould against the soft curve. He was exposed. Not just physically, but internally laid bare by this terrifying, unfamiliar awakening. Why wasn't he horrified at this exposure? The thing he'd worked so hard for so many years to maintain. And as for a distraction? Daveed wasn’t a distraction. He was the catalyst. The match tossed into the tinderbox Dominic hadn’t known he was carrying.
He glanced at the clock on the oven. 9:47 AM. Over an hour until Daveed was due to arrive. An hour trapped in this quiet house, clothed in inadvertent revelation, feeling like a stranger pulsating with unwelcome sensations. The anger flared again, brief and sharp, directed at his small, unimpressive cock, at the softness of his chest, at the terrifying sensitivity mapping new territories across his body. He finished the coffee and pushed the mug away, the scrape loud in the stillness. Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere down the street, its drone a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic, silent scream building inside Dominic Wheatley.
The insistent dull hum of the lawnmower gnawed at the edges of his skull, amplifying the frantic, silent scream building inside him. He shoved himself away from the kitchen table, the chair legs shrieking on the tiles. He needed noise. Anything to drown out the internal cacophony – the echo of Daveed’s voice, the memory of his own touch on his skin, the confusing, humiliating thrum of his body beneath the thin, revealing fabric. A distraction is what Hilary had suggested. Right. Practical Hilary. He stumbled into the living room, fumbling for the old digital radio on the bookshelf. He jabbed the power button.
The radio crackled to life mid-sentence. "...escalating tensions in the Gaza Strip..." a grave male voice intoned. Dominic stood frozen, listening as the report detailed Middle Eastern men, fighting for their freedom, donning uniforms and brandishing their masculinity, the familiar, distant horror of war. He switched stations. "...a concerning new study suggests an increase in the gullibility of men over 60, often being catfished and having their identities stolen..." Again. "Yeah I love older men," a male voice crooned, "much less concerned with being in the gym and achieving the perfect body. It's hot..." Dominic slammed the radio off. His knuckles were white. Hardly a distraction. More like a spotlight on his own crumbling world – global chaos mirrored by his internal meltdown, the news about fading masculinity and the easily manipulated a cruel counterpoint to the unwelcome, raging hard-on he’d cursed in the bathroom. He felt dizzy, vaguely sick. His stomach churned. The room tilted slightly. Was he having a stroke? A panic attack that felt like dying?
He needed to move. To do something concrete. The study. Prepare for Daveed. That, at least, was a known ritual. He forced his legs to carry him down the short hall, pushing open the study door. The familiar scent of old paper and lemon polish usually calmed him. And it did, a little. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. He focused on the task: arranging the two armchairs facing each other at a comfortable, professional angle. He straightened the stack of mentoring notes on his oak desk, aligning the edges with a sudden obsessive precision. He opened his laptop, the screen flaring to life, mercifully blank. He hesitated, then opened the music streaming app. He needed something neutral, something pure. He selected a classical playlist – Bach’s Cello Suites. The deep, resonant notes of the cello flooded the room, slow, measured, weaving a complex tapestry of sound.
He sank into his own chair, the worn leather cool against his back despite the thin t-shirt. For a fleeting moment, the music worked. He closed his eyes, letting the intricate melodies wash over him. The frantic pulse in his chest eased fractionally. The confusing heat in his groin dulled. The images – Daveed’s eyes, his own slicked chest in the shower – receded, pushed back by the solemn beauty of the music. He drew a slow, shuddering breath. A fragile peace, gossamer-thin but real. He focused on the cello’s lilting drone, letting it anchor him in the familiar wood-panelled room, in the persona of Dominic Wheatley, mentor, reliable, steady. Perhaps he could do this. Perhaps he could compartmentalize, lock the raging stranger inside away for an hour. The music swelled, a complex, resolving chord filling the space.
The doorbell chimed, sharp and insistent, shattering the fragile calm like glass. Five minutes early. Dominic’s eyes flew open. His tentative peace evaporated instantly, replaced by a fresh surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp. He froze, heart hammering against his ribs like a glass-encased firefly. Daveed was here. Now.
The chime echoed through the wood-panelled study, rich and sonorous. Dominic flinched. His fragile peace, spun from Bach’s cello, shattered into jagged shards. Daveed. Now. Five minutes early. Heart hammering. Sweat prickled his palms, his upper lip, lightly running between his breasts. He pushed himself up from the leather chair, his movements stiff, clumsy. The thin blue t-shirt felt suddenly flimsy, a spotlight on contours he usually hid. He glanced down. His nipples were rigid points beneath the soft cotton. Stop it. Focus.
He forced his legs to move, each step down the hallway an eternity. The polished wooden floorboards seemed to tilt. The familiar framed photographs lining the wall – holidays, graduations, Hilary beaming – blurred into meaningless smudges of colour. His reflection in the hall mirror was a pale, wide-eyed ghost framed by ever-whitening hair. Glimpses of his lumpy body, usually so well camouflaged in fabric. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t see the evidence of his own undoing. The door handle felt cold, solid. Real. He grasped it, took a ragged breath that hitched in his throat. Predator. Expectation. Shame. He braced himself, muscles coiled tight, picturing the arrogant smirk, the dominating stance, the knowing blue eyes. He yanked the door open.
The figure on the step wasn't looming. He was leaning slightly, hands shoved deep into the pockets of worn, faded, baggy jeans, shoulders hunched forward, not back. A black hoodie swamped his previously exposed upper body. The confident swagger Dominic expected was absent, replaced by a palpable awkwardness. Daveed’s gaze, when it met Dominic’s, wasn't predatory or appraising; it darted away immediately, fixing on the vibrant geraniums spilling from a nearby pot. His usual sharp features seemed softer, younger, etched with a surprising vulnerability. "Mr. Wheatley," his voice was quieter than Dominic remembered, lacking its usual smooth edge, holding a tentative note, almost shy. "Hi. Sorry, am I… too early?"
Dominic blinked. The mental image of the predatory young man dissolved like smoke. This wasn't the Daveed from the office, the one who’d radiated such unsettling confidence that Dominic had spiralled into panic and desperate, humiliating hedonism. This was different. Muted. Almost nervous. The tension coiled inside Dominic didn't vanish, but it faltered, replaced by profound confusion. Had he imagined it all? Projected his own turmoil onto this ordinary, slightly awkward young man standing on his porch? The sheer weight of his internal drama suddenly felt foolish, disproportionate. "Daveed," he managed, his own voice thick but clearing. "No, no. Come in. Right on time, practically." He stepped back, gesturing stiffly into the hall. "Please."
Daveed shuffled past him, offering a hesitant half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Yesterday's overpowering smell of what must have been an expensive cologne was gone. A faint whiff of citrus was all. He kept his gaze lowered, scanning the hallway with apparent interest, avoiding Dominic’s face. "Nice area, Mr. Wheatley. Really peaceful out here." He sounded genuinely appreciative, not mocking.
The Bach cello suites drifted softly from the study, a grounding counterpoint to Dominic’s racing thoughts. He led the way, watching Daveed’s reflection in the polished wood panels. The young man moved carefully, almost diffidently. Overreacting. You were completely overreacting. The thought was a wave of dizzying relief mixed with profound embarrassment. All that terror, that shameful exploration, that rage at his own body sparked by his own fevered imagination. He felt absurd. Exhausted. But also, incredibly, lighter. The predatory phantom vanished, leaving just a young man needing guidance. He gestured towards the arranged armchairs in the study as he turned the music off. "Take a seat, Daveed. Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Something hot?"
Daveed sank into the offered chair, perching on the edge, his posture still tense. "Water’s good, thanks, Mr. Wheatley." He looked around the study, his eyes taking in the bookshelves, the desk, the framed awards for community service. "Wow, you've done so much." He sounded impressed, maybe a little intimidated. "Been doing the mentoring thing a long time?"
Dominic poured water from a jug on the sideboard Hilary had prepared for him, his hands steadier now. The familiar ritual helped. "Long enough," he said, handing Daveed the glass. He sat in his own chair, consciously relaxing his shoulders, pushing the whirlwind of the last 23 hours firmly into the past. It felt like locking a door on a chaotic room. "Seen a lot of young men come through, facing all sorts of crossroads." He took a sip of his own water, the coolness welcome. "So, tell me what’s been happening, Daveed. What brought you to the program?" He leaned back, adopting the attentive posture he’d honed over the years. The mentor. Not the trembling, self-loathing man of the night before. That man felt distant now, a bad dream dispelled by morning light and Daveed’s unexpected shyness.
Daveed took a long gulp of water, then set the glass down carefully on the small table between them. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, his gaze fixed on the floor near Dominic’s feet. Where was the cool confidence now? "It's complicated, Mr. Wheatley." He sighed, a sound heavy with a weight Dominic recognized – the weight of trouble carried alone. "Stuff at home isn't great. Never really has been. And then work stuff is just all kinds of messed up." He finally looked up, meeting Dominic’s eyes briefly. His blue eyes weren't challenging now; they were clouded with worry, maybe even fear. "Take your time," Dominic reassured him. "I got into a situation. Could lose my job with the garage. I mean, I could do it all on my own, but setting up is nuts. And there's other stuff. Things could turn out worse." He swallowed hard. "I didn't know who to talk to. My crisis counsellor said… well, mentioned he'd heard of you and that you were good at this stuff. Helping guys sort their heads out."
Dominic nodded slowly, the professional instinct taking full hold. The young man before him wasn't a threat; he was scared, adrift. The specifics of the "situation" or the "worse" could wait. "Okay," Dominic said, his voice calm, steady – the voice he used when he knew he could anchor someone. "Start wherever feels right. We’ve got time." He noticed Daveed’s shoulders relax, just a fraction, at the reassurance. The rigid points beneath Dominic's own thin t-shirt had softened, forgotten in the face of another's need. Daveed's eyes hadn't even registered his curved, pillowy chest this time. The room felt still, focused. Only Daveed’s quiet, uncertain voice filled the space. "It started," Daveed began, his voice cracking slightly, "when my mum’s partner… he got heavy. And I maybe… lost my shit... sorry, temper or control... He was treating her really badly. I wasn't having it. I threw him out of the house, but mum was furious. I thought she'd be pleased. I thought I'd saved her. But no, the aggro and bad energy carried on. I must have took it to work with me. That's when it got bad." His hand clenched on the armrest. "Really bad, Mr. Wheatley. There was… an incident. And my manager. And now the police might…" He trailed off, the unspoken consequence hanging heavy in the air.
Dominic leaned forward slightly, the last vestiges of his own turmoil dissipating like mist under the clear, harsh light of Daveed’s real, raw problems. "Tell me," Dominic urged softly. "Take your time." Daveed took a shaky breath, the weight lifting visibly as he began to unburden himself, the words spilling out faster now, laced with a raw fear far more immediate than Dominic's imagined dread. "It was the hydraulic press. I work as a mechanic, at the garage. He kept pushing me, saying I was too slow, useless... called me names. I just snapped. Shoved him. He stumbled back, hit the control panel… the press came down on the car he was working on. Totalled it. Cost thousands. Barely missed his head. The security footage… it looked bad. Really bad." His voice cracked again. "They suspended me. Said it's gross misconduct. Assault. They're talking to the police." He looked down at his hands, knuckles white. "I can't go inside, Mr. Wheatley. My mum… she needs me out. Earning. Not locked up." The raw terror in his eyes was unmistakable, the predatory façade from yesterday utterly gone, replaced by a desperate kid facing a potential abyss.
Dominic felt a surge of familiar purpose, the protective instinct that had driven decades of mentoring flooding back, washing away the last sticky residue of his own shame. This was real. This mattered. "Okay," Dominic said, his voice low and steady, a rock in Daveed’s storm. "Okay. Let's break this down. Step by step. Tell me everything about that day. The lead-up, the words exchanged, exactly what happened with the machine." He reached for the notepad on the side table, his focus absolute. Daveed watched the movement, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. He took another shaky breath, the words starting to tumble out, details sharpening, the burden shifting slightly as Dominic listened intently, the pen poised. Outside, the distant lawnmower droned on, a mundane reflection of the quiet intensity unfolding in the sunlit study where imagined predators had vanished, replaced by the heavy, real weight of a young man's fragile future. Dominic’s thumb unconsciously brushed over the soft cotton covering his chest, a lingering echo of the morning’s sensitivity, but it felt distant now, unimportant. A ghost touch. Daveed’s voice, tight with anxiety, filled the space. "He was right in my face, Mr. Wheatley. Spittle flying. Called me a 'waste of space,' said I was 'as useless as my dead dad'," Dominic scribbled notes, his own forgotten body a silent vessel for the focus Daveed needed. "He's had it in for me since the beginning, just words really, but this was another level. He poked me. Hard. Right here." Daveed touched his own chest, over his heart. The baggy hoodie revealing so little of his thick muscularity. Dominic’s gaze flickered to the spot, then back to his notes. That familiar place. "I know I'm sort of fit and that, but this guy is huge, proper brick shithouse... sorry... he poked again... and it looked like his hand was going for my throat... and that's when I… pushed him. Just wanted him off me." Daveed’s voice dropped to a whisper. "He wasn't expecting it. He just stumbled back… hit the big red button with his elbow. The safety guard wasn't fully engaged. The lift… it just slammed down. Crunched the motor like it was tin foil." He closed his eyes. "The sound... I can still hear it, at night." Tears glistening in his eyes. "I could have killed him, Mr Wheatly". Dominic nodded, understanding the visceral horror.
"But you didn't", Dominic reassured him. "The footage. Does it show the poke? Him in your space?" Daveed shook his head miserably. "Camera angle's bad. Just shows me shoving him, then him hitting the panel. Looks like I attacked him unprovoked." He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. "My word against his. And he's the second in command. I'm just the 'new lad with a bad attitude', even though I've been there nearly a year now." The despair was thick. Dominic set his pen down deliberately. "Maybe it's not just your word, Daveed. Were there witnesses? Anyone else on the floor?" Daveed's expression tightened. "Couple of guys. But they won't say anything. they're all scared of him. Or just don't want the hassle." He looked up, his blue eyes searching Dominic's face, the earlier shyness replaced by a raw need for a lifeline. "I'm screwed, aren't I?" The question hung in the air, heavy with the scent of lemon polish and fear. Dominic met his gaze steadily. "Not necessarily," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Not yet. We need to think strategically. Who would talk? Is there anyone higher up you trust? A Union rep? HR? Did you report the previous harassment?" He saw Daveed flinch at the word 'harassment'. "There were plenty of comments from him," Daveed admitted, looking away. "But I didn't report them. Just tried to ignore it. Needed the job." Dominic leaned forward. "Okay. That's a start. We document everything now. Every incident, every name he called you, dates if you can remember. We build the context the footage misses."
He picked up the pen again, tapping it lightly. "Now, this partner of your mum's you mentioned. That's connected, you said?" Daveed's jaw clenched. "Yeah. He's… volatile. Drinks. Mum won't kick him out. They argue, they make up... if you know what I mean. And loud. Neighbours complain. The cops been round a few times. Nothing sticks." He exhaled sharply. "Feels like everywhere I turn, there's another wall." Dominic made another note. "Understood. That pressure, it explains the snapping point, Daveed. Doesn't excuse the shove, but it explains it. Context, again, is absolutely crucial. For your case, but also for your own wellbeing" He paused, letting the implication sink in. "Your crisis counsellor. What's their stance?" "Sympathetic," Daveed said, a flicker of hope returning. "Said I needed positive structure. That's why he suggested you." Dominic nodded. "Good. We'll loop him in tactically. Now, regarding the company procedure…" He launched into a calm, methodical breakdown of grievance processes, disciplinary hearings, the importance of representation. He wasn't on probation any more, he had rights. Daveed listened intently, his posture gradually uncoiling, the frantic edge leaving his voice as Dominic outlined steps, possibilities, a path forward through the chaos. Dominic forgot the thinness of his shirt, the residual tenderness in his torso. He forgot the 'other' Daveed entirely. Here was a young man in crisis, and Dominic Wheatley knew exactly how to navigate this storm. The frantic energy of the morning channelled now into clear, purposeful action. He was back in his element. The mentor. The calm port.
Daveed leaned forward, elbows on his knees, finally asking practical questions, his voice steadier. "So, you think if I get this all written down, the harassment, the home stuff, get police reports and present it formally?" "Exactly," Dominic affirmed. "It paints the full picture the security camera obscures. Shows the provocation, the mitigating factors. Makes your reaction understandable, if not excusable. It shifts the narrative." He saw the understanding dawn in Daveed's eyes, replacing the blind panic. But there was something else. "What is it, Daveed?" "It's just..." he stalled. "I'm not good with paperwork. Admin. All that." Dominic chuckled slightly. "Sorry. It's ok. Dont worry. That's where I can really help out." Daveed continued, "And the Union, even if I'm not officially in, they might still advise?" "They often have resources," Dominic confirmed. "Or know an advocate. We'll find out." He made a final note. "First step is your written account. A brief outline and events in order that we can flesh out at our next meeting. Can you do that?" Daveed nodded, a decisive movement. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." He ran a hand over his face, the weight still there but now shared, manageable. "Thanks, Mr. Wheatley. Seriously. I… I didn't know where to start. Felt like the walls were closing in." Dominic offered a small, genuine smile, the first real one he’d felt all day. "That's what these chats are for, Daveed. To find the door in the wall. And see how I can help you unlock it." He glanced at the clock. Their hour was almost up. "Get that account down. Bring it next time. We'll draft the formal response together."
Dominic stood, signalling the end of the session. Daveed stood too, looking taller, less folded in on himself. "Does that feel a bit more manageable?" Dominic asked, walking him to the study door. "Yes, so much, thank you." Daveed paused in the hallway, turning back. He met Dominic's gaze directly, the shyness having dissolved, a light smirk playing on his lips. "I knew we'd have a connection, you know Mr W?" Dominic smiled and flushed a little, suddenly remembering the last 24 hours. "Yes... I... I had a feeling too". "A good one, I hope", quipped Daveed, turning back towards the door. I offered a brief laugh and left it at that. As we reached the door he turned and hugged Dominic. Caught off guard, this wasn't behaviour he was used to. Dominic couldn't help but feel the firmness of his body, dense corded muscle, a sense of power and strength, as he automatically returned the embrace. The warmth of his full-body embrace was almost overwhelming, crushing them together. He gripped Dominic tightly for a moment and pulled back, their faces close, the musky citrus scent suddenly strong in his nose and mouth. "Can I come tomorrow?" Daveed asked, sheepishly. "Oh... uh... of course," Dominic stammered. Daveed held his gaze, hands resting on Dominic's shoulders for a moment. As he turned to go, they travelled down his chest, the flat palms seemingly unintentional in their light exploration of Dominic's breasts, the fingertips grazing his nipples as they left his body. "See you tomorrow" he called back and slammed the door behind him.