Chapter 16: The Walk of Shame in Silk
The shower was a negotiation of silence and steam. Dante stood under the near-scalding spray, head bowed, letting the water sluice over the tense cords of his neck and shoulders. Kenny, beside him, was a study in cheerful meticulousness, working shampoo into a lather with more focus than he gave most of his business meetings. They didn’t speak. The roar of the water was enough. Dante’s hand, once, brushed the small of Kenny’s back as he reached for the body wash—a fleeting, accidental contact that neither acknowledged, but which lingered in the humid air between them like a word unsaid.
Clean, damp, and wrapped in identical plush white towels, they emerged into the bedroom. The storm from the night before had broken, leaving a sharp, clear morning that threw long, clean rectangles of light across the disordered bed. The evidence of their night and morning was stark in the sunshine: rumpled silk, a bottle of lube on the nightstand, the general disarray of abandon.
Kenny padded to his walk-in closet, a room larger than some city apartments, and emerged a few minutes later dressed in soft, charcoal grey sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. He ran a hand through his damp curls, looking more like a grad student than a man who controlled a financial empire built on whispered threats and silent trucks.
Dante stood by the bed, a monument of towel-clad muscle. He cleared his throat. The sound was awkward, foreign. “Er… my clothes.”
Kenny stopped, blinked, then a look of genuine, comical dismay crossed his face. “Oh! Right! Yes!” He winced, scrunching his nose. “Erm… okay, I’m going to wash them now, I promise!” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway where a laundry chute hid behind a panel. “In the meantime…”
He turned back to his dresser, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a pair of silk boxer shorts. They were a deep burgundy. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed them toward Dante. The soft fabric unfurled in the air before landing against Dante’s chest. He caught them instinctively.
“Here you go!”
Dante held the scrap of silk between his thumb and forefinger as if it were radioactive. He looked from the underwear to Kenny, his expression a masterpiece of deadpan incredulity.
Kenny’s grin was unrepentant. “Hey! At least I covered you up… kinda…” He giggled, a bright, bubbling sound that seemed to dance in the sunlit dust motes. He hugged his own arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m sorry. I just love seeing you… like this.” His gaze traveled, warm and appreciative, over Dante’s bare shoulders, the taper of his torso vanishing into the towel. “You’re too hot to not show off.”
Dante stared. A long, slow, suffering sigh escaped him. It was the sigh of a man who had faced insurgent fire, who had made life-and-death decisions in split seconds, who was now being bested by a pair of burgundy silk boxers and a man who giggled. The fight—what little remained after the shower, after the morning, after everything—drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, a minute surrender.
He dropped his towel.
Kenny’s breath caught, just for a second. It was still a revelation, that body. The old, silvery scars mapping past violence across his ribs, the powerful thighs, the dark thatch of hair. Dante stepped into the boxers with the procedural efficiency of a soldier donning a uniform. He pulled them up.
They were, predictably, a size too small. The silk strained across the dense muscle of his thighs and backside, riding up uncomfortably. The waistband dug in. He stood there, a living statue of masculine power awkwardly encased in delicate fabric, looking profoundly out of place in the sun-drenched, opulent bedroom.
Kenny bit his lip, trying and failing to stifle another laugh. It wasn’t mockery; it was pure, delighted affection. “See? Now you’re officially living in the penthouse.”
“I have a uniform,” Dante muttered, his voice a low rumble. He adjusted the waistband with a futile tug.
“Not anymore you don’t,” Kenny sang, pushing off the doorframe. He walked over, stopping just within arm’s reach. His eyes were soft. He reached out, his fingers not touching Dante, but hovering near the tense line of his jaw. “You look good in my colors.”
He let his hand drop without making contact, the moment stretching thin. "I'm starving. And you need carbs after that workout." He turned, padding out of the bedroom, leaving Dante to follow.
The kitchen was a symphony of cool, polished surfaces. Morning light glared off the stainless-steel refrigerator and the marble countertops. Kenny moved through the space with practiced ease, his bare feet silent on the heated floor. He opened a towering cabinet. It was mostly empty, save for a single, colorful box of sugary cereal and a bag of artisanal coffee beans.
Dante lingered in the doorway, a fortress of muscle crammed into silk. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The posture was defensive, but the setting undermined it completely. He watched Kenny fetch two simple white bowls. The domesticity of it was more disorienting than any battlefield.
"Hope you like Froot Loops," Kenny said, not turning around. "It's the only edible thing in here. My nutritionist despises me."
"You have a nutritionist?" Dante's voice was flat.
"I have people for everything, Dante. You know that." Kenny poured the cereal, the bright rings clattering into the bowls. He pulled the milk from the fridge, the carton chilling his fingers. "It's part of the whole... inheritance package. I ignore most of them."
He carried the bowls to the expansive kitchen island, setting them on the smooth marble. Then he pulled out two stools. Instead of sitting across from one another, he placed them side-by-side. He looked at Dante, a silent, deliberate invitation.
Dante pushed off the doorframe. He walked over, the silence punctuated by the soft rustle of silk and the scrape of stool legs on stone as he sat. Kenny slid a bowl and a spoon toward him, then took the seat right beside him. Their thighs were an inch apart.
Kenny took a loud, crunching bite. He hummed, pleased. "So, childhood," he said through the mouthful, as if picking up a thread of a conversation they'd never had. "Were you a cereal kid? Or more of a... whatever tough army kids eat? Raw eggs and gravel?"
Dante stared at his own bowl, the rainbow colors absurd against the white ceramic. He picked up his spoon. "Oatmeal. Usually."
"Oatmeal." Kenny repeated it like it was a fascinating, foreign concept. He shifted on his stool, letting his bare arm press fully against Dante's. The contact was electric, a line of warmth against the cooler kitchen air. Dante didn't pull away. He took a bite of cereal.
"Where was this oatmeal consumed?" Kenny pressed, his tone light but his gaze focused on Dante's profile. "A big family table? Quiet house?"
Dante chewed slowly, swallowing. "Small kitchen. In Queens. My mom. She made it before her shift." He offered no more, taking another bite.
Kenny absorbed this, his playful energy softening. He nudged Dante's arm gently with his own. "She still there?"
The spoon stilled in Dante's bowl. "No." The word was final. A door shut. "What's with the twenty questions?"
"Just curious about the man who just fucked me through the mattress," Kenny said, blunt and casual. He ate another spoonful. "I know your service record. I know how you fight. I don't know what you wanted to be before all that. Or what music you like. Or if you think this cereal is trash."
Dante let out a short breath, almost a laugh. It was there and gone. He looked at the box on the counter. "It is trash. Delicious trash." He paused. "I wanted to be an architect."
Kenny went perfectly still beside him. He turned his whole body on the stool to face Dante, his knee now pressing into Dante's thigh. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." Dante finally met his eyes. "Drafted plans for treehouses. Then for buildings. Liked the order of it. The making something solid that wouldn't fall down." He looked away, back at his bowl. "Life had other plans."
The hum of the Sub-Zero fridge filled the quiet. Kenny’s leg remained a firm, warm pressure against his. "And now?" Kenny asked, his voice quieter. "What do you want to make that won't fall down?"
Dante's jaw tightened. The question was too big, too sharp. It cut through the morning's haze and the sugar-rush of the cereal. He thought of the perfect, terrifying alignment of their bodies hours before, a structure of pure need. He thought of the vulnerability in Kenny's sleeping face. None of it was solid. All of it felt like a fault line.
"Right now," Dante said, his voice low and rough, "I want to put on pants that fit." He stood up abruptly, the stool scraping loudly. His bowl was still half-full. "I should check in with the team downstairs. Security protocols don't pause because..."
He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his own near-nakedness, at Kenny, at the messy, intimate truth of the morning.
Kenny watched him, his cereal forgotten. The playful glint was gone, replaced by something more perceptive, more patient. "Because the boss seduced you?" he finished, gently.
Dante didn't answer. He just stood there, a trapped, magnificent animal in borrowed silk.
"Go get your uniform from the dryer," Kenny said, nodding toward the laundry room. "It's probably done. But Dante?" He waited until Dante's eyes, dark and conflicted, locked back onto his. "This changes the protocols. You know that, right?"