Chapter 13: Unmasked
The last guest shuffled out, leaving a cavernous silence in the loft’s warm, dim clutter. Gabe stood quivering, his face a patchwork of humiliation and rage. “You can’t just—” he began, his voice cracking. Marco, a broad-shouldered regular, sighed and clapped a heavy hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. You lost. Don’t make it ugly.” Gabe stumbled as Marco turned him, his protests dissolving into a wet, snarling tantrum as he was guided firmly toward the door. “He’s mine! You fucking stole him!” The door clicked shut, muffling his cries.
Kenji waited a full ten seconds in the new quiet before he turned to Alex. “That,” he said, his voice still filtered but softer, “was objectively glorious to watch.” He reached up, the movement deliberate, and unclipped the canine headpiece. Lifting it away, he revealed a man in his mid thirties with sharp, intelligent features, dark eyes that held a trace of amusement, and brown hair recently cut into a high fade style. His hair damp with sweat. “Hi,” he said, his real voice a warm, unpracticed baritone. “I’m Brad”
Alex could only stare, the name settling in his gut. Brad stepped closer, his gloved hand coming up to cradle Alex’s cheek, his thumb gently wiping at the last vestige of Gabe’s claim on his skin. “Would you like to spend the night?” The question hung, simple and immense. “Not for a scene. Just to stay.” Alex nodded, a slow, dazed movement. Brad smiled, and began the careful process of unzipping the white latex suit, not as an owner, but as someone uncovering a gift.
The zipper parted with a hushed, yielding sound, the tight white shell peeling back from his shoulders like a second skin being shed. Cool air touched the sweat-damp small of his back, and Alex shivered, a full-body release of tension he hadn’t named. “Before anything else,” he said, his voice rough from disuse, “I really need a long, hot shower.”
“Of course,” Brad replied, his fingers still gentle on the material. “Shower here. Stay as long as you like, just relax.” He guided the suit down Alex’s arms, the latex pooling at his feet with a soft slap. “I’ll find you something comfortable to change into.”
The bathroom was clean and warmly lit, with deep steam already billowing from the glass enclosure. Alex stood under the scalding spray, eyes closed, letting the water sluice the sweat, the dried spit, the phantom traces of every stranger’s touch from his skin. He scrubbed with a bar of cedar-scented soap, lathering over the places Gabe had marked, over the intimate soreness left by the knot, until his skin was pink and singing.
For the first time in days, his own scent returned to him—clean cotton and warm skin, nothing more. The mental fog of performative craving, of being the universal donor, dissolved down the drain with the grime. He turned his face into the spray, breathing deeply.
After, wrapped in a thick towel, he saw the neat stack of grey sweatpants and a soft black t-shirt on the counter. Brad’s voice came soft through the door. “Use anything you find in there.” Alex ran almond-scented lotion over his arms, his chest, the ritual a reclaiming of his own body’s comfort. He dressed in the borrowed clothes, the fabric smelling faintly of laundry detergent and, underneath, a trace of Brad’s own clean, spicy musk.
He opened the bathroom door, steam curling out into the cooler loft. Brad was waiting, having changed into similar clothes, his hair still damp. He looked at Alex, really looked, and a slow smile touched his eyes. “There you are,” he said quietly. “Do you feel like your self again?”
Alex let out a bright, unburdened laugh. “Completely.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling the clean strands between his fingers. “It’s amazing what hot water and not being someone’s party favor can do.”
Brad’s smile deepened, genuine and unrehearsed. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He gestured toward the small, galley kitchen where a single pendant light cast a warm glow over a neatly set table for two. “I took a chance and made dinner. Just in case.”
He walked over to the oven, its light illuminating his profile. “It’s nothing crazy. A three-course thing I had prepped.” He pulled out a baking sheet with golden-brown pastry puffs that smelled of rosemary and caramelized onion. “Started with these.” The rich, savory aroma filled the space between them.
“You cooked?” Alex asked, the surprise in his voice giving way to a soft delight. “For me?”
“For us,” Brad corrected gently, not looking up as he transferred the pastries to a plate. “The company was the only variable I was unsure about.” He finally met Alex’s gaze, his offer hanging softly in the air. “Would you like to stay and eat?”
Alex watched him, this man who had been a masked spectacle hours ago, now moving with a quiet, domestic precision. The dissonance was fascinating. “Yes,” Alex said, the decision feeling significant in his bones. “I’d really like that.” He moved to the table, drawn by the simple normalcy of it. “I want to know who you are.”
Brad chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to fill the quiet kitchen. “I agree,” he said, sliding the pastries onto a plate. “It was quite an unusual way to make a first impression.”
He brought the plate to the small table, his movements relaxed. “So, the basics,” he began, sitting across from Alex. “I’m Brad, single, thirty-six. I’m a software engineer for a boring financial tech company you may or may not have not heard of before.” He tore a pastry in half, steam rising. “My mom’s Irish, my dad’s Peruvian, which just means I can drink like a poet and cook a mean lomo saltado.”
He took a bite, thoughtful. “I’m the middle child—older sister, younger brother—which probably explains my pathological need to mediate situations.” A soft, self-deprecating smile appeared. “Like turning a potential possessive meltdown into a quiet dinner.” He paused, his fork hovering over his plate. “Shit, listen to me. I’ve been talking about myself this whole time.”
Brad set his fork down gently, his expression open and earnest. “I’d really like for you to share a bit of your background with me, Alex.” He leaned back, giving space. “Who are you?” Brad asked, “when you’re not a universal donor, who are you?” he added jokingly. The question hung in the warm, savory air between them, an invitation far more intimate than any that had been offered all night.
Alex and Brad chuckled, the sound loosening something in Alex’s chest. He took a slow breath, the cedar and onion smells anchoring him. “I’m twenty,” he began, his voice quieter now, more himself. “A Gemini, for what that’s worth.”
He traced the grain of the wooden table with a fingertip. “Just one older brother, who stayed back home.” The words came easier, painting a picture far removed from the loft. “Both my parents are from Guadalajara, like, actually from there.”
“Pretty city,” Brad murmured, not interrupting, just listening.
“I was born there, raised there,” Alex continued, a soft pride coloring his tone. “Didn’t move here until I was ten.” He shrugged a shoulder, the cotton of Brad’s shirt soft against his skin. “Now I’m a manager’s assistant at a department store, which is as thrilling as it sounds.”
A wry smile touched his lips. “Majoring in Business Management, obviously.” He finally looked up, meeting Brad’s attentive gaze. “And I rent a place about ten, fifteen minutes from campus.”
He fell silent, having offered the plain, unvarnished facts of his life. They sat between them, simple and real, far removed from the universal donor fantasy. Brad didn’t reach for his hand, but his focus was a tangible warmth. “Thank you,” he said, his voice solemn. “For telling me.”
The quiet felt comfortable, not empty. Alex blushed a bit and began to ask about Brad’s interests and hobbies. “So, a software engineer who builds elaborate canine personas on the weekend,” he mused, popping the last bite of pastry into his mouth. “What does the other side of that Venn diagram look like?”
Brad laughed, a genuine, easy sound. “I restore vintage audio equipment, which is why this place sounds so good.” He gestured to the quiet record player in the corner. “And I box. Three times a week at a gym over on 5th.”
“Box?” Alex’s eyebrows raised, his eyes tracing the line of Brad’s shoulders beneath the soft cotton. “That explains the, uh, formidable physique.”
“Helps with the stress of my day job,” Brad shrugged, a modest half-smile on his face. Alex then asked if he lived alone in such a huge house? Brad’s smile softened, then faded into something more contemplative. He looked down at his hands, then back at Alex, his gaze open. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a bit of a complicated situation, but I’ve been living alone here for the past four years.” He paused, choosing his words with a care that felt significant. “Brought this place when l last was in a relationship. Our divorce settlement was… protracted. I was able to keep the loft” He traced a finger along a faint water ring on the wooden table. “Sometimes it feels too big. Most of the time, it’s just quiet.”
Alex couldn’t help but say, “I’m sorry to hear that,” his voice soft as he reached across the table, fingertips brushing Brad’s wrist.
Brad exhaled through his nose, a quiet, grateful sound. “It’s alright. Happens.” He turned his hand just enough to catch Alex’s fingers, giving them a light squeeze before letting go. “What about you? You live alone?”
Alex nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, just me, my PlayStation, and a sad collection of takeout menus.” He grinned when Brad snorted into his wine.
“Hobbies? Interests?” Brad asked, swirling his glass before taking a sip. “Besides, y’know, being absurdly good at taking knots.”
Alex kicked him lightly under the table, laughing. “Shut up.” He tilted his head, thinking. “I like old movies, cooking when I’m not lazy, and I’m weirdly good at chess.”
Brad’s eyebrows went up. “Chess?” He leaned forward, intrigued. “You’re full of surprises.”
They kept talking, the conversation easy as Brad brought out the last course—a rich chocolate tart dusted with sea salt. Their hands met reaching for the same fork, fingers lingering a second too long before they both pulled back with quiet laughs.
The space between them shrank with every shared joke, every casual touch. Alex could feel the warmth of Brad’s knee pressing against his, the air between them charged with something unspoken.
He swallowed hard, pulse fluttering in his throat. “Can I kiss you?” The words came out too fast, too raw.
Brad didn’t answer.
He just leaned in and closed the distance, his mouth hot and insistent against Alex’s. The kiss was slow at first, testing, then deeper, hungrier. Alex gripped the front of Brad’s shirt, pulling him closer as the taste of dark chocolate and red wine filled his senses.
The record player in the corner crackled softly, the needle catching on the last fading notes of the song. Neither of them noticed.
Brad pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Alex's, his breath warm and uneven. "Hey," he murmured, voice roughened, "since you didn’t answer earlier—stay the night?" His thumb brushed the hinge of Alex’s jaw, a quiet question in the touch.
Alex exhaled a laugh, nerves and want tangled together. "Yeah," he said, leaning into the contact. "Yeah, I’d like that."
Brad kissed him again, quick and smiling, before standing to clear the plates. Alex followed, grabbing the empty wine glasses. Their elbows bumped at the sink—Brad loading the dishwasher while Alex rinsed sticky tart residue from forks.
It hit Alex then, the domesticity of it: the clink of silverware, the hum of the fridge, the way Brad’s shoulder pressed against his when they both reached for the sponge. No roles, no masks, just two people in a kitchen.
"Living room?" Brad nodded toward the space beyond, where the ottoman Alex had been bent over hours ago now sat innocently between jewel-toned couches. A knitted throw lay rumpled over one arm, lamplight pooling on a stack of books.
Alex hesitated at the threshold, struck by the absurd contrast. "Wild," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Same room, completely different vibe."
Brad snorted, nudging him toward the deepest sofa. "You should’ve seen it before the couches. Just a mattress and a tripod." He tossed the throw at Alex’s lap. "Pick a movie. Anything."
Alex scrolled through Brad’s library, half-watching the way Brad stretched out beside him, all loose-limbed ease. The loft smelled like chocolate now, like soap and worn-in cotton, the last traces of sweat and lube long gone. He clicked on something old, black-and-white, just to see Brad’s eyebrows lift.
"Really?" Brad smirked, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind Alex. "After tonight, you want *Casablanca*?"
Alex sank into the warmth of him, the solid weight. "Why not?" The opening credits rolled, piano swelling, and he tipped his head against Brad’s shoulder. "We’ve got time."
Brad truly enjoyed Alex’s movie choice, but he mostly enjoyed the company Alex was giving him. They watched the movie cuddled and curled up together, the warmth between them more intoxicating than the wine still humming in their veins. Alex kept petting Brad as if he were a dog—fingers combing absently through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, thumb tracing the shell of his ear—and Brad was really into it, leaning into the touch like a man starved.
Brad hadn’t felt such warmth and comfort in a long time, even before his divorce.
Alex’s fingers stilled when Rick and Ilsa locked eyes onscreen, the ache between them thick enough to taste. "You okay?" he murmured, feeling Brad’s breath hitch.
"Just thinking," Brad admitted, voice rough. "About how long it’s been since someone touched me like this." Not sex, not performance—just quiet, uncomplicated contact.
Alex’s hand slid down to cup the back of Brad’s neck, squeezing gently. "I’m not going anywhere." The words were simple, but they landed like a vow.
The movie played on, forgotten. Brad turned his face into Alex’s touch, exhaling shakily.
"Good," he said, and meant it.
The weight of the moment lingered between them, the hum of the record player filling the silence. Brad shifted closer, his fingers tracing idle circles on Alex’s thigh, the contact light but deliberate.
"Come here," Brad murmured, pulling Alex in by the waist until their lips met again—slow, then deeper, tasting of chocolate and the faint tang of red wine. Alex sighed into it, fingers tangling in Brad’s hair as the kiss turned hungry, messy, their bodies pressing together on the couch.
They broke apart only when the film’s climax swelled in the background, forgotten. Brad’s breath was ragged as he nudged Alex onto his side, curling around him in a loose spoon, chest to back. His nose brushed the nape of Alex’s neck, inhaling the clean, almond-lotion scent of him, layered now with something warmer, muskier—just *Alex*.
"Love how you smell," Brad muttered, lips grazing skin as he combed his fingers through Alex’s damp hair. His teeth nipped gently at the curve of Alex’s neck, not enough to mark, just to tease.
Alex shivered, arching back into him with a soft, throaty noise. "Oof, do that again."
Brad chuckled, low and rough, and obliged.
Brad's teeth grazed Alex's neck again, slower this time, savoring the way Alex's breath hitched. His pelvis pressed flush against Alex's clothed backside, the thin fabric of their sweatpants doing nothing to hide the heat building between them.
Alex twisted around, catching Brad's mouth in a messy kiss, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Their bodies slotted together, chest to chest, the couch creaking under their shifting weight. The movie's final monologue droned on unnoticed as Brad's hands slid down Alex's back, pulling him impossibly closer.
"You taste like salt," Brad murmured against his lips, tongue tracing the seam of Alex's mouth.
Alex laughed, breathless. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"
Brad nipped his bottom lip in retaliation, grinning when Alex gasped. "I'm thinking about a lot of things." His knee slid between Alex's thighs, pressing up just enough to tease.
Alex groaned, forehead dropping to Brad's shoulder. "Sir, you’re such a tease."
Brad's chuckle vibrated through both of them as he nosed along Alex's jaw. "Nah," he murmured, lips brushing skin. "Just getting started."
The credits rolled, casting flickering shadows across their tangled limbs. Neither of them moved.
"You know," Alex said after a beat, voice light and playful, "we missed how the movie ends."
Brad's fingers traced idle circles on Alex's hip. "Rick lets Ilsa go. Classic self-sacrifice."
Alex hummed, shifting to straddle Brad's lap. "Always thought the ending was a bit silly."
Brad's hands settled on his waist, thumbs rubbing slow arcs. "Yeah," he agreed, gaze dropping to Alex's mouth. "Real silly."
Their next kiss was slower, deeper, mouths moving like they had all the time in the world. The loft was quiet except for their shared breaths, the occasional creak of leather as they shifted closer.
Brad's fingers tangled in Alex's hair, tugging just enough to make him whine. "Stay," he murmured against his lips. It wasn't a question.
Alex's answering smile was all teeth. "Try and make me leave."
Brad laughed, low and warm, and kissed him again.
Brad’s lips lingered just a second longer, tasting the last traces of wine and chocolate on Alex’s tongue.
Alex let out a yawn, not out of boredom but of genuine tiredness. He tried to cover his mouth, but Brad was already watching, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. "Ready for bed?"
"Sorry," Alex murmured, but nodded his head, his body sagging against Brad’s chest.
Brad slid an arm under Alex’s knees, the other bracing his back as he lifted him effortlessly off the couch.
Alex wrapped his arms around Brad’s neck, fingers brushing the soft hair at his nape. "Jesus, are you sure I’m not too heavy?"
Brad smirked, adjusting his grip as he carried him toward the bedroom. "You weigh less than my sparring gear."
Alex let his head rest against Brad’s shoulder, eyes tracing the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. Every movement was smooth, controlled—like Brad could’ve carried him up a flight of stairs without breaking a sweat.
The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, the sheets already turned down.
Brad lowered him gently onto the mattress, his hands lingering at Alex’s waist. "Stay right there." His voice was rough, amused. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."
Alex stretched against the cool sheets, still tasting Brad on his lips. "Y’know, you can just say you like showing off."
Brad paused mid-step, glancing back with a slow grin. "Maybe I do."
Brad disappeared into the walk-in closet, emerging with a folded cotton shirt that smelled faintly of detergent and cedar. "Here," he said, tossing it to Alex before rummaging in a dresser drawer. "And these should fit."
Alex caught the pair of black boxer briefs mid-air, running his thumb over the soft fabric. "You just keep spare underwear lying around for guests?"
"Just the ones I plan on keeping," Brad shot back, peeling off his own shirt with one hand. The lamplight caught the definition of his abs, the faint trail of hair leading south.
They giggle and Brad pulls out two additional pillows and an additional blanket. They're going to sleep together and on the same bed. Brad gets in bed, having Alex rest his head in Brad's arm. They are cuddling and making out. Alex playfully glides his thigh and knee above Brad's crotch. Brad grunts playfully and asks Alex, "Is that so?" Alex winks. Brad covers them both with the blankets so they don't get cold if the situation turns steamy and they both end up losing their clothes.
"Cheeky," Brad murmured, but his hand slid down to grip Alex's hip, pulling him closer.
Alex smirked, his knee pressing just a little harder. "Learned from the best."
The warmth of Brad's skin seeped through the thin cotton between them, heat building where their bodies touched.
Brad's fingers traced idle patterns along Alex's spine, his breath hitching when Alex shifted again. "Gonna make me work for it, huh?"
Alex laughed, low and satisfied. "You started it, carrying me in here like some romance novel."
"Fuckin' worth it," Brad muttered before rolling them over, pinning Alex beneath him with a grin.