Page 129 of Shadows in Bloom

This is really fucking bad.

I’m not even gay.

As if the pieces are only just falling into place, I slowly slide the quilt away, careful not to wake him. My softening cock greets me, the morning wood slowly going away now that I’m in full panic mode. What the hell did I do? Fuck my best friend’s son? My student? I wouldn’t do that… Would I? I’m not gay. What would possess me to fuck a man? Alcohol? Desperation? No way.

After scrubbing my face, I climb out of bed and turn to look at Cruz. This is bad, bad, bad. I could lose my job. My closest friend. I’ve already lost my damn wife.

I could lose everything.

My thoughts spiral out of control while I stare at a sleeping Cruz—the tattoos drawn on his olive skin, his even breaths.

I spin around and leave the room, zipping up my pants, only to draw to a halt outside in the hallway. My chest is covered in dried, flaky cum. If there was any doubt before, it’s gone now. I’ve done the unspeakable.

Swallowing down another wave of nausea, I storm into the bathroom across the hall, intent on showering away my transgressions. I strip out of my clothes, turn the shower to the highest setting, and wait for the room to steam up. It doesn’t take long.

I move through a shower, scrubbing my hair almost furiously with my peppermint shampoo. The scalding water turns my skin pink as I brace my palms on the tiles and stare at my fingers, slowly fisting a hand. The severity of the situation is fully sinking in. I’ve slept with my best friend’s son. He’s only twenty, not even old enough to be in that bar to begin with. I’m also his professor and superior.

Rearing back, I drive my knuckles into the wet tiles, and pain explodes, radiating up my arm. I clutch my throbbing hand, hissing through my teeth as the water overhead rinses away the blood.

I’m so confused.

Why did I do it? I’m not gay.

That one sentence plays on repeat in my head. I finish my shower, dressing in pants and a navy button-up—my usual work attire. Thankful that I keep my clothes in the spare bedroom so that I don’t have to look at my wife’s clothes in the wardrobe in our room. She was supposed to collect the last few items, but they’re still there, filling me with a sense of failure.

Today, as I tighten my tie in front of the bathroom mirror, it feels strangely like I’m readying myself for battle. I don’t know how to have this conversation with Cruz. He’s not a one-night stand I’ll never see again.

He still lives at home since it’s only a short drive to the college. Even if I try to avoid him, I’ll see him every week in class or at Karl’s home.

I brace my hands on the sink, staring at my haunted face in the mirror. Dark circles rim my eyes. I look tired and drained. Gray hairs are interspersed throughout my stubble. I’m aging, which shows in my graying hair and the crow’s feet around my eyes when I laugh.

“What the fuck did you do?” I ask my reflection.

Once I’m back in the kitchen, I whip up pancakes. The least I can do is make him something to eat. He’s practically family, after all. I watched him grow up. I was there, waiting in the hospital with Karl when his wife was in labor.

As I pour the pancake mix into the pan, I remember cheering Cruz on when he first learned to ride his bike. His little face beamed with pride.

The first time he was suspended for fighting, I collected him from school because his father couldn’t get out of work. Cruz soon grew into a guarded, complicated young man who hides his emotions behind smirks and a perfected stone mask.

Now, he’s my student, and I shouldn’t have taken advantage of him.

This is so fucked up.

“Something smells nice.”

My shoulders stiffen.

His heavy footsteps sound behind me on the floor, followed by the scrape of a kitchen chair, and I plate the pancake while he audibly yawns.

“I’m starving.”

Turning around, I’m assaulted by all six-foot-three of him, slouched bare-chested on the kitchen chair. Dressed in his jeans that sit low on his hips, he rests his elbow on the backrest. A dog tag hangs on a thin, silver chain halfway down his chest, his dark hair curling at his nape. There isn’t an inch of fat on him, only corded muscle.

I place the plate down in front of him and then take a seat, observing him as he picks up the cutlery. He inherited his mom’s complexion and big eyes, but he has his father’s straight nose and sharp jawline. When he flicks his dark hair out of his eyes, I can see why the female student population drools over him. He’s masculine, with an air of mystique and I guess I’m intrigued now that I’ve discovered another tidbit of information about him.

“You have a fake ID?”

He doesn’t deny it as he stuffs his mouth with more pancakes before frowning in my direction. When he finishes chewing, he asks, “Are you not eating?”

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