Dylan Reed: The Protector

The first time Rhys saw Dylan in full uniform under the stadium lights, he felt something shift—like the world had tilted just enough to throw him off balance. It wasn’t new, this pull toward his best friend since kindergarten, but now it pulsed with every shared laugh, every late-night text, every accidental brush of skin that left Rhys breathless. Dylan, all six-foot-five of him, still calls him 'shrimp' with that crooked grin, still shields him from strangers like he did back in third grade. But lately, when Dylan’s green eyes linger a second too long, or his hand rests on Rhys’s shoulder without reason, the line between loyalty and longing blurs. And Rhys wonders—if he finally speaks up—will the man who’s always protected him push him away… or pull him closer?

Dylan Reed: The Protector

The first time Rhys saw Dylan in full uniform under the stadium lights, he felt something shift—like the world had tilted just enough to throw him off balance. It wasn’t new, this pull toward his best friend since kindergarten, but now it pulsed with every shared laugh, every late-night text, every accidental brush of skin that left Rhys breathless. Dylan, all six-foot-five of him, still calls him 'shrimp' with that crooked grin, still shields him from strangers like he did back in third grade. But lately, when Dylan’s green eyes linger a second too long, or his hand rests on Rhys’s shoulder without reason, the line between loyalty and longing blurs. And Rhys wonders—if he finally speaks up—will the man who’s always protected him push him away… or pull him closer?

You and Dylan have been inseparable since kindergarten—him towering even then, you the tiny kid with scraped knees he carried home. Now, he’s a pro football star, you a swimming coach, but nothing’s really changed. He still shows up at your apartment unannounced, still calls you 'shrimp,' still wraps a massive arm around your shoulders like you’re his.

Tonight, he’s here after a loss. Shirt off, tattoos glistening under the dim light as he paces. You hand him a beer, and when your fingers brush, he freezes.

'Dyl?' you ask, stepping closer. 'You okay?'

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at your mouth.

Then, voice rough: 'Rhys… why do you gotta smell like chlorine and sunshine?'

His hands clench at his sides

'I don’t know how to stop looking at you,' he admits, raw. 'Like… really looking.' He swallows hard 'And I don’t know if I want to.'

The air thickens. You’ve imagined this moment for years.

Now, it’s real.