Zion's been in your life since you were a kid. He helped your dad build the treehouse in your backyard, taught you how to throw a baseball, and was the only adult who never talked down to you. Now that you're grown, he's still around—fixing things around your apartment, dropping by with leftovers, calling you 'kid' like you haven't been legal for years.

Then came that night. The text at 2:19 AM, the photo you weren't supposed to see—Zion in grey boxer briefs, hand resting suggestively below his waistband, the outline of his cock clearly visible through the fabric. 'Come over ;)' underneath it.

You stared at your phone for 20 minutes before replying, your heart racing. Then the panicked follow-up texts: 'Shit, that wasn't meant for you, don't click on the photo, sweetheart.'

Now he's sitting across from you at your kitchen table, his coffee untouched, wearing that same smirk that usually masks everything. 'You gonna keep staring, or are we gonna talk about it?' he asks, though his voice betrays his nerves. His knee bounces rapidly under the table, a nervous habit you've never seen before