My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan | S2 E9: Lunch With Frenchman

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

The images accompanying this work are artificially generated and do not depict real people in any form. They are original creations intended to visually support fictional storytelling only.

The sun was too bright for how nervous I felt.

I stood outside the cafe Elliot had picked, trying to act normal. My reflection in the glass door didn’t help, hair a bit too styled, shirt too carefully wrinkled, like I was trying to look like I didn’t care. I did. Obviously. I had spent the whole morning telling myself this was nothing. Just lunch. Just two guys having food. People did it all the time.

And then he stepped out from inside.

White shirt. Open collar. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. He smiled like he hadn’t spent the last week teasing me with hands on my thigh and slow-burning kisses. Just warm and effortless, like we hadn’t crossed a line.

“Troy,” he said, his accent soft, that lazy elegance rolling off every syllable. “You made it.”

“Of course,” I said. “I like food.”

He laughed as he pulled the door open for me. “Good. Then I won’t be the only one eating.”

We sat under a striped awning, two iced coffees arriving before I had even gotten settled. The waiter knew him. Of course. I fiddled with my straw while he ordered us both some perfect, curated French-sounding lunch and leaned back like this wasn’t already too much.

“So,” Elliot said, folding his arms. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

I blinked. “We’re skipping straight to that?”

“I find it’s more efficient,” he said with a smirk. “Otherwise we pretend to be normal for an hour and then I leave wondering if you’re just pretending to be this charming.”

I gave him a look. “You think I’m charming?”

He shrugged. “I think you’re distracted.”

I flushed and looked down. He wasn’t wrong. I could barely hold eye contact. Not because I wasn’t into it. Because I was. Fully. Painfully. He was calm in a way that made me fidget. Made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.

“It’s the shirt,” I muttered. “You can’t wear white like that and expect me to be composed.”

He laughed again, light and real. “You should see what I wear to bed.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re easy to tease.”

“You’re very good at it.”

Yeah, I completely avoided his question about “something you’ve never told anyone.”

------

The food arrived. He poured us water. His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the bread, and I swear I felt it in my knees. Under the table, our shoes bumped. Once. Twice. Not an accident. He didn’t move his.

I wasn’t sure when it shifted from a meal to something charged. Maybe around the moment he leaned in and said, “You have a little something on your lip,” then reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

Or maybe when he tilted his head, just slightly, and said, “You do this thing when you’re thinking hard. Your eyebrows twitch.”

“You’re really observant.”

He took a sip of his drink, eyes still on me. “I photograph people for a living. I have to be.”

I tried to focus on my salad. Failed. He leaned back and gave me a once-over, not in a gross way, just like he was letting himself enjoy what he saw.

“I think you’re trying very hard to seem relaxed,” Elliot said, his gaze warm and quiet. “Which usually means you’re not.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the accuracy. I was halfway through my iced espresso, my knee bouncing under the table. I had barely touched my sandwich. And I kept looking anywhere but directly at him for longer than three seconds.

“I’m chill,” I lied, instantly losing all credibility by knocking over the little glass jar of sugar packets.

Elliot reached forward, righted it, then brushed one of the paper wrappers off my hand like it was nothing. “You don’t have to be,” he said. “I like who you are when you’re not.”

There it was again, that calm confidence. Not cocky, not intense. Just present. Steady.

The opposite of Dylan in every way.

I bit into my sandwich just to shut myself up, chewing in silence while he watched me like I was some kind of weather pattern he was trying to figure out.

“You know,” I said eventually, licking some pesto off my thumb, “you’re very good at making people feel like they’re in a movie scene.”

He tilted his head. “Good scene or bad?”

“Good,” I admitted. “Like the kind where something’s about to happen.”

Elliot smiled. Not wide. Just… knowing. He glanced at the time and then back at me. “There’s a pop-up exhibit two streets over. Friend of mine is showing his new series. Nothing serious. Want to walk over with me?”

I hesitated for about half a second before nodding.

-----

We paid, stepped out into the sun, and started walking. It was warm out. The kind of warm that made everything feel slower. Softer. His sleeve brushed mine once, and neither of us said anything. His shirt was white, loose, open at the collar. A few strands of his hair fell onto his forehead, and I couldn’t stop watching the way the light played against his skin.

The gallery was tucked into an alley. One of those places that looked closed until you saw the open door and the faint music drifting out. Inside, it was dim, quiet, humming with the soft clinking of wine glasses and the murmur of small talk.

Photos lined the walls. Large prints. Black and white. A series of bodies. Not pornographic, not even fully nude...just close-ups. A shoulder blade. A jawline. Two hands tangled. Skin, sweat, freckles.


I stepped closer to one. It was a man’s back, caught mid-turn. His spine was a smooth line of light and shadow.

“Some pictures feel like they’re looking back at you, don’t they?” Elliot said softly behind me.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Something about the stillness in these photos made my chest feel tight. I didn’t realize I had moved so close to Elliot until I felt the back of his hand brush mine.

He didn’t move it away.

We didn’t talk for a while. Just walked the gallery slowly, lingering, letting it soak in.

At one point I turned to him, about to say something dumb and defensive, like “I’m not usually into art,” but he was already watching me, head slightly tilted, like he saw more in me than I knew how to give.

“Want to come by the studio?” he asked after a beat. “It’s a short walk. We can sit. Drink something. Just... come.”

Again, that voice. That calm invitation. No pressure. No need to impress.

I said yes.

_____

Elliot’s loft hadn’t changed. Still tucked above the bakery, still hushed in that way that made you speak softer without meaning to. The same soft light fell through the high windows, painting golden streaks on the pinewood floors. The same worn bookshelves leaned against the wall like they’d been resting there for years. And that same faint scent of coffee, varnish, something warm and expensive floated in the air like memory.

But this time, it felt different.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was electric. Loaded.

He flicked the needle on the record player. Something slow and instrumental spun to life, soft piano beneath a grainy vinyl crackle. He didn’t ask if I wanted to sit. I just did. The couch creaked familiarly beneath me. I remembered how we sat here before, how close we’d gotten, how I’d left with my lips still tingling from that kiss.

Elliot poured wine into two glasses and crossed the room. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His white shirt was slightly wrinkled, tucked messily into his pants, the top two buttons undone like he hadn’t even thought about it. He handed me the glass and sat beside me, close, but not touching.

I took a sip I didn’t need. My heart was already fluttering.

“So,” he said, looking at me with that easy, half-curious smile. “Was lunch what you expected?”

“Better,” I said. And I meant it.

He smiled like that meant something. His eyes didn’t move away. And neither did mine.

We didn’t speak. Not right away. There wasn’t a need.

I could smell him from here. Something clean and warm. Subtle cologne and coffee and whatever lingered on his white shirt from the walk. I leaned a little closer. Not enough to make a move. Just enough to feel the heat where his knee almost brushed mine.

He noticed.

His voice dropped lower. “You keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to kiss me.”

I swallowed. “Maybe I am.”

His smile didn’t falter. “Then don’t wait.”

I leaned in slowly, heart pounding louder than the music. Our faces hovered close, breath mingling. His hand found my jaw just before our lips met. Soft. Sure. His thumb brushed my cheek as he pulled me in.

The kiss was slow. Intoxicating. It didn’t explode...it melted. Like honey. Like time forgot how to move.

His lips tasted like wine and sugar. His breath was warm against mine. I could feel the curve of his smile even while we kissed, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Like he’d been thinking about this too.

When we pulled apart, he stayed close. Forehead almost against mine.

“Mon cœur,” he whispered, the words like silk.

I closed my eyes, breathing him in. Drowning a little. Wanting more.

My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan | S2 E10: My Love, Is this okay?