My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan | S2 E8: He Texted Me The Next Morning

All characters in this story are 18+
This story is completely fictional.
All acts in this story are fully consensual.

Becca, my sister found me doing Zumba in the living room. Again.

“Why are you always halfway sweating when I walk in here?” she called from the kitchen, digging a spoon into a jar of peanut butter.

I was in a tshirt, dripping in sweat, black gym shorts dangerously low, trying to keep up with this overexcited Australian woman on YouTube screaming about hip rolls and pelvic engagement. Yeah, I gotta sculpt my butt if I want two hot men drooling over it.

“I live here too,” I panted, flinging my arms out in something that might’ve been a turn. “If anything, you’re always walking into my moments.” Yeah, I was talking about how she almost caught Dylan fucking me in the living room yesterday.

She strolled over, leaned against the doorway, and watched like I was her morning entertainment. “It’s giving... over-caffeinated twink energy,” she said, spoon between her teeth. “And also? Some very specific sexual tension.”

“I’m literally doing cardio., Becca. Chill.”

“Sure,” she grinned. “Tell that to your phone, which has buzzed five times in the last two minutes. Is it that hot dude Dylan sending you morning-after nudes?”

I stopped mid-workout.

“Sis, don’t... shut up you bitch.”, I laughed.

She was already lunging for the phone.

“Give me that!” I half-yelled, half-laughed, lunging after her. But she was slippery, ducking away with the speed of someone who’d been reading my drama since preschool.

“If he’s sending you dick pics, I need to see!” she said, dancing out of my reach. “For research purposes, of course..”, she grinned.

“It’s not...Jesus, Becca..”

She looked at message that popped up on the screen, tongue poking out in concentration.

And then she paused.
“Oh,” she said. “Wait. This isn’t Dylan.”

I froze. “...Don’t read that.”

But it was too late.

Her brow arched as she read the preview aloud. “‘Lunch today? My treat. ☕🍽️’."

"Okay, who the hell is 'Elliot💫🥖'?"

I lunged again.

She rolled away, cackling. “You saved him with a sparkle emoji, Troy? Seriously?.”

“Give it,” I hissed.

“Not until you explain why Sparkle Baguette is texting you about lunch,” she teased, still scrolling. “Weren’t you just at Dylan’s last night?”. (Yeah, I went back to his apartment again after our morning fuck session. Guilty)

My face was burning now. “Becca...”

She stopped cold. Then she looked up, eyes gleaming. “Troy. You two-timing little slut.”

“I’m not,” I said. “We didn’t do anything.”

Her grin was pure chaos. “Didn’t do anything? What, did you stare deeply into each other’s souls while he fed you croissants? And I am not really talking about an actual croissant.”, she laughed again.

“He made me dinner!” I said defensively. “It was just... pasta. Wine. Talking.”

“Oh my god, he fed you and you’re trying to act like it wasn’t 'anything'?”

I groaned and flopped face-first onto the couch.

“Show me what he looks like,” she said.

“No.”

“Troy.”

“I’m not showing you.”

“Don’t make me Google how to unlock a phone with a sweaty Zumba thumbprint.”


I rolled over, defeated, and opened the camera roll.

I scrolled past a couple selfies, then held one up for her. It was Elliot in a soft grey T-shirt, head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled from the sun. Casual. Half-smile. Tousled hair. Pretty.

Becca gasped.

“Dude,” she whispered, clutching my phone like it was a sacred artifact. “He’s like a dreamy French prince. Is that a mole under his eye? Fuck. He’s hot. In like... a men-who-own-silk-sheets way.”

I groaned. “Give it back.”

“Wait wait wait,” she said, sitting up straight. “Let me get this straight. You’re in the middle of a love-slash-fuck triangle with Mr. Caveman-Facefuck-Me-Against-The-Door and this... candlelit-dinner French dreamboat who sends you brunch invites?”

“Nothing happened with Elliot,” I said, already knowing I’d lost this battle.

Becca’s grin softened just slightly. “Okay. Then... what do you want to happen?”

I hesitated. My chest was still heaving from the Zumba. Or maybe not just from that. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

Becca poked my leg. “You always like extreme stuff.”

“I do not.”

“Yeah you do,” she said, dramatically flopping down beside me. “Now, It’s either guys who manhandle you or guys who write poetry about your freckles. There’s no middle ground.”

I laughed despite myself. “Shut up.”

She tilted her head, giving me a sisterly once-over. “Do you like Elliot?”

“He’s... sweet,” I said quietly.

“That’s not a no.”

“He’s smart. And funny. And he looks at me like he’s already planning to kiss me with his eyes”

Becca beamed. “You’re so down bad.”

I groaned again, dragging a pillow over my face. “Why is this happening? I was supposed to have a quiet summer. Be gay, do zumba, heal. Not...this.”

She nudged me. “Then don’t overthink it. Say yes to lunch. You don’t have to decide your entire romantic future right now. Just go. Be cute. Order a croissant.”

I peeked out from under the pillow. “You want me to flirt with both?”

“No,” she said, mock-serious. “I want you to lead both on until they fight over you in a park, preferably shirtless.”

“You are such a bitch..”

She grinned. “Seriously though. Text him back. Lunch doesn’t mean anything. Just... be honest. With him. And yourself.”

I sighed.

Picked up the phone.

Typed: Lunch sounds nice 😊

Paused.

Deleted the emoji. Re-added it. Deleted it again.

Then hit send.

And yeah, I was already blushing.

Becca saw the expression and kicked me playfully.

“Yup,” she said. “Down horrendously bad.”



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