Be Proud - part I

🏳️‍🌈 PRIDE SEASON – PART 1: “First Steps” 🖤🕶️ In this first episode of our exclusive 10-part transformation series, we follow Michael – a quiet, handsome young man – as he takes his first bold steps into a new, unapologetically queer identity. What starts as a nervous walk through the neighborhood in a leather harness becomes a journey of confidence, style and freedom. A trip to the cigar shop. A fresh flattop cut. A quiet beer at a leather café. And finally, a surprising reunion with his best friend Pablo – who may be more curious than he lets on... This visual story is about queerness, pride, masculinity, and the power of embracing change. Every detail matters. Every stare is a statement. No dialogue, just vibes, confidence and transformation. 🔗 Watch all 10 episodes exclusively on Patreon: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/c/jchoward #prideseason #queertransformation #gayawakening #comingoutstory #selfdiscovery #masculinepride #queerjoy #fetishfriendly #leathercommunity #flattopfantasy #charactertransformation #gaycomicvibes #tomoffinlandenergy #barbershopfantasy #cigarloversclub #dapperdaddylook #leathereroticism #retroqueer #softfetishcore #confidencejourney #fromvanillatoleather #secretdesires #closetkink #stylishrebirth #becomingmyself #flirtyencounters #proudandbold #gaymakeover #intimateaesthetic

It’s Pride season. Strange, really, that it still needs to exist — don’t you think? Because shouldn’t we all be proud by now?

Coming out isn’t the ordeal it once was, at least not for most people — not like a few decades ago.
But… what if I’m not just queer, but kinky?
What if I have a fetish?

That’s where the shame begins. That’s when we start hiding again.

But what if — just for a moment — we imagined Pride season like Christmas? A time of wonders. A time when people can finally embrace who they are and what they want.
A time to be truly, unapologetically themselves.

Too good to be true? Maybe.
Possible? Definitely.

So let’s go to San Francisco — and follow a few young men on their magical, liberating journeys. Not with spells or fairy dust, but through the quiet power of finally saying:
This is who I am.

Michael craved celebration.
The work bonus wasn’t life-changing, but it slid into his wallet like permission — the kind of crisp, green yes that made him ache for indulgence. So he let his feet take him, without plan, into the new gay comic shop that had opened just off Market Street. The air inside was cool, thick with ink, vinyl, and something else — the scent of possibility.

He moved between the aisles like someone touching the edge of a dream.
There they were: leather titans on glossy pages, muscles taut beneath sculpted uniforms, cigars clenched between grinning lips. J.C. Howard’s name was scrawled across the top of one cover in bold, black ink. Michael’s hand found the book almost instinctively.

And just like that, his jeans betrayed him.

He chuckled softly. God. It had always been this way.
Leather. Discipline. A mouth full of smoke. The slow burn of authority.

He shifted on his feet, and his eyes fell on the mirrored glass of a nearby cabinet. There he was. Blond hair, too long. A plain black tee. Sneakers. Twenty-five, but playing at seventeen. A good boy. A safe boy. The kind you could take home to your mother — and hide from your deepest hunger.

But under the surface: want.
A raw, smoky longing.
He wanted to know what leather felt like when it stuck to your skin in the summer heat. Wanted to know the weight of a cigar between his teeth — the ritual, the control, the scent it would leave in his clothes.

And yet, each time, he backed down.
Leather was expensive. Fetish shops made him nervous. He'd step toward the doorway and feel the heat rise in his cheeks, sweat prickle at his spine.
Not today, he’d whisper. Next week.
Always next week.

So he bought the comic. Again.
And when he got home, he’d draw the blinds.
And when he turned the first page, he’d touch himself the way he imagined those leather men might — rough, slow, unapologetic.
And maybe — just maybe — he’d close his eyes and pretend the scent on his fingers was smoke.

And then he saw it.

Tucked away at the back of the shop, above a glass case filled with enamel pins and vintage cock rings, it caught his breath like a sudden kiss.

A Tom of Finland. Not a reprint. Not a poster. This one had texture. Pencil strokes still visible, subtle pressure marks where the artist’s hand had pressed with intention.

The man in the drawing stared back at him with unapologetic masculinity: thick neck, heavy jaw, shaved head, and that moustache — full, proud, utterly obscene in its confidence.
He was leaning against a wall, boots crossed, cigar drooping from the corner of his mouth like he’d just told you to drop your pants.

Michael stepped closer.

The price tag hit him like a cold slap.
$300.
Fuck.

He hesitated — then squinted. Wait.
That wasn’t a print. It wasn’t signed in the margin like the others.
The signature was in the artwork. And there — the telltale aging of the paper, the worn edges, the faint aroma of graphite and time.

This was real. An original.

Michael’s pulse fluttered like a moth against glass.

He looked around. No one else seemed to notice. The guy behind the counter was scrolling on his phone.
And the store was quiet — too quiet for what felt like a spiritual awakening.

Could he?

He imagined it hanging above his bed.
Not framed in irony, not a joke — but a totem. A reminder. Of who he might be, if he just fucking let go.

His cheeks flushed with a wave of something between arousal and embarrassment.
The man in the picture would never blush.
The man in the picture would have his boots on the table, a cigar in one hand and a boy kneeling at his feet.

Michael bit his lip.

He reached into his wallet. The bonus. He hadn’t even spent a dime of it yet. And maybe that was no accident.

Maybe this wasn’t a purchase.
Maybe this was a beginning.

He brought it to the counter. The clerk looked up, raised an eyebrow, and whistled softly.

“Hell of a piece,” the guy said. “Not many would dare hang that in their living room.”

Michael just smiled.
Not a big smile. Not a grin.
Something quieter.
Something determined.

“I’m not most people.”

The clerk bagged it in stiff brown paper, nodded, and gave a sly wink.

“Enjoy the company, man. He’s a real looker.”

As Michael stepped out onto the street, sunlight pooling over his shoulders like warm approval, he felt it for the first time — the weight of choice.

Not shame. Not hesitation.
Just the slow, intoxicating realization that he could become the man in that drawing.

And maybe, just maybe…
someone else already wanted him to.

Michael needed air.

The bag in his hand was light, and yet it felt like it carried the weight of a confession. Or a promise.
He wandered a few blocks aimlessly until he found himself—somehow unsurprisingly—standing outside his favorite café. Café Philo.
Warm light, quiet jazz, old books stacked against the walls, and a barista who always smiled too long. The kind of place where nobody asked questions, but everyone noticed everything.

He took his usual seat by the window, ordered an oat milk doppio, and placed the paper bag gently on the table in front of him.
No one could see what was inside. And yet—he almost wanted them to.

His fingers trembled just a little as he peeled back the edge of the paper.
Just a peek.

There he was.

The man in the drawing looked back at him with that impossible confidence—bald, bearded, thick leather stretched over broad shoulders, a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth like it belonged there.
Michael felt the heat bloom in his chest. In his jeans.
His reflection in the café window looked faint. Vanilla. A long-haired 25-year-old in a soft shirt and worn jeans. Someone who’d never set foot in a leather bar, let alone dared to order a drink there.

But the thought …
What if?

What if the fantasy wasn’t a fantasy?

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his mind wander.
What would it feel like to wear leather, tight and hot and powerful against his skin?
To take a slow draw from a cigar and see no shame in it?
To wake up one day, look in the mirror—and see himself, but changed. Hardened. Desired.

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Deep. Slightly rough.
Not asking. Just stating.

“Nice piece.”

Michael blinked. Turned.

The man at the next table looked like he had stepped straight out of the drawing.
Shaved head. Full beard. Leather jacket.
A cigar sat between his fingers, glowing softly. His eyes didn’t flicker—they pierced.

Michael’s throat tightened.
The man nodded at the artwork.

“Tom. Original, huh?”

Michael managed a nod.
His palms were sweating.

The man didn’t smile. He just studied Michael for a beat longer.

“So …” he said, voice low and steady.
“You into guys like him—or do you wish you were him?”

“So,” the man said, thick cigar resting at the corner of his mouth, “what’s a pretty boy like you doing with something like that?”

Michael blinked, then grinned. “You mean the drawing?”

“I mean Tom. That’s not just ink on paper, that’s a statement.”

Michael glanced down at the brown paper bag. “Yeah… I guess it is.”

The man leaned back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest, thick leather creaking. He was a wall of confidence—bald head gleaming, beard neat and salt-flecked, shirt open just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.

“Name’s Paul, by the way,” he said, cigar shifting slightly as he spoke.

“Michael,” he replied, and they shook hands.

Paul gave him a slow, appraising look—nothing threatening, just… curious. Kind.

“You ever wear leather?” he asked.

Michael chuckled, instantly flustered. “Me? No. I mean… I’ve thought about it. A lot. But I wouldn’t know where to start. And I’d probably look ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” Paul said, dryly. “Tell that to the guy who just dropped a few hundred bucks on an original Tom of Finland.”

Michael laughed, a bit louder than intended. “Touché.”

Paul took another puff from his cigar. “Look, no pressure. But you ever wonder why you're drawn to it? It's not just about the look. It's how it makes you feel. Strong. Seen. Unapologetically yourself.”

Michael nodded slowly, his smile softening.

Paul leaned in just a little. “Hey. It’s Pride season, right? Isn’t this exactly the time to be proud?”

Michael looked down at his coffee, then at Paul. That leather creaked again as Paul sat back, and with a wink, added, “You should talk to Mr. C. He knows how to get people started. Real gentle. Real good. Just tell him I sent you.”

Michael swallowed. There was a flutter in his chest. Nerves, sure—but something else too.

Excitement.

And maybe—just maybe—that whisper of courage he'd been waiting for.

The bell above the door chimed as Michael stepped into the shop. It smelled of worn leather and something else—something warm, human, a little dangerous. He took a cautious breath. His fingers tightened slightly around the brown paper bag still marked Gay Comics.

He half-expected stares. Raised brows. A smirk or two.

But no one turned. No one scoffed. Instead, a man with a friendly beard and a chest harness over a tank top offered him a nod and a warm, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Michael nodded back, too shy to answer. The walls were lined with jackets, pants, gloves—everything black, gleaming, and unapologetically sexual. And yet the space felt calm. Safe, even.

“First time?” a voice asked gently.

He turned to see an older man with soft eyes and a tattooed neck. Michael nodded.

“No rush,” the man smiled. “Take a look around. Touch things. Try something on, if you like. That’s the only way to know what feels right.”

And that’s what Michael did.

His hands brushed buttery-soft leather. A pair of trousers caught his eye—slim cut, glossy black. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was in the changing room. He stepped out, uncertain, only to be met with a mirror.

And stopped.

The pants hugged his legs like they’d always belonged there. His reflection looked back, amused, surprised… powerful.

“Try this with it,” the clerk said, handing him a simple black harness. Michael blinked at it, hesitated, then pulled it over his white tee.

Click.

Straps adjusted. He turned again. There he was.

Still Michael.

But not quite the same.

He stepped out of the changing room and caught his own reflection once more. A grin spread across his face—slowly at first, then impossibly wide.

There was no shame. No fear.

Only joy.

He had no idea how this journey would continue. But one thing was clear: he’d taken the first step.

And it fit like a glove.

The harness still hugged his chest when he stepped up to the register, arms full of buttery-soft leather. His pulse beat loud in his ears—not from embarrassment, but something that felt dangerously close to joy.

He caught himself grinning.

“I’ll take all of it,” he said, almost laughing.

The clerk raised a brow. “Now that’s the spirit.”

Michael looked down at the pieces he'd chosen. A pair of high-waisted leather pants. Two harnesses. A fitted shirt with metal snaps. And the jacket. God, the jacket. Heavy, commanding, made for nights under neon light and soft hands on his back.

He felt something shift inside. It was subtle—like the moment a door clicks open—but it was there.

No one laughed. No one judged.

And why should they? There was nothing shameful about wanting to feel powerful. Beautiful. Desired. Paul had been right. It was pride season. The time to be bold. To be honest.

To be seen.

As he slid his card across the counter, he realized: this wasn’t just a purchase. It was a declaration.

Not a costume.

Not a game.

Just… something that had always been waiting inside him, patient and proud.

The clerk handed him the bag with a wink. “Welcome to the family.”

Michael stepped out into the warm afternoon light, leather over his shoulder, smile wide, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged.

Somewhere.

To someone.

To himself.

The breeze kissed his skin, warm and easy, as he stepped out onto the street. The harness clung tightly to his chest, the leather pants molded to his thighs, every step echoing softly in the rhythm of confidence—though not without nerves.

Michael inhaled. Okay. Let’s see what happens.

At first, he felt exposed. Like walking through glass. He braced himself for laughter, stares, judgment. But the city had other plans.

No one pointed. No one sneered.

Instead—glances. Curious ones. Playful, appreciative, flirtatious. A jogger gave him a wink. A couple of teenagers whispered and grinned, but not unkindly. A man in a tailored suit looked up from his phone and held Michael’s gaze for a moment too long, biting his lip before walking on.

If anyone stared, it wasn’t out of mockery. If anything, it was admiration. Desire. Maybe even envy.

He stopped at a shaded bench near a bookstore and sat down, heart still thudding with a mixture of nerves and rising thrill. He caught his reflection in the shop window across the street—his white tee stretched beneath the leather straps, the soft sheen of his pants, the bag with GAY COMICS bold in his lap.

He looked good. Not like someone else.

Like someone more himself.

He reached into the bag, unwrapped the Tom of Finland drawing one more time. The bald man, broad-chested, moustached, in full leather, stared back at him with absolute calm. Sexual power and quiet pride radiated from the image like heat.

Michael swallowed. Thought of Paul. That voice, rich and gravelly, saying: “It’s Pride season. Isn’t this the time to be proud?”

Yeah.

His eyes drifted to the cigar in the man’s mouth. That final detail that had always fascinated him—and always felt out of reach.

Until now.

He smiled slowly to himself.

Maybe… maybe it was time.

He stood up, tucking the print carefully away, and glanced across the street. A tobacconist's shop—small, discreet, old-world style—waited like it had always been there, just for him.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself.

Time to find the right cigar.

The scent hit him the moment he stepped inside.

Warm, rich, masculine. Leather, cedarwood, dark spice. It wrapped around him like a thick velvet curtain, tugging gently at his senses. Michael hesitated by the door, the bell above still jingling behind him. For a moment, he felt completely ridiculous.

Leather pants. Harness. Shopping bags in both hands. And now a cigar shop?

But no one stared. No one laughed. In fact, the man behind the counter just gave him a nod and a soft, approving smile, as if Michael walked in dressed like this every day.

He moved between the shelves slowly, taking in the neat rows of open boxes, the textured wrappers, the golden rings like elegant badges of temptation. His fingers hovered above a bold, dark cigar—he didn’t dare touch it.

“You’ve got good taste,” said a calm voice beside him.

Michael turned to see a man with salt-and-pepper stubble and kind eyes, holding a tray of cutters and cedar spills. Not pushy. Just curious.

“First time?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’ve thought about it. For years.”

“Good day for it,” the man said with a grin. “Take your time. Smell a few. You’ll know which one’s yours.”

Michael picked one up carefully, held it to his nose. Sweet. Strong. Intimate. He felt the faintest shiver run down his spine.

He smiled to himself, heart pounding just a little.

Yes. Today was the day.

The box felt heavy in his arms. Substantial. Real.

Michael stepped out of the humidor, the soft creak of his leather pants echoing like a secret between his thighs. In his hands: four cedar-lined boxes of cigars, each one radiating the warm, musky scent of tobacco. Alongside them, a sleek cutter, a jet-black torch lighter, a travel case — everything a man might need for a slow-burning indulgence.

He couldn’t stop smiling. Not the careful, polite smile he wore in the office. Not the shy, hesitant grin he’d given Paul earlier that afternoon. This was something else entirely.

This was satisfaction. Anticipation. Maybe even arousal.

The scent of tobacco clung to him now — clung to his shirt, to the tight leather hugging his legs, to the harness strapped across his chest. It mixed with the rich smell of polished hide, the faint sweetness of cedar, and something more private: the quiet thrill of being seen.

The clerk had been patient, kind, even a little flirty. He’d guided Michael through shapes and sizes, wrappers and ring gauges, letting him hold each cigar with reverence, explaining things in a low voice that made the whole process feel intimate, almost sacred.

Michael had felt like a prince being fitted for a weapon — or a boy being invited into a secret club where scent and fire and ritual mattered.

And now, stepping through the doorway into the Castro sunlight, arms loaded with kink and smoke and pride, he caught sight of himself in the shop window and stopped.

There it was again — that smile.

That crooked, surprised, a-little-too-proud smile that said:

Fuck, I really did it.

And maybe… I kind of look hot.

He didn’t rush it.

Michael sat outside the café, legs wide in tight leather, his shopping bags rustling softly beside him like witnesses. A warm breeze tugged playfully at the collar of his shirt. The sun kissed the side of his face. He turned the cigar slowly between his fingers, savoring the feel of it. Heavy. Oiled. Packed with promise.

It felt almost too much — too good — to light it in public. But this was the Castro. And this was Pride season. And maybe, just maybe, this was his moment.

He raised it to his lips.

It tasted… different. Nothing like he’d imagined, and yet exactly right. Earthy. Rich. Slow. The first puff wasn’t perfect — too hesitant — but the second? The second was bold. Confident. It made him smile. A real, dirty, satisfied smile.

His chest rose under the harness with a deep breath.

And then the smoke curled from his lips like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He leaned back. Looked around.

Nobody stared. Or rather — they did, but not with judgment. A guy at another table gave him a slow nod. Someone walking past gave him a wink. The rainbow flag above the café door fluttered as if in approval.

Michael took another puff.

Then he picked up the comic. On the cover: two muscled men in leather, shirtless and grinning. A little ridiculous. A little hot. He chuckled softly, the cigar now resting between his fingers like it belonged there.

He wasn’t pretending.

Not anymore.

Michael leaned back, his whole body a hum of satisfaction.

The cigar rested between his lips like it belonged there. He’d expected it to be harsh, to choke him — instead, it was smooth, warm, surprisingly sensual. The beer was cold, the sidewalk buzzed with Pride energy, and the leather creaked gently as he shifted in his seat.

This was... perfect.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was trying to be something. He just was. The tight harness across his chest, the heavy pants hugging his thighs — they didn’t feel like a costume anymore. They felt like skin.

He caught his reflection in the café window.

Was that really him?

Yes. And no.

He grinned, lips curled around the cigar, smoke curling upward in lazy swirls. He looked cocky. Confident. Free. And as his gaze lingered on his own eyes — yes, a little wild now — a new idea struck him.

What if...

A new haircut?

He sat up slightly, heart ticking faster. He'd worn it this way for years — safe, familiar, tied back. But what if he just let go? Something shorter. Bolder. Something that said I’ve changed. And I like it.

He took another puff, closed his eyes, and smiled to himself.

Hell yes.

Michael stopped in front of the old green-painted door.

GAY MILITARY BARBERSHOP — the letters were bold, unapologetic, slightly worn. Like they’d been there forever, watching generations of men walk in and walk out looking just a little bit tougher, a little bit freer.

He stood there for a second longer than necessary.

The cigar rested at the corner of his mouth like a promise he hadn’t made until today. His pulse ticked fast under the snug harness. The weight of the Mr. S bags in one hand, the Gay Comics in the other — they made him feel like he’d stepped straight out of the very fantasy he used to hide under his bed.

And now?

Now he was about to walk into it.

He gave a quick, nervous laugh, mostly to himself. Then caught his reflection in the glass — hair still long, tied back, still him… but maybe not for long.

His hand touched the door handle.

He didn't know what they’d say, what they’d do, how much they'd take off — or what he’d even ask for.

But he knew one thing.

He was ready.

He sat down.

The leather of the chair creaked beneath him, the scent of talc, bay rum, and old wood all around — masculine, sharp, grounding.

The barber draped the black cape over his shoulders. Suddenly, everything felt more real. More final.

His long hair was still tied back, a faint weight against the cape. But not for long.

In the mirror, he saw himself. Not just the version everyone else knew — but the one just beneath the surface. The man he'd fantasized about. The one in the Tom-of-Finland print. The one grinning on the cover of Gay Comix. The one he'd seen today in glances from strangers. Admiring. Curious. Desiring.

His heart beat faster.

He was nervous — more than a little — but not unsure. For the first time in a long time, he knew what he wanted.

The barber met his eyes in the mirror. No need to say much. He just nodded once.

The clippers clicked on behind him.

He closed his eyes.

Let it happen.

Let it begin.

The clippers went quiet.
Just a soft click. Silence.

He opened his eyes.

At first, he didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. The jaw looked sharper. The eyes bolder. The head — squared, sculpted, unapologetic.

His fingers twitched under the cape. He wanted to touch it — to run his hand along the short bristle of the flattop, the bare skin of the sides.

It was radical.
It was hot.
It was him.

The barber stepped back. No words — just that subtle nod, like mission complete.

He grinned. Slowly at first, then fully, irrepressibly.

Outside, the world still bustled — but something inside had stilled, settled. He didn’t feel like a boy with fantasies anymore. He felt like a man. One who owned his desire. His style. His power.

He leaned forward in the chair and whispered, mostly to himself:

“Yeah. That’s more like it.”

And somewhere in one of the Mr. C bags, the comic he’d bought hours earlier showed a cartoon man with a matching cut, flexing on a rooftop.

Coincidence? Maybe.
Or maybe just destiny with a tight fade.

The sun was out, unapologetically bright — and so was he.

He stepped back onto the street like a man freshly minted. The crisp snap of his boots on the sidewalk, the weight of the Mr. C bags swinging from one hand, the bold orange GAY COMIX tote in the other. A fat cigar between his teeth, still warm from the lighter. He didn’t need to puff — just the taste, the feel of it, was enough.

People noticed.
And for the first time, he wanted them to.

Not in the old way — not craving approval or trying to fit in. But with something deeper, stronger. He was the guy from the cover now. Or maybe someone even better. Real. Laughing. Proud.

A group of leather daddies sitting outside the café gave him a slow once-over. One of them raised an eyebrow, then his beer. A silent salute.

He answered with a grin, wide and boyish — but the kind of boy who’d just taken a very firm step into manhood.

The breeze hit the back of his neck, bare now, clean and cool. He gave a slight shiver and liked it.

“Damn right,” he muttered through the cigar, and crossed the street without looking back.

One Week Later — Reborn

Same café. Same chair. Same cigar.

But everything else? Completely different.

He wasn’t just wearing leather now — he lived in it. The shirt hugged his chest like it belonged there, the cigar box was his, not borrowed, and even the way he sat — sharp angles, no apologies — had changed.

A week ago, he’d walked out of that barbershop like a man on fire. Since then, everything had accelerated. A second visit to Mr. C for a fresh fade. New gear. A new rhythm. People noticed — again. But now, he barely noticed them.

He didn’t smile for approval. He didn’t glance for reactions. He knew what he looked like.

Like power.
Like control.
Like he’d finally stopped playing the role he’d been cast in — and started playing the man he’d written for himself.

The beer tasted colder. The cigar richer.
And under the table, the faint creak of tight leather reminded him with every breath: This is me now.

And the best part?

He was just getting started.

He moved through the city like it was built for him — each bootstep echoing off the sidewalk like punctuation. His walk wasn’t hurried. It didn’t need to be.

This was his pace now.

Heads turned. Conversations paused. A group of young guys at the café table behind him let out a low, appreciative whistle. Someone else muttered a “Damn…” just loud enough to be heard.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t slow down.
But the corner of his mouth curved — just slightly.

The leather shirt creaked softly with each movement, perfectly fitted, worn with intention. The cigar between his teeth added punctuation — not for style, but for ownership. Of the moment. Of his look. Of himself.

A passing cyclist nearly swerved, too distracted by the sight of him striding through Castro like a military pin-up in full leather.

Let them stare.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder what he tastes like. What he smells like. Who made him like this.

The truth was simpler:
He made himself.

And right now, he was hungry — for more looks, more power, more play.

And maybe a second beer.

“Michael?!”

Pablo froze in his tracks as the leather-clad figure stepped toward him — broad, confident, with a cigar clenched between his teeth and a cocky grin that didn’t leave much room for doubt.

Michael extended his hand, firm and unapologetic. “Long time no see, hermano.”

Pablo took it slowly, as if still trying to figure out whether this was a prank. “Dude… what the hell happened to you?”

Michael shrugged, taking a slow pull on his cigar. “I just stopped pretending to be someone I never was.”

“That’s… intense. I mean—yeah, it suits you, no question. Just... wow.”

Michael stepped closer, voice dropping a little. “Come on, Pablo. We both knew back then — back at the gym — that we wanted more than just workouts. You used to watch me. Just like you are now.”

Pablo laughed nervously, glancing to the side. “That was just… curiosity, man.”

“You’re curious about something that’s already in you.” Michael’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I’ve never felt more alive. And I can see it — you want that too.”

A pause. The soft murmur of the city around them. The faint crackle of burning tobacco.

“So what are you saying?” Pablo asked, quieter now.

Michael smiled. “Meet me tomorrow. I’ll take you to the barber. After that, we’ll see what else you’re ready for.”

Pablo hesitated, but there was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“Alright. Tomorrow.”

They shook hands again — slower this time. When their fingers finally let go, the world had already started to shift.

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