Morning Wood (4)
~ Julian ~
Light is hitting my eyelids and for the first time in years, I don’t want to wake up.
Usually, my bed is a lonely place. It’s expensive, soft, and empty. But right now I’m warmer than I’ve felt in a long time. I’m wrapped in a heat that feels solid… heavy.
Then I realize why.
I’m on my side and behind me, Frank is pressed tight against my back. His arm is slung over my waist, his hand hooked into the fabric of my shirt like he’s afraid I’ll float away if he lets go. But it’s the pressure lower down that makes my breath hitch.
He’s hard; thick and heavy against my backside.
I swallow.
It’s just biology. Morning wood. I know that. But the way he groans in his sleep, a low, needy sound that vibrates against my shoulder blades, makes my lips curve as warmth spreads through me.
Frank, usually all suits and armor, is tangled up in me, sounding like a contended kitten. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A heavy knock at the front door echoes through the house.
"Hello? Heating service!" a voice echoes from downstairs. “The boss sent me—”
The rest fades into something about a fuse box and the master vent.
Frank bolts upright.
The movement is so fast I almost get whiplash.
He scrambles to the far edge of the bed, his face turning a shade of red I didn't think was humanly possible.
His hair—usually plastered down with enough gel to stop a bullet—is a wild, messy halo around his head.
"Oh god," he whispers, staring at me with wide, panicked eyes. "Oh no."
"Relax, Golden Boy," I say, sitting up and stretching. My skin feels cold the second he’s not touching it. I hate it. "It’s just the repairman. Unless you were planning on staying in bed with me all day? Because I wouldn't hate it."
"Shut up, Julian!" he hisses, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand.
I head downstairs and let the guy in. He’s a burly man in a heavy coat who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I lead him up to the bedroom, and Frank is standing by the window, looking stiff enough to snap in half.
For twenty minutes, we sit in awkward silence while the man tinkers with a wall panel. I keep stealing glances at Frank. Without the gel and the polished shoes, he looks… hot.
There’s no other word for it. He looks like a man who just got out of a very busy bed, and the thought makes a slow heat coil in my gut.
Click.
A low hum fills the room. The vents groan, and then… bliss.
Warm air begins to pour into the room.
"You're all set," the guy says, packing his tools. "Stay warm."
“Thank you,” We both mutter at the same time, our words colliding awkwardly.
The second the front door clicks shut, Frank turns to me.
"Okay. Good. The heat is on," he says, his voice clipped. He rubs his palms together. "We need to start. Now. We’ve already lost four hours of drafting time. I’ll set up the table in the great room. You bring the blueprints."
The professional Frank is back.
I peel off my extra sweater, feeling the warmth hit my skin. And just for a second, I wish this moment could last.
"Chill out, Frank. We have all day. Let's get some coffee first. Maybe some breakfast?"
"No time," he says, already halfway out the room.
I trace the faint warmth of his body in my memory, reluctant to leave the bedroom behind.
But deadlines don’t wait.
I follow him downstairs, blueprints in hand, feeling the tension coiling tighter in the air with every step. I brace myself for the argument I know is coming.
By the time we reach the drafting table, Frank is already circling my sketches, red pen in hand, marking corrections like a teacher grading a bad essay.
"The structural load here is too high, Julian. If we move this wall—"
"If you move that wall, you kill the light.” I take a step closer, my hand brushing his sleeve almost by accident.
My chest tightens.
Not from fear but from the way his focus narrows, brow furrowed, hair falling loose.
After last night, I thought maybe he’d trust me.
But he’s back to being the proud, know-it-all architect who thinks my art is a nuisance.
“You really don’t have to control everything. I’m not your intern, Frank."
He slams his palm on the table. “I have to, because I’m the one who makes sure the building doesn't fall!" His voice shakes slightly, just enough for me to notice the subtle tremor, the way he swallows before continuing. "This project has to be perfect. I don't have the luxury of being… creative and free like you!"
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
His hand drags down his face, thumb pressing hard into the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to hold something in.
There are faint shadows under his eyes I don’t remember seeing before. His jaw tightens. Not angry. Just strained.
Maybe I pushed too far.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he mutters.
“Try me.”
“Julian, this isn’t about you.”
I bite my lip, caught between frustration and the familiar pull of wanting him closer.
He always does that. Cuts me off before I can even try.
“I want it to be about me,” I say, but my voice isn’t steady anymore. My fingers tighten on the blueprint. The paper crinkles. “You don’t even see me.”
He goes still.
I swallow. This is the moment I’ve avoided for almost two years. My hand is actually shaking.
"You think I'm just playing around?" I step closer, breath coming fast. It’s now or never. "I’ve spent the past two years trying to get you to just look at me. Not at my designs, not at my budget—at me."
Frank freezes. The red pen drops from his hand, rolling across the floor.
"What?"
My throat goes dry.
This cabin. This whole collaboration. It was my idea.
Arthur asked why we couldn’t just put our heads together and design something instead of fighting through emails. And I told him the truth. That Frank is too rigid. That maybe if we’re forced to collaborate directly, we’ll find a rhythm.
The broken heater wasn’t part of the plan, though. I swear it wasn’t. But maybe the universe decided to help me along.
Because without this place, without being stuck together, he would’ve never looked at me. And I would’ve never had the courage to say any of this.
Two years ago, I made a joke in a meeting and he didn’t even look at me. He just kept talking. I laughed alone.
Last winter, I invited him for drinks after a client dinner. He said he had revisions to finish.
He always had revisions to finish.
If this goes wrong, I won’t just be heartbroken, I could get reported and lose my job.
But I am so tired of being invisible.
"You're so busy being the best, you don't even see what’s right in front of you," I whisper. I’m so close now I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. He looks messy and tired, beautiful even in exhaustion. "I don't hate you, Frank. I never did. I’ve just been trying to get your attention."
Frank’s breath falters.
He lifts his hands slightly like he’s going to touch me.
It hovers near my waist.
But he doesn’t close the distance. He doesn’t step back either.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
"Julian," he breathes, his voice breaking.
“I know,” I say. “Sometimes I notice you looking at me. I always thought… maybe I imagined it. I don’t even know if you want men,” I admit.
This isn’t going how I rehearsed it.
I reach out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward me.
I expect him to fight or lecture me on "professional boundaries."
Instead, Frank crashes his lips against mine. Not soft—urgent, bruising, desperate.
I catch the faint tang of last night’s scotch on his lips, feel the rough scrape of stubble against my cheek.
His hands tangle in my hair, tugging me closer, fingers grazing my neck and sending sparks down my spine.
I moan into him, body pressing against his chest, the blueprints forgotten, the world narrowed to the burn of him.
There’s only him. And something inside me finally gives way.
He kisses me like he’s starving.
And then he stops.
“Wow,” he says roughly, stepping back… then forward again, like he can’t decide whether to run or stay.
A small, shaky smile curves my lips.
“I’ve spent years pretending I don’t notice the way you look at me. Or try to touch me.” He breathes. “But we can’t… we can’t. If I let myself want this… I won’t know how to stop.”