Brad Lets Me Crash at His Place 01

The Straight Gym Bro Brad Who Lets Me Crash at His Place

Chapter 1

It all happened way too fast.

My landlord knocked at 8 a.m. sharp, holding a letter and wearing that weird fake-sympathy look people make when they're about to screw you over. His daughter was moving back in, he said. A bad breakup. He needed the room.

I had to be out by that night.

No warning. No plan. Just a bag, a panic sweat, and a list of contacts I barely had the guts to message. I had only just moved to this city three weeks ago. I barely knew anyone.

Except Brad.

He was the only person I could think of. A guy I knew back in high school; older by a year, total jock, cocky smile, gym rat. We hadn't talked a ton after graduation, but I'd seen him pop up on my Instagram a few times flexing or lifting or shirtless on a beach. I remembered him being surprisingly chill when I came out, too. No weird energy. Just some dumb jokes and a wink.

So I sent him a Hail Mary text, not expecting much.

He responded in under a minute.

"Bro. Crash here. I got space. Pull up anytime."

That's how I ended up standing in front of his apartment with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder and absolutely nowhere else to go.

Brad opened the door in joggers and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair messy like he'd just rolled off the couch.

"Damn," he said, pulling me into a one-armed bro hug. "You really got booted that fast?"

I nodded. "It's been a day."

"Then you definitely need a place with sick vibes and better protein powder." He smirked and stepped back. "Come in."

The place was... well, not what I expected.

The living room didn't have a couch. Or a table. Or anything, really. Just gym mats on the floor, dumbbells, a bench press, a pull-up bar in the doorway, and a full-length mirror with a ring light in front of it.

"You live in a gym now?" I asked.

"Basically," he said proudly. "If I'm home, I'm working out."

He waved me toward the hallway.

"Your setup's in here."

Brad's bedroom was huge. Bigger than my old studio, honestly. A full-size bed, blackout curtains, fan in the corner. A little messy but not gross. The mattress I was supposed to crash on was rolled up under his bed.

"Should fit perfect right there," he said, pointing to the open space beside his bed. "It's comfy once you blow it up."

"Cool," I said, crouching to pull it out. "Where's the pump?"

Brad paused.

Then scratched his head. "Shit... I think I left it in my car. Or maybe I loaned it to my friend at the gym."

I looked up at him. "So...?"

He shrugged. "You can just blow it up. You got lungs, right?"

I gave him a look.

He laughed. "Come on, Cody. You've blown harder things, haven't you?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're such a dumbass."

"Yup." He grinned and flexed, totally unserious. "Anyway. I was about to do a quick ab burner before bed. Twenty minutes tops. You get that air mattress going,."

"Guess I don't have a choice."

He smirked again. "Make yourself at home."

Brad left the room, and I sat back on my heels with the deflated mattress in front of me. The thing looked sad. I searched for a pump anyway - under his bed, in the closet, drawers, nothing. He wasn't kidding. I was going to have to blow this thing up the old-fashioned way.

I took a deep breath.

Then started.

It was harder than I expected. The valve was stiff, my jaw started to ache, and the plastic made my mouth taste like dust. The air mattress barely held shape after five minutes. I kept blowing, getting lightheaded. I could hear Brad in the living room; grunts, deep breathing, the sound of him hitting the floor between reps. Every now and then, I paused to catch my breath and wondered what kind of psychopath voluntarily did ab workouts at 10 p.m.

After what felt like forever, I was on my hands and knees, dizzy, my cheeks puffed, hair falling in my face, and the mattress still looked half-dead.

Then I heard footsteps.

Brad appeared in the doorway, wiping his face with a towel.

He was shirtless now.

His chest gleamed with sweat, abs flexing as he dried his neck. His gym shorts clung low on his hips--like low enough that I wasn't sure how they were still up. His body was flushed from the workout, veins standing out along his arms, his breath still heavy.

I looked up at him.

Still kneeling.

Still holding the air valve between my lips like I was in the middle of something I shouldn't be.

Brad grinned.

"Damn," he said, his voice playful. "Didn't think you'd actually do it."

"I need somewhere to sleep," I muttered, still a little breathless.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Could've asked to share my bed," he said, voice casual. "Kidding."

Then he stretched, turned around, and said, "Alright, I'm gonna shower real quick. Don't die on that thing."

I stayed quiet, watching his back as he walked off. The way his sweaty shirt stuck to him. The way his shorts dipped even lower when he moved.

When he disappeared into the bathroom, I finally slumped down on the half-inflated mattress and unzipped my duffel. I pulled out a hoodie, my charger, and a change of clothes. Tried to make the best of it. Tried to ignore how warm my face still felt.

I laid out my stuff next to the mattress and was scrolling through my phone when I heard the door creak open.

I glanced up and froze.

Brad stood there in nothing but a towel slung very low around his waist. His skin was still wet. Drops of water rolled down his chest, trailing over his pecs and those perfect abs that looked even sharper now. His hair was damp, pushed back messily. He looked like one of those guys in a cologne commercial, except this was real. Close. In the same room as me.

I stared longer than I should have.

Way longer.

He caught it.

Brad smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dude," he said, cocking his head. "Are you seriously drooling right now?"