PART ONE

"Would you like to start a tab, sir?"

"Just the one drink, actually,” Jensen says as he reaches for his wallet. I'm waiting for someone."

The bartender squints through titanium-framed lenses, tilting the card until he can read the raised letters.

"Sure thing, Mr. Paddle-Padaleek?"

Jensen smirks. "Padalecki. I know it's a tough one."

Jensen’s drink sits just out of reach, held for ransom until he pays. As the receipt is printing, the bartender adds a bright maraschino to the pale gold liquid—a final indignity—before setting the concoction in front of Jensen.

The credit card and receipt are returned in a smooth, black folio.

“Do you want to see a menu while you’re waiting?”

“No thanks.” Jensen wouldn’t be able to focus on it anyway. The bartender steps away to serve someone else, leaving Jensen to stew in his thoughts. The drink helps a little, sweet and sour sliding down his throat.

He tips two dollars on a single drink—the guy deserves it for not laughing when Jensen placed his order. The card goes back in his wallet, in the slot he reserves for Jared’s card whenever his best friend hands it over to pay for lunch. Jared deserves to be buying Jensen’s alcohol tonight anyway; the whole blind date thing was his idea (and it’s not Jensen’s fault that Jared forgot to ask for his card back this afternoon).

Blind dates. That’s what he’s been reduced to. Although, Jensen supposes, he hasn’t been working all that hard at finding dates for himself, and it was either sign up for an online service (for every success story he hears, there are two cautionary tales to go along with it), or let his best friend of twelve years set him up.

Jared must know someone dateable besides Jensen, right?

“Please tell me you’re Jensen.”

Surprised by his own name (fucking smooth, Jensen…), he turns and faces the owner of the pleasant, slightly-accented voice. Jensen’s even more surprised by the rush of attraction that rolls over him at the man’s appearance. There’s a faint shadow of reddish-brown stubble across the impressive cut of his jaw and around his full, pale pink mouth. His hair is darker than Jensen’s, cut short around his temples with neatly trimmed sideburns. Jared could get some serious pointers from this guy for his own out-of-control side-chops (an endless source of amusement for Jensen). He’s taller than Jensen by an inch, maybe two, and built more like Jared—broad in the shoulders, but with more impressive biceps, and a narrow waist.

Jensen finally nods. The guy doesn’t look embarrassed at all despite Jensen's thorough perusal. He stands confidently in dark jeans and an even darker collared shirt half covered by his leather jacket, and his pale blue eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, while he takes in Jensen's appearance, looking like he can't believe his good luck.

“How’d you guess?” Jensen asks, happy to have made an impression already.

“Jared told me you’d be drinking an amaretto sour. He said to look for the drink with a cherry in it,” he says, a friendly smirk taking shape in the corner of his mouth. “I’m Tahmoh, your blind date.”

Tahmoh offers his hand. His grip is warm and pleasant. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Actually I just got my drink.”

Tahmoh takes the stool next to Jensen. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried an amaretto sour. Must be good if you're drinking one."

"Most people think they're too sweet," he says, smirking. Playing it cool hasn't served him well in the past. He wants Tahmoh to know that he likes what he sees so far.

"I've got a bit of a sweet tooth," Tahmoh admits. "That's actually how I met Jared. I don't know how much he told you, but we work out at the same gym."

Explains their matching physiques, Jensen thinks. Must be a damn good gym.

"One night I saw him pull candy out of his bag."

Jensen grins. "Sour snakes?"

Tahmoh's laugh is warm and mellow. "He saw me looking and offered me some. Couldn't say no."

"Doesn't look like eating candy has hurt you at all," Jensen says.

"I appreciate that. Guess it helps that I spend three hours in the pool every day."

A swimmer. Jensen suddenly feels like jumping up and cheering. He's saved by the petite hostess tapping him on the shoulder and letting him know that she has a table for them.

After settling into their comfortable yet fairly intimate booth, the next ten minutes are spent casually discussing the menu and drinks (Tahmoh decides against the amaretto sour and asks for a pear cider the waitress recommends), and ordering. Jensen already feels comfortable—if Tahmoh and Jared get along, he ought to be a decent guy. No one is pickier than Jared when it comes to building friendships.

"You're a swimmer?" Jensen asks while they wait for their entrees.

"Jared really didn't tell you anything about me, did he?"

"I guess he wanted me to be surprised," Jensen muses. "You seem to have gotten a few advance details."

"All good things, I promise. Jared likes to brag about you."

Jensen's curious about that, but he files it away for later discussion. "So you probably know that I teach at Hallgrove with Jared."

"That's a pretty fancy school."

"With fancy classes. Jared teaches Modern Lit and I teach the Classics—everything from Homer to Edgar Allen Poe."

Tahmoh leans back, mouth pursed in a silent whistle. "No wonder you two are such good friends."

They're friends now, but they'd clashed like rival Dons when they met in college. Jensen's disdain for Modern Lit fans hadn't mixed well with Jared's puppy-like attempts to get Jensen to attend seminars and readings with him. They pulled their heads out of their asses eventually and remained close ever since. And he does mean close. Shared an apartment during Jensen’s senior year and again when they attended the same grad school. Now they're both at Hallgrove through a serendipitous series of circumstances. Platonically M.F.E.O., in other words, though there was a time when Jensen imagined they could be more.

"What kind of job lets you spend that much time swimming?"

"The kind where swimming is the job. I'm the head coach at Calhoun High School."

"Wow, nice. They've got one of the best programs in the state. I remember Alaina—our coach at Hallgrove—telling me Calhoun only hires Olympic athletes as their..."

Jensen's cheeks begin to burn as the reality hits. Tahmoh's quirked brow and unassuming grin tell Jensen he's guessed correctly.

"Holy shit, you swam in the Olympics? I am going to murder Jared." Embarrassed, Jensen pulls out his phone to send his best friend a scathing text overflowing with angry emojis. "I can't believe he thought I wouldn't want to at least know that my blind date was an Olympian."

Tahmoh reaches out and plucks the phone from Jensen's palm granting Jared a temporary reprieve. "A Canadian Olympic swimmer. Important distinction."

Canadian, huh. Explains the enticing hints of an accent.

"Did you win a medal?" Jensen asks dryly.

"Just the one in Athens." When Jensen groans, Tahmoh adds, "But hey! It was only a bronze."

Jensen needs to get his phone back. He tries to steal it back from Tahmoh's hand, but his date plays a mean game of keep-away. His attitude ebbs away from annoyance the longer Tahmoh withholds his phone, tip of his tongue just visible between his teeth when he smiles across the table. It's been a while since flirting came this naturally to Jensen, especially on a first date.

"Don't blame Jared."

Jensen disagrees. "Nope, he's dead next time I see him."

"I forgive him on your behalf for not telling you about me."

"That's not the way it works."

Tahmoh relinquishes the phone. "Well I'm glad he didn't, because the way you're blushing right now is unbelievably hot."

Instead of ripping off an angry text, Jensen slips his phone into his pocket after fumbling the damn thing. He's about to respond (with something both incredibly witty and sexy, of course) when their waiter interrupts, two plates in her hands.

Jensen takes a long sip of ice water hoping it'll chill the fiery heat in his cheeks. Jensen likes guys who are upfront; lies and games aren't his thing. His heart still bears the bruises from his last major relationship. Never again will Jensen date a guy who can't be honest about who he is and what he wants.

Tahmoh certainly isn't hiding the fact that he finds Jensen attractive, and if this were any of Jensen's other dates over the past few years, he'd already be imagining the inevitable hook up at the end of the night. However, Jensen meant it when he told Jared that he was unhappy with single life; he’s ready to meet someone who wants to savor the whole story, chapter by chapter, instead of jumping to the end.

Conversation is tougher to manage while they eat some delicious Mediterranean food. Jensen fails to tamp down on his fascination with Tahmoh's competitive history, but the guy doesn't seem bothered. Tahmoh cracks jokes about swimming's place in Canadian sports—"Saying you're a great swimmer from Canada is like saying you're a great ice hockey player from Costa Rica"—and fills Jensen in on the path that led him to coaching.

"It's only been eleven years since I swam in the Olympics, but I swear the kids I'm coaching are faster," Tahmoh claims. "The pace of competitive swimming right now is ridiculous. If I was trying to qualify these days? Forget it."

When Tahmoh asks Jensen to guess his specialty, he thinks for less than a minute before taking a shot.

"At first I was going to say long distance. You look like you're built for endurance." Jensen's feeling the effects of the amaretto now. He's okay with being upfront, too. "But I'm actually going to guess...the backstroke."

Tahmoh grins. "How'd you guess?"

"With your height and those shoulders? It's a little obvious."

"Fair enough," Tahmoh says, not at all put-out that Jensen guessed so easily.

As payback for leaving him completely in the dark, Jensen shares a few Jared-centric stories from college. Tahmoh listens and laughs, promises to hang onto a few of the details in case he needs blackmail material in the future.

Jensen's not ready for the bill when it comes. Tahmoh grabs it before he can react.

"It's only fair," he assures, slipping a credit card inside the folio. "I knew what I was walking into tonight."

"I'd say it turned out okay."

There's a large part of Jensen that doesn't want the date to end. Tahmoh is polite and charming without being stuffy. From his stories about traveling with the Canadian Olympic contingent, he clearly knows how to have a good time. He's had a remarkable life, done things that few people ever get to experience; he piques Jensen's interest, something that's been missing from his most recent first dates.

And that’s before Jensen figures in his attraction. Everyone's a little shallow when meeting for the first time, but Tahmoh doesn’t leave him wanting. His body's been pulled straight out of Jensen's private fantasies: pillow-soft eyes Jensen imagines waking up to, warm expressions, and a voice Jensen wants to record reading his favorite plays and novels so he can listen to its cadence whenever he wants.

As luck has it, they both parked in the city garage half a block away, giving Jensen extra time to debate his next move. They reach Tahmoh's spotless black Camaro first. (Jensen is doubly glad he parked on the second floor; he hasn't taken his late model Lexus to the car wash in well over two months.)

Tahmoh speaks first. "As much as I want to invite you back to my place—"

Jensen sighs. "Let me guess, you have an early morning?"

"Practice at six a.m.," Tahmoh admits with a grimace. Jensen winces in sympathy. "But I don't care about that. I'd happily give up sleep for you."

That might be one of the most romantic things anyone's ever said to him, if only because Jensen treasures sleep.

"I don't want this to be a one-night thing. I want to see you again, Jensen."

The way Tahmoh says his name is like the brush of a feather, careful and teasing. Jensen feels compelled to kiss him, and it's everything a first kiss should be. Tentative but full of meaning, light yet intense. Jensen's lips barely put any pressure on Tahmoh's, but it's enough to feel their texture. To test the give and hold. To imagine more.

He drags one hand down Tahmoh's side, curls it into his shirt above his waist. It's been so long since Jensen took the time to enjoy the basics like this. He's nervous (because who doesn't want a first kiss to be perfect?) but when he leans away, Tahmoh looks less than composed. A pleasant little shiver runs through Jensen's body.

"You're gonna go home and Google me, aren't you?"

Jensen's laugh effectively breaks the heated atmosphere. Good thing, as the sight of Tahmoh's slightly pink lips has Jensen dying for another taste.

"Is that a problem?"

Tahmoh shakes his head. "Be sure to look up the 2004 Canadian Olympic trials."

"Was that a good race?"

"Something like that," Tahmoh teases. "I promise you won't be disappointed."

"I can always Google it from your place," Jensen offers. "Or mine."

"I figured it'd be classier not to bring you home with me after the first date," Tahmoh admits, slowly and with longing. "Especially after Jared blindsided you."

Yeah, Jared's going to pay for that later. Even if he did choose extremely well.

After switching phones to exchange names and numbers, not to mention enjoying one last kiss, Jensen leaves Tahmoh at his car. The urge to glance back is strong. As is his willingness to abandon the notion of waiting. 'Classy' can be overrated, right? But the further he walks, the more settled Jensen feels. The entire date was like something pulled from a screenplay—cute and perfect. Being with Tahmoh felt good in a way Jensen wasn't expecting. The ease of Tahmoh's company underscored by the serious mutual attraction made for an experience Jensen is eager to repeat.

As he drives home, knowing he won’t be able to wait three days before calling Tahmoh, Jensen remembers that he promised to call Jared as soon as the date was over. Jensen groans and briefly considers lying to his best friend. For his own sanity, of course, because he figures Jared’s going to be insufferable.

~~~~~

Jensen takes his iPad to bed with him and types Tahmoh Penikett into the search bar, using his phone to make sure he's spelling the last name correctly. He scans Tahmoh's Wikipedia page, eyes flicking over all kinds of details that hadn't made it into their dinner conversation, such as the fact that he was the first Canadian swimmer of aboriginal descent to medal at an Olympic Games. (Again, Jensen thinks about the verbal beat-down waiting for Jared tomorrow.) It's tempting to veer off into Image Search, but Jensen clicks on a YouTube link instead.

The first video is a compilation of Tahmoh's Olympic moments set to a Black Keys song. It's amazing to watch Tahmoh's technique in the pool, the effortless way he cuts through the water, but Jensen's on the hunt for something specific. He narrows the search and chooses the most popular video. So popular, it has ten times the number of hits as Tahmoh's other features. Not to mention the provocative title.

Canadian Champion Reveals ALL!

Tahmoh was right; Jensen isn't disappointed. The race itself is amazing—watching Tahmoh whip through the water on his way to winning the 100-meter backstroke is insanely hot—but it's what happens after the race that's responsible for the astronomical number of hits.

"Holy shit," Jensen groans aloud as a younger version of Tahmoh steps up for his post-race interview. Whether it's the adrenaline of winning or simply fatigue, Tahmoh hasn't noticed that his full-leg suit has slipped lower around his hips. And by low, he means pornographically low. Jensen thought that was impossible given how tight those suits were, but there’s a generous piece of evidence staring him in the face.

The reporter is red in the face and making a point to keep her eyes up. Jensen looks and looks and looks, Tahmoh's bare, still-heaving chest filling his screen. Yeah, he definitely has a thing for swimmers' bodies. Jensen didn't come out of his room for an entire week during the London Olympics.

But Tahmoh is something else. Jensen’s already learned that the humor in his eyes runs deep, knows that his heart is strong and kind. And Jensen is clearly in trouble with this guy because he's thinking about things like Tahmoh's eyes and his patience when he should be looking at his wet shoulders and swim-carved abs.

Video or not, Jensen refuses to jerk off to a guy he just met. He clicks through more clips (after bookmarking the interview for a night when he's not feeling so classy) and news articles, matches the stories to what Tahmoh told him at dinner, and does his best to ignore the flutter in his chest.

He goes to bed tired, satisfied, and without calling Jared. If his best friend wants details, he's going to have to wait.

~~~~~

“You slept with him?”

“What? No.” Jensen hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

“You never called me,” Jared says. They’re crossing the parking lot after school on the way to their cars. “I just assumed.”

“It was a first date—”

“You always hook up on first dates,” Jared reminds him dryly.

“Because I’m usually the one convincing the guy to put out when I know it’s not going anywhere. That way we at least get something for our effort.”

“You and Tahmoh hit it off, then.”

Jensen woke up that morning to a text from Tahmoh. Something about being awake early enough to see the sunrise and the downside to being classy. The message had Jensen grinning into his pillow.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Jared says, “the sappiness is written all over your face.” They reach his car first; Jensen’s Lexus is two rows back amongst the students' cars from running so late that morning. Jared tosses his bag—the same buttery leather case Jensen bought him when he finished his first year of grad school—in the passenger seat. “What were you doing last night that made it impossible to call me?”

“Well since you never told me anything about Tahmoh, I googled him. I found some YouTube vids from the Olympics.”

“Oh my god, did you see that one interview?” Jared laughs. “He couldn’t keep his suit on!”

“You watched that?”

“Obviously. That video had a crazy number of hits.” Jared explains that he was curious when he first met Tahmoh and wanted to check out his career. “I thought he was joking at first, but he’s seriously impressive.”

“I see why you like working out with him.” When Jared fails to react, Jensen adds, “Because he’s crazy athletic, right?”

“Oh yeah, right.” He clears his throat. “Are you going out with him again?”

“Hopefully. I think we both had a good time.” A gust of wind whips between them. Jensen forgot his coat at home when he rushed out the door and now he’s freezing. “Maybe you can join us sometime.”

Jared’s brow creases. “On your date?”

Jensen knocks Jared’s shoulder. “To hang out, man.” He’s curious about their friendship anyway; Jensen learned years ago that it was next to impossible to date a guy with whom Jared didn’t get along. Not liking Jared is a legitimate character flaw.

Finally noticing Jensen’s shivering, Jared says, “Get the hell out of here, Jen. I can’t believe you didn’t bring your jacket. Responsible adult, my ass.”

“Says the guy who wanted fro-yo for lunch,” Jensen mutters as he turns around.

“Shut up! It was just a craving. Hey,” he calls out, “text me if you want to catch up on Mad Men later.”

Jensen acknowledges with a wave, double-timing it to his Lexus to escape the unexpectedly chilly afternoon.

~~~~~

After forty-eight hours of Jensen’s crush growing every time Tahmoh texts him, they find a time to see one another again.

The plan is to meet Tahmoh at Jensen's favorite bar, but after their staff meeting at Hallgrove runs long, Jensen decides to bring Jared along with him.

Seeing Tahmoh again infuses Jensen with good energy. Hanging out with Jared is usually enough to rally Jensen's spirits, but sitting between Jared and Tahmoh is uplifting.

Outside of physical builds, their personalities are markedly different. Where Jared wears his heart on his sleeve, Tahmoh reacts subtly; Jared tells the jokes, but Tahmoh always laughs in support. And where Jared can find a friend in a total stranger (like he had with Tahmoh), Tahmoh seems content to devote his attention to Jensen. Which is helpful since Jensen isn't particularly interested in sharing him.

As the beer works its magic, Jensen lets go of his stress and enjoys being with his best friend and his new crush.

Tahmoh is taking Jared to task—with a healthy dose of humor—for leaving Jensen in the dark before their blind date.

"You should be thanking me," Jared insists. "It worked out exactly how I thought it would."

Jensen sputters. "Sure, you just knew." He glances to his right. Shares a soft smile with Tahmoh.

"What? I mean, Moh's a swimmer”—alcohol tends to bring out Jared's preference for nicknames—"and Jen's obviously got a thing for that."

Jensen's cheeks go hot. It would suck to die of mortification on their second date.

"I appreciate athletic people," Jensen grumbles, "there's a difference."

Apparently Jared finds his grumpiness amusing. When he turns back to the bartender, Jensen feels a solid touch on his leg. Tahmoh's leaning close enough for Jensen to feel a rush of breath past his ear.

"I hope you have a thing for swimmers," he whispers, low timbre immediately having an effect on Jensen. "Bet you know how to use it, too." Tahmoh's narrow, melt-worthy stare tells Jensen that Jared hasn't scared him off in the slightest.

"Time to go," Jensen says, slapping Jared on the shoulder before he can order another round for the three of them.

"Already?" Jared takes in the flush on Jensen's face, eyes dropping to Tahmoh's hand on his thigh. "Whatever. Don’t break each other.”

Jensen is ready to haul Tahmoh out of his bar-chair. He drops two twenties on the bar to cover their tab and Jared's before following Tahmoh at a barely respectable distance until they're safely outside in the parking lot.

No beating around the bush tonight; Jensen runs the damn thing over.

"Please tell me you don't have practice in the morning."

His back hits the driver's side door of his newly-washed Lexus as Tahmoh crowds him, mouth parted and teasing Jensen with a non-kiss.

"I wouldn't tell you if I did." Then Tahmoh kisses the shock right out of his mouth. It's been two days but Jensen has missed Tahmoh's lips (another sure sign he's in trouble). Want surges within; Jensen responds with equal force, the cool spring night fading to nothing while his senses fight for their share of the kiss.

When Tahmoh's hand slides down to his lower back, Jensen suddenly remembers their surroundings.

"My place is close," he says at the same time Tahmoh asks, "Can I follow you?"

Alone for the less than ten-minute drive, Jensen braces himself for the standard self-interrogation: his conscience berating him with what-ifs and second guesses that usually interfere with his one-night stands and mediocre dates.

But instead of the guilt and doubt that comes from questioning his own decisions—choosing meaningless sex when he doesn't see a future with his date—all he thinks about are the things he wants to do with Tahmoh when he gets home. (The list has doubled in length since the night of their blind date.) That and what he can cook for breakfast with what he's got in the kitchen. Tonight has meaning; Jensen wants Tahmoh there when he wakes up tomorrow.

Jensen checks his mirrors; Tahmoh's car is still following. He smiles at his own reflection in the rearview, nerves and excitement building in tandem.

"I've always liked this neighborhood," Tahmoh says when he steps out onto Jensen’s driveway.

Jensen waits in the open garage. "I'm surprised Jared didn't tell you exactly where I lived, too."

He goes to unlock the door, rumbling garage motor obscuring Tahmoh's steps. Suddenly Tahmoh's at Jensen's back, those extra inches of height bringing his mouth to Jensen's ear.

"Cut Jared a break," he whispers, hands at Jensen's hips. His grip is just shy of possessive. "Nothing he told me could've prepared me for what I felt when I saw you sitting at the bar."

Jensen leads him straight to the bedroom. No passing go, no stopping in the kitchen for a fortifying drink. Up the stairs, past the pharmacy bag that hasn’t made it up to Jensen’s bathroom yet, and down the hallway until they’re knocking the bedroom door against the wall, no thoughts spared for the ominous clunk of wood against drywall. Jensen is focused on the rustle of fabric, shirts being shed in the dark, and kicking his shoes off without tripping. He blindly reaches out and slaps the wall until he hits the light switch.

What he gets is a revelation. Seeing clips of Tahmoh on YouTube was one thing, but the live view is even better. His chest is glorious in person—clearly he hasn’t let himself go in the years since his final Olympic performance. The differences between then and now are minor, and Jensen vows to catalog them all when he has the time. More importantly, when he has the patience.

Tahmoh’s gaze has gone dark, shaded with greed. “Your turn,” he says, advancing on Jensen. His t-shirt doesn’t put up a fight against Tahmoh’s hands, discarded in what’s soon to be a pile of clothing. Only when Tahmoh’s eyes resume their slow caress of Jensen’s upper body does he remember that he doesn’t hit the gym like Tahmoh and Jared do. Sure, he runs around the neighborhood when the weather is decent (or there’s nothing decent on his DVR), but he’s not what anyone, let alone an Olympic fucking athlete, would call in-shape. Lately Jared’s been on his case about starting a routine, using every tactic he has to convince Jensen to join him at the gym. None of his arguments have stuck.

He has other methods of stress relief, okay?

Tahmoh either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Though they remain standing, Jensen feels the magnetic pull of the bed, dim light throwing golden shadows. No words are spoken as they come together chest to chest, Jensen forced to tilt his chin up for the kiss: a sensation he’s slowly getting used to. He’s not a small guy—his partners tend to be the same height or shorter, but he never thought he showed a preference. Height doesn’t translate to dominance, fortunately, as Tahmoh melts against Jensen, mouth wide and supple. Jensen’s tongue traces his lips, presses into that welcoming heat.

A wisp of a thought tickles his mind. Is this what kissing Jared would be like?

He shakes it away before the question can bother him further.

The pressure of their belts against one another becomes too much. Fingers fumble and tug until the heavy buckles drop, belts yanked free to join the pile. A picture forms in Jensen’s mind and he follows where it leads, turning Tahmoh until his back is pressed to Jensen’s chest. He could spend an entire night tracing every muscle, studying the curve of Tahmoh’s spine until the details are immortalized in his mind, but for now, he settles for spreading his palms around Tahmoh’s ribs. One hand slides north to curve below a well-formed pectoral; the other wanders south, painting a touch-picture of carved abdominals until he feels denim.

Jensen is torn. He wants to stroke Tahmoh off right here, right now. But he also wants to savor their first night, find something mutually satisfying instead of playing dominoes with their orgasms.

Tahmoh groans as Jensen’s fingers tease below his jeans. “As much as I want you to keep going, I don’t think I have the patience.”

“Is that so?” Jensen asks, welcoming another kiss when Tahmoh turns around.

Mouth occupied, Jensen blindly unbuttons Tahmoh’s jeans, tickling the skin over his lethal hipbones with a fleeting touch. Impatience wins out; he shoves Tahmoh’s jeans down his thighs and pushes him back on the bed before dropping to his knees to finish yanking them off. He imagines for a moment what it would be like to stay here, get his mouth around the impressive bulge in Tahmoh’s dark gray briefs. Turn the fabric even darker with his spit as he works down around his sac and back up. His imaginings are cut short by Tahmoh’s hands on his shoulders, encouraging him to stand up.

The smirk on his face means he knows what Jensen was thinking. And approves.

Tahmoh reaches for Jensen’s pants and gives him the same treatment. Down to their underwear, they roll together on the bed, hands eager to take measure of naked skin. Tahmoh moves like he’s underwater—long, fluid motions that set Jensen on fire with friction. He’s so fucking strong, but instead of manhandling Jensen, Tahmoh uses his extra height and strength to hold himself over Jensen’s body, and there's a tang of sweat on his lips when he lowers his mouth to Jensen’s.

Jensen could kiss Tahmoh for the rest of the night and be satisfied. He’s quickly becoming addicted to the way Tahmoh’s tongue presses alongside his own, swimming in the heat of their mouths. It would be easy to drown in those sensations, but the rub of cotton over Jensen’s fully hard cock reminds him that there are other pleasures to address.

“I watched that interview you told me about,” Jensen says, hands testing the stretch of Tahmoh’s briefs.

“Yeah?” Tahmoh’s gaze warms with amusement. Keeping his torso lifted, he drops his hips to rub their erections together thru frustrating layers of fabric. “Like what you saw?”

“Kinda wishing I could see more.”

Jensen’s wish is granted quickly. Tahmoh strips his briefs with more coordination than Jensen would be able to muster at the moment, doing Jensen a favor and removing his as well.

“Fuck,” Jensen moans, eyes drawn between their bodies to where their cocks press alongside one another. He’s surprised to see that his cock is longer, but Tahmoh’s definitely got him beat on width. Tahmoh’s dick would stretch his lips nicely, a wide flare for his tongue to run along.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Tahmoh praises, grinding their hips together. “All of you.”

Jensen burns hot at the approval, his body singing for Tahmoh’s touch. This is what he wants—mutual satisfaction for both of them. Tonight’s not about how far they can go, but how well they move together. Jensen doesn’t want a boyfriend with limited desires; he wants to explore, dig deep into unspoken cravings. He doesn’t want one sport; he wants the whole fucking Olympics.

Tahmoh asks for lube and Jensen grabs a new bottle from his bedside drawer. The addition of slick eases the friction, but ups the tempo of their thrusts. When Tahmoh shifts to move off Jensen, give him a turn on top, Jensen stops him.

“I’m good like this.” Jensen insists, and he really, really is.

Kissing breaks down to panting, sharing the same air as they attempt to watch the way their cocks slide together. With Tahmoh propped on top of him, it’s Jensen's hand slipping between their bodies to add more pressure, more heat. Focusing on Tahmoh’s cock, gauging the width with his fingers, flicking at the crown and delighting in the way Tahmoh shudders against him.

Tahmoh reaches the finish line first, gasping as his come hits Jensen’s stomach. Jensen eases his grip before Tahmoh becomes too sensitive, dragging his hand through Tahmoh’s come.

“You close?”

Jensen only nods, bringing his hand to his cock and using the extra slick to stroke himself.

“Oh fuck,” Tahmoh curses when he sees what Jensen’s doing. “How are you this hot? Stoke yourself a little faster, Jen. Yeah, like that…”

Following Tahmoh’s lead, it’s only a matter of seconds before Jensen’s adding to the mess on his skin. As soon as he does, Tahmoh rolls to the side, sparing Jensen the crush of his full weight.

They lie next to one another with matching grins on their faces. It’s easy to picture more nights like this, affection igniting passion. Jensen's excited to see where the relationship can go.

“Tell me we’re doing that again,” he says, nudging Tahmoh with his foot.

Tahmoh reaches for Jensen’s hand and brings it to his lips. Jensen rolls against him, tucking his face into Tahmoh’s shoulder to hide the blush.

“At least twice,” Tahmoh promises.

~~~~~

Turns out Tahmoh doesn’t have a morning practice, which is good because Jensen goes all-out with breakfast.

“You’re lucky I went grocery shopping a couple nights ago,” Jensen says, watching Tahmoh pick a K-cup from his coffee selection, “otherwise coffee is all you’d be getting.”

“I’d say I got a lot more than that.” Tahmoh sets the Keurig to brew and waits as if he hasn’t said something absurdly sweet and flirtatious. This way he won’t see the flush rise on Jensen’s cheeks either. He hates when anyone sees him blush—it’s always uneven and way too pink. Jared likes to tell him that it's adorable, which makes it worse.

Tahmoh carries his French Roast and Jensen’s Hazelnut Mocha (which started as a gift from Jared, but he hasn’t stopped buying it since) around to the kitchen island while Jensen splits a loaded omelet between two plates. Along with the low-sodium bacon (that one comes from his Dad), it’s one hell of a decent-looking breakfast.

“If you always cook for your dates like this, I bet they never want to leave.”

Jensen knows what Tahmoh is fishing for. “The list of people I’ve cooked breakfast for is pretty short,” he admits, not missing Tahmoh’s long exhale. “There’s you and Jared, and that’s only because he tends to crash on my couch whenever he’s had too much to drink.”

“He’s told me a few stories. Sounds like he’s had some epic nights.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Unfortunately, Jensen does. He’s nursed Jared through some particularly nasty hangovers, helped him put the pieces together whenever he wakes up with little to no memory of the night before. Those nights have gotten rarer, thank God, and Jared has never let it affect his job. Still, Jensen can’t help but worry when Jared’s restlessness gets the better of him.

Jensen has no intention of letting thoughts like that drag their morning down, so he changes the subject. “Do you have a practice tonight?”

That leads to a run-down of everything Tahmoh has planned for his swimmers tonight. To Jensen, it sounds like full-out torture (three-count sit-ups? Seriously? Jensen would die), but Tahmoh is animated, talking about his team the way Jensen talks about his favorite students. His passion is evident, and a relief; Jensen wouldn’t be able to date anyone who chains himself to a job he hates.

“I should probably get going,” Tahmoh says once their plates are in the dishwasher. “Mind if I take a cup of coffee to go?”

“Two cups a day, huh?”

“Only when it’s been a long night. Long, but extremely satisfying,” Tahmoh teases, stealing a coffee-flavored kiss. “I might be pretty useless after practice unless I get some sleep. Feel like hanging out this weekend? Maybe a movie or something.”

Tentative plans are made on the way to the front door, Tahmoh's coffee poured into one of the travel mugs Jared's always leaving there. Jensen refuses to let Tahmoh leave without a reminder of what he’ll be missing. One more kiss is totally worth the rushed shower Jensen ends up taking.

~~~~~

“You cooked him breakfast?”

“I thought you said I wasn’t a bad cook.”

Jared back-tracks. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just kinda surprised.”

A half-finished Greek salad sits in front of Jensen. No onions, extra tomatoes—exactly the way Jensen would’ve ordered it; Jared knows him so well. Fridays usually find them having lunch in Jensen’s classroom. More often than not, Jared orders out since neither one of them has to supervise lunch in the atrium.

“You knew we were going home together.”

Jared makes a strange sound, unable to form words with a mouthful of greens. Since he can’t get Jensen to the gym, he insists on salads on a regular basis.

“I didn’t know he was breakfast material,” Jared says after swallowing. There's a deep line on Jared’s forehead that won’t smooth itself out. Now that Jensen thinks back, it’s been there all day.

“We had a good night. I thought you were okay with this.” Jensen frowns. “Is there something I should know about Tahmoh?”

“No, it’s…” Jared sighs. “Sorry, Jensen, it has nothing to do with you or Tahmoh. I’m just having a bad day, I guess.”

“Did you stay at the bar after we left?”

Jared glances across the desk. He knows what Jensen’s asking. “I had one more beer before I went home. I was fine, I promise.”

“I know. Just curious if maybe you met someone there,” Jensen covers. Jared certainly draws his share of attention when they go out. Back in college, dishing on hook-ups became a favorite activity of theirs. Jared didn't mind hearing about the guys Jensen brought home, and Jensen only pretended to be grossed out when Jared told him about some of the more interesting women he met out at the clubs.

As they got older (though not necessarily more mature), they had other things to deal with. Getting laid was a lower priority than finals and graduate school applications. That turned into surviving grad school and the strain it placed on their time, social lives, and finances. By the time they both started at Hallgrove, dishing on their one-night stands (which were fewer and farther in between) wasn’t something they did. Especially after they’d both tried, and failed, to maintain serious relationships.

Yet, Jared knew how lonely Jensen was without needing to ask. Hence, the blind date.

Jared insists he doesn’t want to talk about what’s bothering him, and Jensen knows he just needs to be patient. He always comes to Jensen for support eventually; they can tell each other anything.

Jensen’s usually the one to bag the trash and take their to-go containers to the recycling bins. Today, he gets a text as he’s snagging one last bite of the too-delicious pita bread the deli packs with their salads.

Want to come to our meet tomorrow night?

Not the whole thing, Tahmoh’s next text clarifies. It’s a home meet. Maybe you can stop by for the last few events and then we can grab a late dinner?

“Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of this stuff.” Jared mutters, grabbing the remains of their lunch and pulling the smile off Jensen’s face.

“Sorry I just need a second—”

“Don’t bother.” Jared’s hands are full, but he manages to nudge the classroom door open with his hip. He looks back. “I’ll catch you later, okay?”

He doesn’t give Jensen a chance to acknowledge his hasty exit. Jensen shrugs and promises himself that he won’t let Jared stew for too long. Then he texts Tahmoh and starts a list of late-night dives they can hit up after the swim meet until the bell rings and his next class arrives.


PART TWO.