7. DREAMS MADE FLESH

The room shifts before I even realize I’m slipping under. I’m half-curled on the hotel bed, shoes kicked aside, belt loose, but when I roll over the sheets aren’t sheets anymore. They’re cool and endless, sliding under my skin like liquid silk. And Maddox is there. Just there.

Naked.

Light seems to find him no matter where he stands, as if the dream itself won’t let shadow touch him. His body is carved out of the haze—broad shoulders, chest dusted with hair, abs cut into deep grooves, his cock heavy against his thigh, thick and already stiffening. My throat goes dry. I know I’m dreaming. I know. But the knowledge doesn’t matter.

My hand moves before I can stop it. Across the warm plane of his chest, over the ridges of muscle, down the treasure trail until I’m holding him thick and hot in my palm. Maddox exhales like a low growl, his eyes locking onto mine, and that’s all it takes—our cocks pressing together, smearing precum like the dream invented lube from want alone.

Our mouths crash together, desperate. His stubble scrapes fire into my jaw, his tongue surging deep, a kiss that feels more like possession. I moan against him, and he swallows every sound. Then the world tilts—time folds—and suddenly I’m on my back, his mouth sliding down my body, teeth grazing my ribs, lips at my hip bone, the—Heat. Wet. Pressure so perfect it steals the air from my lungs. Maddox’s mouth swallows me whole, down to the base, sucking like he was built for this. My back arches, hands flying to the sheets—no, not sheets, waves, silk-water twisting in my fists—as my hips jerk helplessly. He hums around me, the vibration ripping a curse from deep in my chest.

I can’t stop thrusting into that mouth, every nerve alight. Saliva and precum slick me, dripping, and still he takes it, working me, tongue dragging the underside until my vision sparks white. I reach down, find his cock—thick, leaking, iron-hard—and wrap my fist around it. The slide is effortless, slick from the dream itself, and he groans around me so deep I nearly lose it.

We move together. Maddox stroking his throat around me while I pump him in rhythm, precum spilling over my knuckles. Then time folds again—we’re tangled, chest to chest, his body grinding down against mine, our cocks sliding together, thick shafts rubbing, smearing hot between us. His sweat drips to my skin, salt on my lips when I kiss up and bite the edge of his mouth.

“Rhys…” He moans my name into my ear, breath ragged, and the sound detonates something primal in me.

The orgasm builds like a flood breaching its dam. Every muscle tight, every nerve screaming. Our bodies buck together, grinding, desperate, harder, faster. I feel the heat surge from my spine down my cock, his body shaking with mine, and then it hits—I’m coming, hard, spilling between us, Maddox pulsing in my hand, both of us jerking, groaning, exploding into each other until the world whites out—

And I wake.

I’m on my back in the hotel bed, sheets twisted, briefs wet, sticky and clinging. My chest heaves like I’ve run for miles, skin slick with sweat. The silence of the room is deafening. No Maddox. Just the echo of my own pulse hammering in my ears.

The release drains out of me fast, leaving only emptiness in its place. The dream’s fire vanishes, and I’m left with the cruel reminder: Maddox is married. Maddox is untouchable. Maddox isn’t here.

I wake with a start, breath tearing out of me like I’ve been drowning. My body is rigid, locked in a trembling arch, briefs soaked, sticky against my skin. For a second I can’t place where I am—the sheets twisted around me, the pale light leaking through the heavy hotel curtains—and then it hits me.

A wet dream.

Jesus Christ. I was thirty-eight years old, and my body had just betrayed me like some fumbling teenager. I never even had one back then. Not once. I’d waited for it like some secret club every guy seemed to join, waking up sticky and embarrassed in the middle of the night. It never happened. Until now.

And of course, it had to be about him.

Maddox’s face was still there when I closed my eyes. The heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the weight of his cock in my hand. Too vivid to be dismissed as some meaningless dream. It lingered, humming in my veins, making my pulse feel unsteady.

I sat up, scrubbing my hands over my face, my skin damp with sweat and cum. The air conditioner hummed weakly in the background, but it did nothing to cool the burn crawling under my skin.

I should’ve been disgusted, but I wasn’t. I was rattled, shaken down to the bone, but not disgusted. The worst part was how good it felt, how real it had been. My first wet dream, decades late, and it had to be Maddox.

When I stepped out of the shower, the mirror was a sheet of fog. I wiped a hand across the glass, half expecting Maddox’s face to be staring back at me instead of my own. My hair was plastered to my forehead, water still dripping down my shoulders, chest flushed pink from the heat. I’d scrubbed myself raw, like maybe if I went deep enough, I could scrape the dream out of me too.

But it clung. The ghost of it. Maddox’s voice echoing in my head. The weight of him pressed against me, the way his mouth had shaped my name like it belonged to him. I’d jerked off in the shower just to steady myself, quick and rough under the spray, but it didn’t bring release so much as… resignation.

I pulled the towel tight around my waist, leaning into the sink. The invitation card lay on the counter where I’d tossed it last night. Its embossed lettering caught the light, smug and immovable. James Madison High School Class of 2005 Reunion. Tonight: Alumni Dinner.

My stomach tightened.

I dressed in slow, deliberate motions, layering myself in armor disguised as clothes. Crisp navy trousers, white shirt pressed within an inch of its life, blazer tailored sharp enough to cut. Nothing casual tonight. If I was going to face ghosts, I’d damn well look like I’d conquered them. Cufflinks clicked into place, watch band snug around my wrist, hair slicked back with a practiced hand.

The problem was my nerves were chewing through me faster than I could dress them up. My skin still buzzed from the dream, my stomach knotted with the thought of dinner, and what I needed was a drink—something to dull the edges, make the voices in my head sound a little less like accusations.

The minibar mocked me, its tiny fridge humming low and empty. Not even a sad, overpriced miniature. I stared at it for a long beat, then muttered, “Figures.”

Plan B: housekeeping. I knew there’d be a cart somewhere down the hall stocked with all the half-pint bottles they left for the VIP suites. Easy to snag one, slip back unseen.

I left the room, pulling the door shut with a quiet click. The carpet was thick underfoot, muffling my steps as I moved down the corridor. The place had that hushed, polished feel—low lighting, brass sconces glowing amber, wallpaper textured like woven silk. My eyes swept the hall for the telltale cart.

That’s when I heard it.

Voices. One sharp, cutting through the hush. A woman’s.

“…seriously, Maddox? You dragged me all the way to this backwater so we could sit around with people who peaked before they could legally drink?”

I froze, pressed against the wall just before the corner.

Julia. Had to be.

Maddox’s voice came next, lower, steady, but with an edge I’d never heard before. “They’re not losers, Julia. They’re my classmates. My friends.”

“Friends?” she snapped, the word jagged, like glass in her mouth. “You left this dump for a reason. Don’t start pretending you owe anyone here anything. You don’t. I’m the one who kept you moving forward, remember? I’m the reason you’re where you are.”

I edged closer, heart knocking in my chest, until I could see them reflected in the glossy windowpane at the far end of the hall. Maddox stood rigid, jaw tight, one hand clenched into a fist at his side. Julia leaned toward him, her manicured finger jabbing the air like she was scolding a child. She was beautiful, yes—impossibly so—but in that moment her beauty sharpened into something venomous.

“I swear to God, Maddox, if you keep acting like this place matters, you’re going to humiliate yourself. Do you want that? Do you want people to see you wasting your time with… with nobodies?”

Maddox’s mouth moved, but his reply was too low for me to catch. What I did see was the muscle working in his jaw, the flicker of something in his eyes that wasn’t anger so much as restraint.

Julia huffed, shaking her head, her diamond earrings flashing in the soft hall light. “You need to remember who you are. And who made you that way.”

Every syllable landed like a slap. I felt them in my own chest, and I wasn’t even the one she was cutting down.

And Maddox… God. He just stood there, taking it, shoulders squared but silent.

The minibar was long forgotten.

I flattened myself against the wall, breath shallow, like the carpeted corridor had suddenly become a confessional and I’d stumbled into the wrong pew. Their voices carried clean, even in their attempt at hushed tones—the kind of fight too sharp to hide.

“Julia, I told you,” Maddox said, voice taut but calm, the way you talk to someone you love but don’t dare provoke further. “It’s one night. Two, tops. I just wanted—”

She cut him off with a laugh. Not a kind one. “Wanted what, Maddox? Nostalgia? Closure? A walk down loser lane?” She leaned in, venom dripping with every word. “Do you know how pathetic that sounds?”

“I’m not pathetic,” he bit out. There it was—a flash of steel in his voice, but she was on him before it even had room to stand.

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes so hard I could hear it. “The only reason people even take you seriously is because you’re Dr. Maddox Keating. Neurovascular god. Golden boy in scrubs. But here? You’re just another has-been quarterback no one remembers. And you dragged me along so you wouldn’t have to face how irrelevant you are.”

Maddox’s shoulders tensed, jaw ticking. “I didn’t drag you. You’re my wife. I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” she snapped. Her voice went icy, controlled in the most terrifying way. “Let’s be honest for once, hmm? We’re only still married because it looks good. My family’s firm. Their political ties. Your surgical career. Power couple optics. That’s what this is. That’s all this is. You know it, I know it.”

My stomach flipped. The words felt indecent, like I’d just walked in on them naked.

Maddox stepped back half a pace, like the force of her confession physically moved him. “Julia…”

She didn’t let him breathe. “If I’d known this stupid reunion meant wasting an entire weekend in this godforsaken town, I never would have agreed. Jesus, Maddox. A whole weekend. With these people.” She gestured broadly, like the walls themselves reeked of small-town failure. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me?”

He tried again, voice lower now, pleading almost. “They’re not failures. They were my friends. They were—”

“They were nothing.” Her words cut like wire pulled taut. “And don’t you forget it. If people even think our marriage is falling apart after six months, you’ll lose everything. Everything we’ve built together. So smile, kiss my hand, and pretend, because that’s what we do. All those losers you grew up with? They’re ghosts, Maddox. Not people. Ghosts you shouldn’t even waste your breath on.”

Silence. The kind that rang louder than their raised voices.

From where I stood, Maddox’s reflection in the glossy window looked carved from stone—shoulders square, head tipped slightly down, his silence a wall of its own. Julia stood sharp against him, flawless and furious, her diamond earrings catching the light every time she moved, like knives flashing in the dark.

And me? My chest was tight, every muscle coiled with the urge to step out, to do something, say something, but I stayed rooted. Hidden. Watching the man I once knew take blow after blow and not strike back.

Maddox’s silence must’ve read to her as weakness, because she stepped closer, her heels clicking sharp against the carpet. “You know what? Forget this. I’ll play along tonight, smile for the cameras, shake hands with the same nobodies you’re so desperate to impress. But let’s be clear, Maddox—I’m not here for them. I’m here for me.”

His head lifted just a fraction, enough to meet her gaze. “For you?”

She smirked, lips painted like a blade. “There’s an open congressional seat. The committee’s already circling me. And once I’m in, once I win—” she leaned in, her perfume cloying even from where I hid—“I can dump this little marriage straight down the toilet. Write the divorce off as a tax credit. Clean, easy, done.”

The words landed like stones in the quiet corridor.

Maddox didn’t move. Didn’t argue. He just stood there, still as a man carved out of marble, while she turned on her heel and stormed down the hall, leaving her cruelty trailing like the echo of her perfume.

I didn’t wait for him to recover. Didn’t dare let the silence fill with anything that might pull me in. My chest was burning, and my palms felt slick against the wallpaper as I slipped down the opposite hall, my footsteps soft but my pulse thunderous.

Dinner. That was the next thing. Dinner with old classmates, polite smiles, maybe bad wine. The kind of meaningless distraction I suddenly needed.

By the time I pushed into the hotel’s dining room, the buzz of laughter and the clatter of silverware felt like another world—a safe one, even if every face there carried ghosts of high school. I slid into my seat with a practiced smile, trying to tuck the whole scene into some corner of myself where it couldn’t follow. But Maddox’s stillness, Julia’s venom—they lingered anyway, sour on my tongue like a secret I wasn’t supposed to hear.

Dinner blurred together like one long reel of nostalgia I hadn’t signed up for. The clink of wine glasses, the scratch of silverware on porcelain, the too-sweet smell of overcooked salmon wafting through the banquet hall. Candace, bless her eternal energy, floated from table to table like the self-appointed queen of 2005, making sure everyone had a full glass and a reason to laugh.

There were speeches—endless speeches. Teachers I hadn’t thought about in two decades stood up and recounted “our potential,” their voices wobbling with the same platitudes they’d fed us before graduation. There were awards too, the kind that were meant to be cute but stung if you landed in the wrong category: “Most Changed,” “Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a PTA Parent,” “Still Stuck in High School.” The laughter they drew out felt forced, brittle.

All the while, I nodded, I smiled, I sipped at a wine I couldn’t taste. My body was in that ballroom, but my mind was back in the hallway, hearing Julia’s voice sharpen and cut, watching Maddox stand in the storm of it, silent.

By the time the applause died down and people began breaking off into groups—some heading for the dance floor, others for the bar—I felt drained. Not drunk, not hungry, not even restless. Just emptied out.

And that’s when I saw him.

Maddox, alone at the bar. His jacket was gone, his tie loosened, and for the first time that night, he looked less like the picture-perfect surgeon and more like the boy I used to know. He swirled the amber in his glass without drinking it, staring at nothing in particular.

My chest tightened. Before I could overthink it, I pushed myself off the chair and walked over.

I slid onto the stool next to him, the hush of leather loud in my ears. For a long second, I just sat there, staring straight ahead, waiting for the courage to surface. Then, quietly, “I owe you an apology.”

His brow lifted, but his gaze stayed fixed on the rows of liquor bottles lined up like stained glass behind the bar. “For what?”

“The mud.” I let the words tumble out before I could soften them. “That stunt during tug-of-war… it was childish. I don’t even know what got into me.”

At that, he finally looked at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness.

Maddox finally turned toward me, and for the first time all evening, his eyes weren’t guarded. They were sharp, clear, carrying something that made the air between us hum.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low, steady. “It was childish.” He took a sip from his glass, let it linger a beat, then set it down with a soft clink. “But it was also very… you.”

The words landed heavier than I expected.

I blinked. “Meaning what?”

He shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Meaning you’ve always led with your emotions. When you care about something—or someone—it shows. Even when it costs you.”

The silence stretched, pulling taut. My throat worked around a reply that didn’t come.

Maddox’s gaze dropped to his drink again, his thumb tracing the rim. “Besides,” he added, softer now, “I deserved a little mud.”

I watched him trace the rim of his glass like he was trying to memorize the shape of it. My mouth went dry, but the words pressed forward anyway.

“Maddox,” I started, voice quieter than I intended, “I… heard you earlier. In the hallway. With Julia.”

His head snapped up, and for a second, his composure cracked. A flush crept up his neck, not from alcohol but from something rawer—embarrassment, maybe even shame.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I rushed on. “I was just—God, I don’t even know why I’m apologizing, but… I’m sorry.”

Maddox exhaled hard through his nose, gaze skittering to the half-empty ballroom. The buzz of lingering conversations and clinking silverware filled the silence between us. Finally, he muttered, “She stopped loving me a long time ago. Maybe she never really did.” He laughed once, a bitter, humorless sound. “Now we’re just two people performing the idea of marriage, because it’s easier than unraveling it in front of the world.”

The admission landed heavy, like a weight sliding off him only to fall onto me.

“Maddox…” I leaned closer, lowering my voice so no one else could hear. “You don’t have to go through it alone. You never did.”

For a heartbeat, something flared in his eyes. Recognition. Maybe even longing. But it dulled just as quickly, replaced with the tired resignation of a man who’s been running in circles for years. He shook his head. “I don’t know any other way to go through it,” he said, words sharp and final, like the closing of a door.

I wanted to reach for him. To undo the last twenty years of distance. But instead I pushed back from the barstool, the leather squeaking against the floor. “I should head up. Big day tomorrow,” I lied, though the weight in my chest made me feel anything but big.

He didn’t stop me. Just watched as I walked away. And I couldn’t tell if the heaviness I carried up to my room was mine, or his, or both.

The elevator ride felt longer than it should have, every floor another reminder of the conversation I’d left hanging downstairs. By the time I made it to my room, exhaustion and adrenaline were in some strange tug-of-war inside me.

I peeled off my jacket, loosened my tie, slipped off my shoes. The city lights bled through the half-open curtains, painting fractured patterns across the bedspread. My hands moved automatically—watch on the dresser, shirt unbuttoned, folded with the neatness of habit. The night was supposed to end with silence, maybe another sleepless hour staring at the ceiling.

And then—three sharp knocks.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. For a beat, I just stood there, staring at the door like it might answer its own question.

I crossed the room and pulled it open.

A shadow filled the frame. Familiar. Charged.

Relief—or was it desire?—slid through me before I could stop it. My lips curved into something between a smile and surrender as I let the words fall out, low and unguarded:

“I was hoping it would be you.”

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