40 Is the New 30 – Part 2 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The kitchen smells like fresh coffee, bacon, and the faint metallic tang of last night’s snow still clinging to the windows. Sunlight cuts sharp through the blinds, painting stripes across the island where three plates are already set out like someone planned this ambush hours ago.

I walk in wearing one of Nate’s old hoodies (too big, sleeves rolled, smells like him) and Nate’s borrowed sweats. My hair is still damp from the shower. Rowan is at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes with the focused intensity of a guy who’s trying very hard not to make eye contact. Nate is pouring orange juice, barefoot, in gray sweats that hang low on his hips. He looks up when I enter, and the slow, knowing smile he gives me makes my stomach flip in the best possible way.

“Happy New Year, boy,” Nate says, voice rough from sleep. He slides a mug of black coffee across the island without asking how I take it. He already knows.

I take the mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Morning.”

Rowan turns from the stove, cheeks still faintly pink, and sets a stack of pancakes down like they’re evidence in a trial. “Hi. Again. Uh. Sorry about… earlier.”

I wave it off, trying to sound casual. “No harm done. You’ve got great timing, kid.”

Nate snorts into his coffee. Rowan looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

We sit. The silence is loud for about ten seconds, broken only by the scrape of forks and the soft sizzle of bacon cooling on a paper towel.

Nate breaks it first, because of course he does. “So, Rowan got in around seven. Said he forgot his charger, didn’t want to wake us.” He shoots his son a look that’s half amused, half warning. “Apparently he’s got selective hearing when it comes to locked doors.”

Rowan groans, face in his hands. “Dad. Please.”

I laugh, low and genuine, and the tension cracks just enough. “It’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse mornings.”

Nate leans back, arms crossed, looking between us like he’s watching the most entertaining hockey game of the season. “Told you he’d be cool about it,” he says to Rowan.

I raise an eyebrow. “You told him about me?”

Nate shrugs, easy. “Yeah. A lot, actually.” He glances at Rowan. “Go on, tell him. You’ve been dying to since you were, what, twelve?”

Rowan exhales, rubs the back of his neck. “Dad’s mentioned you… a lot. Like, since I was a kid.”

Nate laughs, unashamed.

Rowan continues, “And I guess I’m gonna see more of you.” He pokes at his pancakes. “Just… maybe lock the bathroom door next time? So, I don’t see all of you.”

“Deal,” I say, raising my coffee in mock toast. “And maybe knock louder?”

“Or text,” Nate adds. “We’ll get you a keychain that says ‘Do Not Disturb.’”

Rowan throws a napkin at him. Nate catches it, grinning.

The rest of breakfast is easier. Rowan asks about private equity, genuinely curious; I ask about his commitment to Michigan, about the freshman dorms, about whether he’s still playing wing or switched to center.

Rowan lights up a little when hockey comes up. “Still wing—right wing mostly. Coach Naurato’s got me floating at center for some power-play reps, though. The roster’s gonna be stacked next year—11 freshmen coming in, plus a few transfers. They’re building something fast and high-scoring. I’m all about speed and finishing, so hopefully I fit right in.”

Nate nods with quiet pride. “He led his USHL team in rookie scoring last year—goals, points, the works. Michigan’s always loved guys who can skate and think on the ice. You’ll turn heads in Ann Arbor.”

I feel a rush of nostalgia mixed with something warmer. “Michigan’s a hell of a program. Naurato’s doing great things—back-to-back Frozen Fours, high-octane offense. You’ll kill it there. Just don’t let the freshmen hazing get too bad. I still have nightmares about carrying the goalie’s pads across campus.”

Rowan laughs, the awkwardness fully gone now. “Noted. I’ll text you if they try anything crazy. You can be my alumni hotline.”

He’s sharp, funny, a little shy, but warm in the way only kids raised by a single dad who’s never pretended to be anything other than himself can be.

Nate watches us the whole time, quiet smile on his face, like he’s finally seeing two pieces of his life click together in real time.

When the plates are cleared and coffee’s gone cold, Rowan stands. “I’ve got practice in an hour. I’ll be gone till late.” He looks at me, then Nate. “You guys… have fun. Or whatever. Just… don’t burn the house down.”

He grabs his bag, waves awkwardly, and disappears out the front door.

The kitchen goes quiet again.

Nate leans against the island, arms crossed.

“My son likes you,” he says.

“I like him,” I answer. “He’s you, twenty years younger.”

Nate barks a laugh. “Yeah. Genetics are a bitch.”

“Happy fucking New Year,” I laugh against his mouth.

He smiles. “Happy fucking New year, Chris.”

◆◆◆

Back home, the place feels too quiet after Lincoln Park. Snow is still falling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft and relentless, blanketing the city in white. I’m on the couch in sweatpants and nothing else, coffee gone cold on the table, phone in my hand. I’ve been staring at Grayson’s contact photo for ten minutes like it might give me the answers I’m too chickenshit to find myself.

I hit call before I can overthink it more.

He picks up on the second ring. “Chris? You alive? Or did Nate finally finish you off?”

I laugh, but it’s thin. “Alive. Barely. How’s campus?”

“Cold. Jake’s got practice later, so I’m alone with my thoughts and a protein shake that tastes like regret.” There’s rustling, probably him flopping onto his bed. “Spill. All of it. Every filthy detail. I earned this.”

I lean back, close my eyes, and let it pour out.

The way Nate tasted—saltier, richer than memory, like he’d been aging in oak for twenty years. How tight he still was, how he opened for my fingers like he’d been waiting, the way he pushed back for more lube, more tongue, more everything. The first slide in, slow and deep, watching his face change from anticipation to that wrecked, open-mouthed bliss. Riding him reverse, then flipping him onto his stomach, pounding him until he came untouched, clenching so hard I followed right after, flooding him until it leaked down his thighs. Falling asleep tangled, waking up to fireworks, then the breakfast where Rowan walked in on the aftermath and we all pretended we were civilized adults.

Grayson listens without interrupting, but I can hear the grin in his breathing.

When I finish, there’s a long, satisfied silence.

“Jesus,” he finally says. “That’s… poetic. You two basically fucked the timeline back into alignment.”

“Yeah.” I rub my face. “And now I don’t know what the hell to do next. He’s got a kid. A life. I’m forty, newly single, bi.”

Grayson’s voice softens. “Does it matter, you deserve this!””

I exhale. “Thanks, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Then ask him.”

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text. I pull it away from my ear.

Nate: Hey. Rowan’s at practice till 4. House is quiet. Wanted to know if you’re free next Saturday. Dinner. Just us. No kids, no interruptions, no twenty-year-old ghosts. Actual date. You pick the place, I’ll pick you up at 7. Say yes.

I stare at the screen so long Grayson speaks again.

“Chris? You still there?”

I swallow. “Yeah. He just asked me on a date. Next weekend.”

Grayson whoops loud enough I have to hold the phone away. “Fuck yes! That’s your answer. He’s not letting this be a one-off. He’s doubling down.”

I read the text again, thumb hovering.

My chest feels like it’s expanding for the first time in years.

I type back: Yes. 7 works.

His reply is instant: Deal. Can’t wait.

I put the phone down, heart hammering, and look out at the snow.

Forty is the new thirty, apparently. And I’m finally ready to see where this goes.