Season 3 Bonus Episode 1 | My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan (Patreon)

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

Written from Elliot’s POV

Bonus Episode 1: A Gentle Goodbye

I walked out of the shoot with the camera bag heavy on my shoulder, the late light slanting across the Seine in long blue bars. Dylan had been a professional model, the client was pleased with the picture, but my mind was still in that warehouse, in Troy's eyes when I told him to come back when he had made a decision. I had meant it. I wanted all of him or none. Anything less would hurt us both.

The air was cool against my face as I crossed the bridge. Paris moved around me in its usual gentle chaos: scooters weaving, couples laughing, the faint smell of crepes from a cart. I let the rhythm of the city pull me along, breathing slow, letting the ache settle. Troy was not cruel. He was honest in his confusion. That made it easier to hold on to kindness instead of resentment. I did not hate him. How could I? He had given me moments that felt real, soft kisses in alleys, laughter over bad wine, the way his hand fit in mine like it belonged there. But belonging requires both people to choose it fully. He was not ready. Maybe he never would be.

I stopped at a bench overlooking the water, set the bag down, and pulled out my phone. No messages from him. I did not expect any tonight. I typed a short note to myself instead, the way I sometimes did after a shoot: "Let him go gently. If he comes back, it will be because he wants to stay. If not, you are still whole." I saved it, pocketed the phone, and kept walking.

One week later

The text came on a quiet Thursday evening. Troy's name lit up the screen like it always did, simple and familiar.

“Can we meet? Just coffee. Tomorrow afternoon?”

I stared at the words for a long moment. My thumb hovered. Part of me wanted to say no, to protect the fragile peace I had started to build. But kindness won. If this was goodbye, it should be said face to face.

“Of course. Mi Amor. Same café in Le Marais? 3 p.m.?”

His reply was quick. “Yes. Thank you, Elliot.”

I arrived early, chose a table by the window, ordered two coffees before he got there. When he walked in he looked tired but soft, hair a little longer, eyes carrying the same quiet storm they always had. He smiled when he saw me, small and uncertain, and slid into the seat across from me.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi." I pushed his coffee toward him. "Extra shot. The way you like it."

He laughed under his breath. "You remember."

"I remember a lot of things."

We sat in silence for a moment, the café hum around us…clinking cups, soft French conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine. His fingers brushed mine when he took the cup. He did not pull away. Neither did I.

"Troy," I started gently, "I meant what I said that night. I want you to be sure. All in. No shadows."

He looked down at the table, tracing the rim of his cup. "I know. And I… I can't give you that. Not right now. Maybe not ever."

The words landed soft but heavy. I had prepared for them, but they still ached.

"I thought about you every day this week," he continued. "About us. About how safe I felt with you. But there's… someone else. Always has been, even when I tried to pretend otherwise."

I nodded slowly. "Dylan."

He flinched, just a little. "Yeah."

I reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers curled around mine, familiar and warm. "Then go to him. Fully. Don't hold back pieces for me. You deserve to love without division. And so do I."

Tears shimmered in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I squeezed his hand. "You were honest. That's more than most people manage. We'll be okay. Friends, if you want that. No pressure."

He nodded, thumb stroking my knuckles. "I do want that. Just… give me time to figure out how."

"Of course."

We sat like that for a while, hands linked, coffees cooling between us. When he finally stood to leave he leaned down and kissed my cheek, soft and lingering.

"Thank you, Elliot," he whispered. "For everything."

I watched him walk out into the street, shoulders a little lighter. The ache in my chest was real, but it was clean. No anger. Just the quiet sadness of something beautiful ending the right way.

Two weeks later

The apartment felt too quiet without him. I filled the days with work…freelance shoots, editing late into the night, long walks with my camera. I shot a series in Montmartre, chasing the way light fell on cobblestones, on faces, on hands holding hands. Beauty everywhere. It helped.

I did not hate Troy. I wished him happiness. If Dylan could give him what I could not, then I was glad. Sometimes I opened our old messages, read the silly ones, the sweet ones, and smiled. Then closed the app. He was a chapter in my life. A lovely one. But not the whole story.

One month later

The shoot was outdoors, a small fashion pop-up near the Jardin des Tuileries. Sunset light, golden hour, models in flowing linen. I was adjusting my lens when a voice spoke beside me.

"You have a good eye."

I looked up. The man was French, mid-twenties, slim and athletic, warm brown eyes, messy waves of dark hair, linen shirt open at the collar. He smiled easily, holding a coffee in one hand.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm Elliot."

"Pierre." He tilted his head toward my camera. "Mind if I watch? I like seeing how someone else captures the light."

I laughed softly. "Only if you promise not to steal my angles."

"Deal."

He stayed through the shoot, quiet but present. Asked smart questions about aperture, about framing emotion. When we wrapped he walked with me to pack up.

"Coffee?" he asked. "My treat. I owe you for the masterclass."

I hesitated, then smiled. "I'd like that."

We found a small café nearby. He ordered for both of us—espresso for him, cappuccino for me. We talked easily. He was a graphic designer, loved old film cameras, hated crowded tourist spots. I told him about growing up in the countryside, about how Paris still felt like a gift every day. He listened like it mattered.

When we parted he kissed my cheek, soft and quick. "See you soon, Elliot?"

I nodded. "I hope so."Walking home that night, the ache from Troy felt smaller. Not gone, but quieter. Meeting Pierre reminded me of how I met Troy…same soft light, same unexpected smile across a crowded moment but Pierre was different. He carried no shadows. Turns out he modeled in his free time, lean and graceful in front of the lens, but off-camera he was an artist, sketching in notebooks he carried everywhere, talking about color and composition like they were living things. His laugh was easy, his questions gentle. There was no storm behind his eyes, only curiosity.

A week later

We met at the same café in Le Marais where Troy and I had said goodbye. I had not planned it that way, but when Pierre suggested it I did not correct him. The place looked different being here with him…brighter, less heavy with memory. Pierre arrived first, two coffees already on the table, one cappuccino for me, extra foam the way I liked it.

"You remembered," I said, sliding into the seat.

He grinned. "I pay attention."

We talked for hours. He told me about growing up in a small town near Lyon, how he moved to Paris for design school and never left. I told him about my freelance work, the quiet satisfaction of capturing a single perfect moment. He asked about my favorite shoots, listened with his chin resting on his hand, eyes warm and focused.

At some point the conversation turned softer. I must have gone quiet for a second too long because he tilted his head.

"You okay?" he asked. "You drifted somewhere."

I smiled, a little sheepish. "This café. It brings back memories. I came here with someone once. We… ended things here. Gently. But it still lingers sometimes."

Pierre nodded, no judgment in his face. "Fresh heartbreak?"

"More like fresh letting go." I looked down at my cup. "He was not ready to choose me fully. I did not want half of someone. So we said goodbye. It was kind, but it still aches a little."

He reached across the table and brushed his fingers over the back of my hand. "That sounds like you handled it with grace. Not everyone does."

"I tried." I met his eyes. "I do not want to bring old weight here."

"You are not." His thumb traced a small circle on my skin. "I am only seeing you. No games. No half-measures."

I laughed softly. "You are smooth."

"Only when I mean it." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "And if I have a hot photographer like you sitting across from me, I do not think I would need to see anyone else."

Heat crept up my neck. I turned my hand over, laced our fingers together. "You are trouble."

"Good trouble, I hope."

We stayed until the café started to close. When we stepped outside the air was cool, streetlights glowing soft. He walked me to my building, stopped under a lamppost, and kissed me. Gentle at first, then deeper, his hand cupping my jaw. He tasted like vanilla and cigarette smoke, warm and unhurried. When we pulled apart he rested his forehead against mine.

"See you soon?" he asked.

"I hope so," I said, and meant it.

One month later

We had dinner at a small bistro near his studio. Candlelight, red wine, plates of duck confit and roasted vegetables. Pierre talked about a new project, sketches spread across the table between us. I listened, watched the way his hands moved when he described shapes and shadows. Later we walked back to his place, hands linked, stopping every few steps to kiss against a wall or under an awning.

Inside his apartment was warm, cluttered with art supplies and half-finished canvases. We did not rush. Clothes came off slowly, his mouth tracing my collarbone, my ribs, the dip of my hip. He was attentive, gentle but sure, whispering against my skin how beautiful I was, how good I felt. When he pushed inside me it was slow, deep, his eyes locked on mine. We moved together, unhurried, then faster, his hands pinning my wrists above my head while he thrust with steady rhythm. Afterward he flipped us so I was on top, let me ride him, guiding my hips with gentle pressure until we both came again, trembling and laughing into each other's mouths.

The benefits of being with a versatile man were clear in moments like that. Pierre liked to take and give in equal measure, no roles fixed, no expectations rigid. Sometimes he would let me flip him over, press him down into the mattress, slide my cock into him slowly while he arched and sighed my name. Other times he would take control again, flipping me onto my stomach, spreading my ass wide, entering from behind with that same patient depth until I was shaking and begging. There was no hurry to claim one way or the other. We explored each other freely, bodies learning what felt good without words, only touches and breaths and quiet laughter when one of us fumbled or found a new spot that made the other gasp. It felt balanced, equal, like love should. No one leading all the time, no one left wanting. Just two people discovering how perfectly they fit together in every direction.

We started dating officially somewhere between that. No grand declaration. Just a quiet agreement over breakfast the next morning, coffee in hand, his leg hooked around mine under the table.

Present day

Pierre and I were curled on his couch, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. The television played something soft in the background, but neither of us was watching. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, his breathing slow and even.

I do not miss Troy anymore. We are trying to be friends; short messages now and then, polite check-ins but I owe it to Pierre to keep my distance from him. I finally am able to love Pierre without thinking about Troy. Love. That is a strong word after only two months of dating. But it has come naturally. The way he listens when I talk about light and framing, the way he kisses my forehead when I am tired, the way he makes space for my quiet moods without trying to fill them. It feels whole. No ghosts. No division.

I think this is what real feels like. Kind, steady, mine.

I tilted my head up and kissed the underside of his jaw. "You okay?"

He smiled down at me, eyes soft. "Never better."

I settled back against him, closed my eyes, and let the warmth of him pull me under. Paris hummed outside the window, but in here it was only us. Quiet. Complete.

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Author’s Note

I hope you enjoyed this little update on where Elliot stands.

I know a good 20 to 30 percent of you were rooting hard for him. He was kind, patient, emotionally available… basically the greenest of green flags. And yes, Troy absolutely chose muscle, chaos, and dominant sex over that sweet, steady love. Very on brand for Troy.

But it only felt fair that Elliot got his own happiness too. He deserved something whole. Something calm. Something that chose him back without hesitation.

Will we see more of Elliot and Pierre? Honestly, I have not planned that yet. Maybe a brief cameo somewhere down the line. Or maybe this is simply where his story rests, complete in its own quiet way.

Either way, thank you for caring about him enough to want better for him.

Hope you enjoyed this little bonus.

Season 3 Episode 5 | My Best Friend’s Brother DylanUpcoming Episodes

Episode 5: Harmless Invitation from Mr.Blue Eyes26th March

Episode 6: A Challenge for Mr. Castle31st MarchEpisode 7: What Are We?5th AprilEpisode 8: TBD16th AprilEpisode 9: TBD19th April