Unseen
by @ConradForced to hide their love from their families, two men risk everything for stolen hours of passion, where every secret touch could cost them everything they know.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
James Chen
A 24-year-old finance analyst with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, his posture perfect for family dinners where he's praised as the 'good son.' He moves with a contained energy, his knuckles white when he grips his phone, waiting for the one message that makes his world real. The scent of his father's cologne clings to his jackets, a mask he can't take off.
Matt Rossi
A 25-year-old carpenter with sun-warmed skin and calloused hands that know how to build and how to hold. He carries the scent of sawdust and salt air, a stark contrast to the stifling perfume of his mother's sitting room where he spins lies about 'going fishing.' The tension in his jaw is the only tell of the double life he leads.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The Storage Unit
The storage unit smelled of dust, pine lumber, and their sweat. Leo's back was against the rough plywood of a half-built cabinet, Mateo's calloused hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Outside, the voices of Mateo's cousins faded, their fishing trip lie holding. Leo's heart hammered against Mateo's chest, the terror of being found twisting together with the ache of Mateo still inside him. This was their world: stolen, desperate, real.
Shower of Truths
The water in Matt's cramped apartment shower was never quite hot enough, a stark contrast to the fever they'd just shared. As Matt washed him with a rough, tender urgency, James saw the guilt in his eyes—the carpenter who built things was marking what he couldn't keep. The clean scent of soap felt like another lie, erasing the only proof their stolen hour was real.
Kitchen Table Confession
The morning light is a liar, painting everything in normal, golden strokes. Matt's hand freezes, mug halfway to his lips. The fantasy, spoken aloud in this mundane space, becomes terrifyingly real. James watches the hope and terror war in Matt's eyes—the desire for a world where they could have this, and the visceral fear of what that world would take from them in return. The kitchen, usually a refuge, suddenly feels like a courtroom.
The Table Between Us
The fight dissolves into a desperate, silent pull. James crosses the canyon, not to comfort, but to claim. His hands fist in Matt's t-shirt, dragging him forward until the hard edge of the table bites into them both. Matt's resistance is a shudder, then a collapse—his mouth finds James's with a hunger that tastes like salt and confession. This isn't a kiss of reconciliation; it's a furious, physical argument, a way to speak the truth their words just failed to hold.
The Only Truth
The drive home was a blur of cologne and ghosts. James stood under his shower, scrubbing until his skin burned, but Matt’s scent was in his lungs, under his nails. He slid down the tile, water pounding his bowed head, and fisted his own cock with a desperation that felt like grief. He came with Matt’s name a silent scream on his lips, the water washing the evidence away, the only truth he could afford.