The hum of city life lingered in Alex's mind like a distant echo as they left Jordan's apartment behind, embarking on the drive to Alex's hometown. It was a few hours southwest, through rolling countryside that gradually flattened into suburban sprawl—neat lawns, white picket fences, and strip malls that screamed middle-class normalcy. Alex gripped the steering wheel of his borrowed car (Jordan's Jeep had stayed in the city), his knuckles whitening slightly as nerves crept in. Introducing Jordan to his family was a big step, one that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. Their relationship, forged in the fires of trail passion and city nights, was still new, but solid. Yet, Alex's family was conservative—rooted in traditional values, church on Sundays, and unspoken expectations that had made his coming out a strained affair years ago.
Jordan sensed the tension, his hand resting reassuringly on Alex's thigh as they cruised along the highway. The radio played soft acoustic tunes, a nod to their shared hikes, but even that couldn't fully ease the knot in Alex's stomach. "Hey," Jordan said, squeezing gently. "If it's too soon, we can turn around. No pressure."
Alex glanced over, meeting those piercing blue eyes that had become his anchor. Jordan looked effortlessly handsome in a button-down shirt and jeans—dressed up just enough to impress, but still true to his artistic self. "No, I want this. They need to meet the guy who's changed my life. Just... brace yourself. My parents are great, but they're from a different era. Dad's all about football and barbecues; Mom's the queen of passive-aggressive comments."
Jordan chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I've faced worse. Gallery critics can be brutal. Besides, if they raised you, they can't be all bad." His fingers traced lazy circles on Alex's leg, a subtle reminder of their balcony encounter the night before—the way Jordan had knelt, taking him deep under the city lights, swallowing every drop with a hunger that still made Alex's pulse quicken.
The drive passed with light conversation—planning future trips, debating favorite artists—and soon they pulled into the driveway of Alex's childhood home, a two-story colonial with a manicured garden and an American flag fluttering on the porch. Alex's parents, Tom and Linda, emerged from the front door, waving enthusiastically. Tom was burly, with a graying beard and a firm handshake; Linda was petite, her smile warm but her eyes appraising.
"Alex! Good to see you, son," Tom boomed, clapping Alex on the back before turning to Jordan. "And you must be the artist friend we've heard about."
Jordan shook hands firmly. "Jordan Hayes. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thompson. Alex has told me so much about you both."
Linda pulled Alex into a hug, whispering, "He's handsome," before addressing Jordan. "Come in, come in! Dinner's almost ready—roast chicken, your favorite, Alex."
Inside, the house smelled of home-cooked comfort: garlic, herbs, and fresh bread. The living room was filled with family photos—Alex as a kid in Little League, high school graduation, a few awkward prom shots with girls from before he came out. They settled around the dining table, small talk flowing about the weather, Jordan's art career, and Alex's writing aspirations. Jordan charmed them effortlessly, sharing stories of his sketches from the valley hike without delving into the intimate details.
But tension brewed beneath the surface. When Linda asked about how they met, Alex kept it vague: "On a trail in Evergreen Valley. Hit it off right away." Tom nodded approvingly at first, but as conversation turned to relationships, the air thickened.
"So, Jordan," Tom said, carving the chicken, "what's your family like? Big on traditions?"
Jordan smiled politely. "Divorced parents, only child. We weren't big on holidays, but I make my own traditions now—like painting on Christmas morning."
Linda's fork paused. "Oh, that's... different. We always go to church as a family. Alex used to join us every Sunday." Her eyes flicked to Alex, a subtle reminder of his lapsed attendance.
Alex shifted uncomfortably. "Mom, we've talked about this. I'm still spiritual, just in my own way."
The dinner continued with polite exchanges, but undercurrents of judgment surfaced—Tom's offhand comment about "real jobs" versus art, Linda's probing questions about future plans that implied stability and grandkids. Jordan handled it gracefully, deflecting with humor, but Alex could see the strain in his eyes. By dessert—apple pie, of course—the atmosphere was cordial but charged, like a storm cloud hovering.
After dinner, they retired to the living room for coffee. Tom turned on a football game, offering Jordan a beer, which he accepted. Linda pulled Alex aside in the kitchen under the guise of helping with dishes. "He seems nice, honey, but... is this serious? Artists can be so... unpredictable."
Alex sighed, drying a plate. "Mom, it's serious. Jordan's good for me. Give him a chance."
She patted his arm. "I just want you happy. But remember your roots."
Back in the living room, Jordan was engaging Tom in talk about sports analogies in art, easing some tension. As the evening wound down, Alex's parents retired early, leaving the guest room—Alex's old bedroom—for them. "No funny business," Tom joked half-seriously as he headed upstairs. "Thin walls."
Alex and Jordan exchanged glances, suppressing smiles. The childhood room was a time capsule: posters of bands from his teen years, a bookshelf crammed with fantasy novels, and a twin bed that suddenly felt too small for two grown men. They changed into sleepwear—boxers and t-shirts—whispering as they settled in.
"That went... okay?" Jordan asked, pulling Alex close under the covers, the bed creaking slightly.
"Better than I expected," Alex murmured, nuzzling Jordan's neck. "They're trying. But yeah, tension city."
Jordan's hand slid under Alex's shirt, tracing his spine. "We made it through. Now, about those thin walls..." His voice dropped to a teasing whisper, lips brushing Alex's ear.
Alex's breath hitched, desire stirring despite the risk. "We shouldn't... but god, I want you."
Jordan's response was a deep kiss, muffling any further words. Hands explored quietly—Jordan's fingers dipping below Alex's waistband, stroking him to hardness with slow, deliberate motions. Alex bit his lip to stifle a moan, his own hand reciprocating, feeling Jordan's arousal grow.
"Shh," Jordan whispered, rolling on top carefully, the bed protesting with a soft creak. He kissed down Alex's chest, nipping lightly, before settling between his legs. But instead of more, he paused, fingers teasing Alex's entrance. "Let me get you ready."
Lubed from a discreet travel bottle in Jordan's bag (ever prepared), his fingers circled, then pressed in—one, then two—scissoring gently to open Alex. Alex arched silently, clutching the sheets, Jordan's free hand covering his mouth as a precaution. The fingering was methodical, hitting that spot inside that made Alex's eyes flutter, muffled whimpers escaping against Jordan's palm.
When Alex was trembling, ready, Jordan positioned himself, sliding in slow and deep, inch by inch, to minimize noise. The fullness was exquisite—Jordan bottoming out with a shared, silent gasp. He thrust gently at first, the bed creaking softly in rhythm, like a whispered secret. Jordan's mouth found Alex's again, kissing deeply to swallow moans, their bodies moving in sync—slow, grinding rolls that built tension without frenzy.
Alex wrapped his legs around Jordan, pulling him deeper, the explicit slide of skin on skin intimate in the quiet room. Jordan's pace quickened slightly, hand slipping between them to stroke Alex, the dual sensations pushing them toward the edge. Release came in hushed waves—Alex first, spilling over Jordan's hand with a bitten-back cry, clenching around him. Jordan followed, burying deep as he pulsed inside, their kiss breaking only for ragged breaths.
They lay entwined afterward, hearts pounding, the house silent around them. Jordan pressed a kiss to Alex's forehead. "Worth the risk," he whispered.
Alex smiled in the dark, family ties feeling a bit less constricting. Their love had navigated the tension, emerging stronger, ready for whatever came next. As sleep took them, the childhood room felt less like the past and more like a bridge to their future.