Chapter 6 - The Door That Opens
The first light of evening bled across the rugby field in long amber bands, the grass still damp from an earlier drizzle. Breath from running players drifted faintly in the cooling air, rising in soft, ghostlike plumes. The rhythm of impact — boots, bodies, earth — echoed across the pitch like a distant heartbeat.
Matt cut through the field with a steadiness that felt new. No hesitation, no tightness in his shoulders. He moved with quiet confidence, each step grounded, sharp, assured.
Simon watched from the sideline, arms folded loosely, gaze fixed on him. He had long ago memorized the shape of Matt’s tension, the way fear used to sit between his ribs. Tonight, that old shadow was gone.
For a moment, Simon felt proud.
Then a shift in the crowd drew his attention.
Captain Miller stood at the edge of the stands — not in uniform, not as a symbol of authority, but simply as a man. Hands in his jacket pockets, posture tentative, as though he were still relearning how to stand in his son’s world.
The reaction was instant.
His face opened. Bright, unguarded, luminous with a happiness Simon had never seen directed quite that way before. His pace quickened. His shoulders lightened. He ran as if the field itself had tilted toward one point — toward his father.
The cheer from the crowd sounded distant.
He only watched the moment settle in.
Something quiet and hollow opened behind his ribs.
The floodlights hummed softly as the match ended, washing the field in pale gold. Players gathered at the sideline, laughing through exhaustion, boots scraping against concrete, water bottles cracking open.
Miller lingered by the benches, coffee cupped between his hands like an anchor.
Matt jogged toward him, still flushed, smiling in a way that felt younger than his years. Their voices stayed low, simple words, nothing dramatic, but the meaning was unmistakable.
Presence.
Recognition.
The kind of closeness that didn’t need to announce itself.
Matt turned, softer and warmer.
“Dad, this is Simon,” he said. “My coach.”
The name carried familiarity, trust, history.
Simon nodded. “Good to finally meet you, Captain.”
Miller’s handshake was firm and grateful.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For staying with him. For being there.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Matt looked down for a moment, not in discomfort, but reverence.
Simon smiled, steady and professional, but something beneath the surface shifted, fragile and small. A role he had carried for years, now no longer his alone.
Matt leaned closer to his father when he turned to gather his bag.
Simon stepped back half a pace out of his instinct.
The ache did not show on his face. But it stayed.
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Simon walked home with the echo of that hollow space following him across the quiet streets.
He stood at Miller’s doorstep later that evening, Matt’s forgotten gear tucked under his arm. The house lights glowed softly through the curtains — warm, lived-in, steady.
He told himself this would be quick.
Knock. Return the gear. Leave.
Miller stood there relaxed, grounded, his expression open but unreadable.
Behind him, something drifted across the back wall.
A slow wash of red and green.
Not a bulb, not a reflection — a color that seemed to breathe, gentle and patient, as though the air itself was exhaling light.
Simon stared for a heartbeat too long.
The room felt denser.
Thicker.
Nearer.
Miller’s voice came softly:
Not a request, more of an invitation.
Simon drew a breath, steadying himself.
He meant to say another time.
But the word unraveled before it reached his mouth.
The colors shifted again — faint, drifting — impossible to look away from.
“Yes,” he heard himself say.
He did not remember deciding it.
Simon crossed the threshold.
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Not violently, not dizzying, just… offset.
As though he had stepped sideways into a dream.
The air thickened. Every outline softened. The house no longer felt built from wood and walls, but from breath and gravity.
Something deep in the walls thrummed softly, a low, resonant sound that pressed gently against his ribs. The same red-green shimmer slid across the glass picture frame near the doorway, slow as a pulse.
Simon placed the gear on the table.
His body stood still while his thoughts drifted half a step ahead, then fell slack, sliding backward into silence.
Miller’s calm voice entered the space between them, “You don’t want to lose Matt.”
The words cracked through him like light through a fracture.
“I…” he tried to cling onto his last shred of sense.
“When you came back, I didn’t know where I belonged anymore,” the confession slipped free raw and unfiltered. Shame flooded with grief and longing.
Miller stepped closer, his presence steady and solemn.
The words slipped into him, quiet and inevitable, as if he’d been waiting for it all along. Something inside Simon shifted out of place, the ache in his chest breaking open and spreading, dissolving and remaking him in the same slow, unsettling breath.
The room breathed him in.
Simon tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the motion of his own steps, but reality began to soften at the edges.
Moments no longer connected. They broke apart into fragments.
A doorway.
A dim hallway.
The slow rise and fall of his own breath.
Each piece arrived out of order, as if the world were blinking in and out of itself.
The air grew warm, settling over him like a tranquil tide. His limbs felt distant, obedient but no longer entirely his to command. He could still feel, but his thoughts drifted like leaves on water, weightless and unresisting.
and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the sofa.
He could not remember sitting down.
Only the lingering sensation of movement, and the faint echo of color pulsing across the ceiling.
Miller climbed on top of Simon, leaned in, pressing his lips against Simon's. The kiss was firm and demanding, and Simon felt a surge of desire course through him. His hands reached out for Simon's body, gently caressed Simon's chest and pecs through his athletic tee, feeling the hard muscles beneath. Simon let out a soft moan, responding to Miller's touch.
“You can have us,” Miller whispered, his breath hot against Simon's ear.
Miller's hands moved to Simon's tee, slowly lifting it up and over his head. He took a moment to admire Simon's torso, his muscles glistening in the soft light. Miller leaned down and began to explore Simon's chest with his tongue, licking and sucking on his nipples. Simon let out a gasp, his body arching up towards Miller.
Meanwhile, Simon's hands had found their way to his own shorts. He could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, straining against the fabric. He began to rub himself through his shorts, the friction sending waves of pleasure through his body. Soon, he was stroking himself, his hand moving up and down in a steady rhythm.
Miller, noticing Simon's actions, smiled and began to undress himself. He removed his pants, revealing his own hard cock. He then reached down and began to finger himself, his fingers slipping in and out of his hole, loosening himself up.
Simon watched, his eyes wide with desire. Miller was well into his fifties, yet there was nothing diminished about him. Broad-shouldered, solid through the chest, muscle layered with the softness of age, he looked less worn by time than sculpted by it. Not inferior to Matt’s youth. Not lesser than Simon’s own.
Miller then straddled Simon, his hole hovering just above Simon's cock. He reached down and positioned Simon's cock at his entrance, then slowly began to lower himself down. Simon let out a groan as he felt Miller's tight hole envelop his cock. The sensation was incredible, and he could feel himself already on the verge of orgasm. Miller began to bounce up and down, his body moving in a steady rhythm. Both men were swallowed by the lust, the sex was a sweaty mess, their bodies slipping and sliding against each other.
As Miller rode Simon, his face dwelled in Simon’s armpits, savouring every single drop of his pit sweat. “You taste so good,” Miller groaned, his voice muffled, “can’t get enough of it.” Simon, lost in pleasure, could only moan in response. “So good…”, he panted, his voice barely a whisper.
Miller could feel Simon's cock throbbing inside him, and he knew it wouldn't be long before Simon came. He began to milk Simon's cock with his hole, his muscles clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm.
It didn't take long for Simon to give in. With a final thrust, his cock pulsing and spurting inside Miller's ass. Miller could feel Simon's cum filling him up. He loved the sensation. He continued to ride Simon, milking the last drop of cum from his cock.
Just as Miller was about to dismount, they heard the front door open. Matt walked in. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him, his father's ass full of his coach's cum.
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When clarity returned, the night air met him at the doorway.
Simon stepped out onto the quiet street, the faint chill brushing against his skin. He felt refreshed.
He was no longer standing on the outside of Matt’s life.
He was no longer bracing for the day he would be left behind.
And he had a new purpose.
He reached into his pocket.
The beacon pressed softly against his palm — smooth, small, and certain. He closed his fingers around it with quiet acceptance.
He understood what came next.
