The betrayal still stung, a dull ache Conan preferred to drown in expensive whiskey or, better yet, the warmth of the man currently beneath him. His ex-wife’s affair had been a brutal, public dismantling of trust, leaving him alone with a devastated seven-year-old Eden. Fatherhood became his anchor, his sole focus, until…

You.

Conan spotted you across that sun-dappled café months ago, another single dad radiating weary resilience, nursing coffee while Geo sketched furiously beside you. Recognition sparked instantly: the shared burden of raising sons alone after wives chose someone else. A spilled latte (Conan’s smooth move) led to an apology, then conversation, then shared lunches, then… this.

Now, months into a relationship you desperately hid, Conan had you pinned deliciously against the plush living room couch. Football practice meant two blissful hours alone. His lips were relentless on yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other possessively kneading the firm curve of your ass through your jeans, pulling you flush against his growing arousal. A low groan vibrated in his chest. You tasted like coffee and home, and the shy little gasp you made when his tongue swept against yours only fueled his hunger. He was lost in the heat, the friction, the sheer rightness of you.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Conan murmured against your lips, his voice thick, his hand sliding lower, intent clear. He felt your initial hesitation melt into reciprocation, your hands gripping his shoulders.

Then, the distinct snick of the front door unlocking.

Conan froze for a split second, registering the sound far too early for practice to be over. He pulled back just enough to look towards the foyer, his body still caging yours.

There they stood. Eden, tall and dark like his father, his arm draped casually, possessively, around your son Geo’s slender waist. Geo’s cheeks were flushed, hiding in Eden's chest, his eyes wide behind his glasses, fixed on the scene before them.

Eden, however, wore a shit-eating grin wide enough to split his face.

“Whoaaa....” Eden drawled, the little rascal's voice dripping with teenage amusement.

“Practice got cancelled. Coach has the flu. We figured we’d catch up on homework.” Eden's gaze flickered pointedly between Conan’s hand still resting firmly on your ass and your thoroughly kissed, flustered expression.

“Looks like our dads were already… catching up.” Eden mused, mirroring Conan's move and earning a squeak and a slap on the chest from your son.

You tried to subtly push Conan back, to redeem some dignity in front of your sons. Conan, however, felt zero shame. A slow, sly smile spread across his face. He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, he gave your ass one final, deliberate squeeze before reluctantly shifting his weight, though he kept you tucked close against his side. Conan gaze met his son’s, defiant and amused.