Author’s Note
One of the things about writing Line & Verse is that the setting itself keeps daring me. A communal shower at the end of the hall, four heads lined in a row, no curtains, no privacy — it’s practically a character on its own. In a world like Westmore’s, moments of risk and secrecy weren’t just possible, they were inevitable.
This bonus chapter is one of those moments. Ethan never saw it. He only caught a glimpse — a door closing, two brothers slipping away. But here’s what could have happened after.
It’s risky, it’s raw, and it belongs to the margins of the story. Paid subscribers get the whole scene; for everyone else, it remains part of the unseen world Ethan will never know.
Ethan only caught a glimpse. Tyler disappearing into Jason’s room at the far end of the hall, the door clicking shut fast behind him. Ethan kept walking. He didn’t stop to think what that meant, didn’t ask himself why.
But if he had lingered, he might have seen more.
Jason leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, the lamplight hitting the polished wood of his paddle collection. His room always looked neater than most — a legacy thing, polished edges and quiet pride. The faint scent of cologne and cigarettes hung in the air.
Tyler stood just inside the door, shoulders squared, face unreadable. He had that swimmer’s posture — straight spine, broad chest, body humming with energy even in stillness.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Jason said, voice steady.
Tyler tilted his head but didn’t answer. Silence was part of his arsenal.
Jason pushed off the desk, stepping closer until they were nearly chest to chest. His grin stayed faint, careful.
“You sure about this?”
Tyler cracked the door, peered down the hall, then shut it again. Final. He didn’t speak — he didn’t have to.
Jason’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He grabbed a towel off the back of a chair.
“Come on.”
They slipped into the hallway, their pace casual, measured. Jason carried the towel draped over his shoulder. Tyler followed, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed straight ahead. To anyone else, they looked like two brothers heading for a shower after a long night.
But their silence was too practiced. Their shoulders brushed once, briefly, then separated.
The house was quieter at this hour, but the little noises carried — doors opening and shutting, laughter echoing faint from downstairs. No one noticed when Jason pushed open the door to the communal bath.
Inside: white tile, a single fluorescent light buzzing, the air damp with that permanent film of moisture. Two toilet stalls, one missing a door. Two sinks with cracked mirrors. Beyond them, the shower room — four heads along one wall, no curtains, no partitions.
Jason turned the knobs. The pipes groaned, spat rust, then rushed hot. Steam rose fast, curling up toward the buzzing light.
Tyler peeled off his shirt without hesitation, tossing it onto the counter. His shorts followed, landing in a careless heap. His body was lean, hairless from habit, a swimmer’s frame sharpened by hours in the pool. When the water hit him, it sheeted down his torso, catching in the lines of his muscles. He didn’t hide from Jason’s eyes.