Jeff leaned over the drafting table in his corner office, hairy forearms bare as his sleeves rode up, the textile mill sketches sprawling under his thick fingers. Day three at the firm and Tim stood beside him, tablet glowing, tie finally straight. The new project—a half-collapsed mill reborn as a mixed-use hub—crackled with challenge, just tough enough to stretch them without breaking, and Jeff grinned, beard glinting as he traced a beam.
"Look at this, Tim—foundation’s a mess, but the shell’s gold," Jeff said, voice deep and steady, hairy hand brushing the sketch near Tim’s stylus—a subtle graze, mentorship with an edge. "Steel frame was your call—how do we keep it?"
Tim nodded, eyes sharp, mid-twenties nerves honed into focus under Jeff’s wing. "Reinforce here—keep the brick facade, but gut the core. Lofts stack easy above, retail slots at ground level—green space if we cantilever the back." His stylus danced, sketching fast, and Jeff’s grin widened, hairy arm flexing as he clapped Tim’s shoulder, lingering a beat.
"Damn right—smart as hell," Jeff said, voice low, warm—a mentor’s pride laced with that quiet tease. "Ellison’ll eat this up—six months is tight, but we’re flowing." Tim flushed, red creeping up his neck, but he held steady, thriving in the glow—Jeff’s hairy, bearded presence a fuel he couldn’t dodge.
They dove deeper—Jeff pacing, hairy hands gesturing as he pitched the big picture: "Mixed-use needs vibe—industrial chic, not sterile. You spec the frame, I’ll draft the client hook." Tim nodded, tablet buzzing with calcs, and they bounced ideas—steel gauge, load shifts, skylights for the lofts. The challenge was perfect—structural chaos meeting creative flex—and Jeff loved it, his 38-year-old grit meshing with Tim’s fresh spark.
"Push the cantilever—give ‘em a rooftop deck," Jeff said, leaning close, breath near Tim’s ear, hairy forearm brushing his. Tim’s stylus faltered, then rallied, "Yeah—deck sells it," his voice steady despite the flush.
Hours blurred—coffee cups piled, blueprints morphed—and the office quieted, team filtering out as the clock nudged past five. Jeff glanced up, hairy hand rubbing his scruff, and caught the time—5:20 p.m., dusk creeping through the glass walls. The flow was gold, ideas still sparking, and he grinned at Tim, sprawled over the table, tablet dimming. "Shit, Tim—we’re killing this. Almost forgot to breathe. You got plans, or you wanna keep rolling?"
Tim blinked, then grinned, red fading into confidence. "No plans—mill’s got me hooked. What’s next?"
Jeff stood, hairy arms crossing, suit jacket slung over his chair. "Come to my place—we'll have dinner, keep the flow. Mike’s got practice, house is ours for a bit. We’ll crack this beast wide open." His tone was casual, kingly, Mike’s thick cock shifting in his slacks as he pictured it—Tim at his table, hairy dad vibe in full swing.
Tim’s eyes lit, nodding fast. "Yeah, Jeff—sounds perfect. I’m in." His voice held a thrill imagining Jeff’s home—and Jeff clapped his back, hairy grip firm. "Good man—grab your gear, let’s roll."
They packed—sketches, tablets, Jeff’s briefcase—and hit the parking garage, Jeff’s truck rumbling to life. The mill project sang—challenging, juicy, a puzzle they’d own—and Jeff grinned, hairy hands on the wheel, Tim beside him, buzzing. "We’ll order in—focus on that frame tonight," Jeff said, and Tim nodded, "I’ll draft the pitch with you." The flow held, firm to home.
Tim sat in the passenger seat of Jeff’s truck, tablet balanced on his knee, the hum of the engine a steady pulse as dusk settled over the city. The textile mill project buzzed in his head—steel frames, cantilevered decks, Jeff’s hairy forearms flexing over sketches—and he grinned, junior nerves tempered by the day’s flow. Jeff’s invite—dinner, more work at his place—hit like a prize, and Tim leaned into it, the firm’s head pulling him closer. As they rolled toward Jeff’s house, Tim’s background flickered through his mind, a quiet reel behind his eager front.
Tim Grayson grew up on the east side, a maze of cul-de-sacs and modest ranch houses where lawns were patchy and driveways cracked. His dad, Paul, was a civil engineer—wiry, balding, a man of graph paper and quiet grunts—who’d mapped bridges for the county until a heart attack at 52 left him retired, chain-smoking on the porch. Mom, Ellen, kept the books for a local diner, her sharp eyes and sharper tongue holding the family tight—Tim, the youngest of three, sandwiched between a sister who’d bolted to college and a brother lost to the army. Money was lean, ambition leaner—Paul’s mantra was “steady pays,” not “reach high.”
School was Tim’s escape—math clicked early, geometry at 12 a puzzle he’d solve in his head, doodling floor plans on napkins. High school brought drafting class, a teacher who saw the knack—Mr. Hensley, gruff but kind, slipping him old blueprints to study. Tim aced it, graduated with a B-plus average, and clawed into state college—architecture major, loans stacking, parents proud but clueless. He was even skinnier then, a nerd who’d sketch skyscrapers while his peers chased girls or kegs.
The firm was his break—junior gig at 24, a cubicle in Jeff’s orbit. Paul had scoffed, “Buildings? Stick to bridges,” but Ellen mailed him a tie—still worn today. Tim hustled—late nights, coffee runs—until Jeff’s hairy hand clapped his shoulder, yanking him up. The high-rise save, the mill project—Tim bloomed, nerves morphing into grit under Jeff’s bearded gaze. He lived alone now, a one-bedroom off Main, takeout boxes and drafting pads his decor—no girlfriend, too wired for work, but Jeff’s mentorship filled the gap, a hairy, 38-year-old idol he’d kill to match.
Jeff’s truck rolled on, and Tim stole a glance—hairy arm on the wheel, beard glinting, the architect's thick cock a bulge he’d clocked at the firm. Jeff was everything Tim wasn’t—rugged, commanding, a dad who ruled cool—and Tim craved it, not just the skill but the vibe. The crush was there, subtle, a heat Tim buried—Jeff’s tease, those grazes, stoked it—but work was priority. The mill was his shot—challenging, real—and Jeff’s trust lit him up.
They pulled into Jeff’s driveway, the house warm against the dusk, and Jeff grinned, hairy hand clapping Tim’s shoulder. "Home base—dinner, then we crack it. Ready, kid?" Tim nodded, tablet clutched, red faint but steady. "Yeah, Jeff—let’s do it." His background—lean, quiet, hungry—fed this: a chance to rise, Jeff’s hairy wing the lift he’d dreamed of.