The room was dim, lit only by the moon spilling through the balcony curtains. The sound of waves rolled in from the beach—soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat against the shore.
Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, towel-drying his hair, still damp from a quick rinse. Joss was across from him, legs stretched out, back against the headboard, watching him quietly.
Neither spoke for a while.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was full. Full of everything they hadn't said around the bonfire. Full of glances, of touches that didn't land, of words that hovered just beneath the surface.
"You okay?" Joss asked finally, voice low.
Ethan nodded, then paused. "It's just… Ashton."
Joss didn't flinch. "He's trying to get under your skin."
"He's trying to get under yours," Ethan said, half-smiling.
Joss leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "He won't. I'm not here for him."
Ethan looked up.
Their eyes met.
And held.
Joss stood slowly, walked over, and sat beside Ethan on the bed. Their thighs touched. Ethan's breath hitched.
"You don't have to explain anything," Joss said. "I know what I feel when I'm with you. And I know what I see when you look at me."
Ethan swallowed.
"What do you see?"
Joss reached out, brushed a damp strand of hair from Ethan's forehead.
"Someone who's trying not to fall too fast."
Ethan's lips parted, but no words came.
Joss leaned in, forehead resting gently against Ethan's.
"You don't have to be careful with me."
Then he kissed him.
Soft.
Slow.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Ethan melted into it, hands finding Joss's shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepened, breath mingling, lips parting, the kind of kiss that made the room feel warmer, smaller, more alive.
Joss pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Can I touch you?"
Ethan nodded.
Joss guided him gently backward, laying him down on the bed. He climbed beside him, their bodies aligning naturally—legs brushing, arms wrapping, breath syncing.
They kissed again.
And again.
Joss's hand slid under Ethan's shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of his waist, the dip of his spine. Ethan arched slightly, gasping softly against Joss's mouth.
Their legs tangled.
Their hips pressed.
Joss kissed down Ethan's neck, slow and reverent, lips grazing skin like worship. Ethan's hands roamed—over Joss's back, his arms, his chest—learning the shape of him, the heat of him.
"You're shaking," Joss whispered.
"I know," Ethan breathed. "I want this. I just… I've never felt like this before."
Joss kissed his forehead.
"Then let's feel it together."
They moved slowly.
Clothes shifted, skin met skin, warmth spread between them like fire under silk. Joss kissed every inch of Ethan's chest, his stomach, his hips—never rushing, always watching his face, reading every breath.
Ethan's body responded like a tide—rising, falling, pulled by the moonlight and the man beside him.
They didn't speak much.
Just gasps.
Whispers.
The occasional moan that slipped out when Joss's hand moved lower, when Ethan's fingers gripped tighter, when their bodies aligned and rocked in rhythm.
It wasn't just heat.
It was connection.
It was the ache of wanting and the relief of being wanted back.
They reached for each other again and again—kissing, touching, holding, until the night blurred into sweat and softness and the sound of waves outside.
Eventually, they lay tangled in the sheets, breath slowing, hearts still racing.
Joss pulled Ethan close, spooning him from behind, arms wrapped tight, lips pressed to the curve of his shoulder.
"You're mine," he whispered.
Ethan smiled, eyes closed, body humming.
"I know."
And the night held them.
Not just in heat.
But in something deeper.
Something that felt like love.