"I know." I kissed him anyway, slow and deep, tasting sleep and the faint mint of the toothpaste we'd shared all week. "Just want to touch you. One more time before we have to be professional and say goodbye in a parking lot."
He made a soft sound against my mouth and kissed me back, his hands sliding over my chest, my ribs, tracing the lines of muscle and bone like he was memorizing them. Outside, someone's car started in the cold, the engine rough and protesting. The sound of the retreat ending and real life reasserting itself.
My hand slipped beneath the sheets, wrapping around him. He gasped, hips jerking forward.
"We should stop," he breathed even as he rocked into my grip, his cock hot and hard in my palm. "We have to pack—"
"I know." But I didn't stop, couldn't stop. I stroked him steadily, learning the rhythm that made his breath catch, the pressure that made him moan. "Want to remember you like this."
"Brent—" His hand found me too, wrapping around my length with a confidence that hadn't been there at the start of the week.
We moved together in the predawn stillness, the only sounds our breathing and the quiet rustle of sheets. I kissed his throat, tasted salt and the cedar-scent of his soap, felt his pulse hammering beneath my lips.
"Look at me," I said, and when his eyes met mine—dark and dilated behind his glasses—something cracked open in my chest. Not breaking. Expanding.
His rhythm faltered. "I'm close—"
"Me too." I stroked him faster, my own orgasm building at the base of my spine, pooling hot and urgent.
He came first, spilling hot over my hand with a choked sound he tried to muffle against my shoulder. The sight of him—head thrown back, completely undone—sent me over the edge. I came hard, pleasure rolling through me in waves as he worked me through it with trembling hands.
We lay there after, catching our breath, sticky and warm beneath the sheets.
"Best alarm clock ever," Jason said eventually, his voice still shaky.
I laughed despite the ache already spreading through my chest. This was the last morning. The last time I'd wake up to his warmth beside me, to the particular way he looked fresh from sleep—vulnerable and beautiful and mine.
Except he wouldn't be mine after today. Not really. Not in any way that mattered when we lived a thousand miles apart.
"Stop," Jason said, touching my face. "I can see you spinning."
"Just thinking."
"About how this can't work?"
"About how much I want it to." I kissed his palm.
"I know." He cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "But we'll figure it out. We'll make this work."
I wanted to believe him.
***
We showered separately so we didn’t get distracted and the domesticity of taking turns made everything worse. He emerged with damp hair and fogged glasses, water still beading on his collarbone, and I wanted this. I wanted mornings like this to be normal instead of the exception. I wanted to know what he looked like in February, in summer, next December with a year's worth of mornings behind us.
"Stop looking at me like that," Jason said, pulling on his jeans.
"Like what?"
"Like you're memorizing me."
"I am memorizing you." I crossed to him, still wrapped in my towel, and kissed him once more. "We'll figure this out, right?"
"We'll figure it out." His voice was certain, steady. "I'm not letting you go that easily."
"Good." He kissed me again, then stepped back before we could get derailed. "Get dressed. We have a workshop to survive."
***
