I wait in the darkness, listening. When Connor's snoring filters through the walls, I slip out of bed.
The bathroom door opens silently. I cross the tiled floor in bare feet, careful to avoid the creaky cabinet. His bedroom door on the other side is unlocked. I ease it open and slip inside. He closes it soundlessly behind me.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi."
Then we're kissing again, urgent and careful at once. He walks me backward to his bed. We fall onto it together, swallowing each other's laughter.
"We have to be quiet," I breathe.
"I know."
"I'm serious, Ryder. One sound—"
He kisses me silent. "I know. Trust me."
I do. That's the terrifying part.
We undress each other slowly, mindful of every zipper and button. His hands shake slightly when he reaches for the hem of my shirt, and I love that he's still nervous. Still treating this like it matters. When we're finally skin to skin, he pulls the blankets over us—warmth and privacy and a cocoon against the world.
This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic. More deliberate. We've learned each other now. Know what makes the other gasp. Where to touch. How to move. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat, and I arch into him. My hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under my palms.
"Lucy," he whispers against my collarbone, and the way he says my name makes me feel precious.
When he finally positions himself above me, our eyes meet in the darkness. There's something in his expression that steals my breath—want mixed with tenderness, heat tempered by care.
"You're sure?" he asks, even though we've already done this. Even though we both know the answer.
I pull him down to me instead of answering, and when he slides inside me, we both freeze—adjusting, savoring. His forehead rests against mine. Our breathing syncs. For a moment, we're perfectly still, just feeling the connection. The weight of him. The fullness. The rightness of it.
"Okay?" he whispers.
"Perfect."
We find our rhythm slowly, each movement controlled and careful. His hand tangles in my hair. Mine grips his shoulder. We move together like we're learning a dance, stumbling at first, then finding the beat. When pleasure builds too high,threatening to break my silence, he covers my mouth with his hand. I taste salt on his palm. Feel his pulse hammering against my lips.
I do the same for him when his breathing hitches, when I feel him getting close. The intimacy of it—muffling each other's pleasure, protecting this secret together—makes it even more intense. We're partners in this. Conspirators. Two people choosing each other despite every reason not to.
When release finally crashes through me, I bite down on his palm to keep from crying out. He buries his face in my neck, his moan vibrating against my skin. We shatter together, clinging to each other like the world might end if we let go.
After, we lie tangled together, both trembling with spent adrenaline and suppressed sound.
"That was—" I start.
A door opens in the hallway.
We both freeze. Footsteps. The bathroom door closes.
Connor.
Ryder's arms tighten around me. We don't move. Don't breathe. Just listen to water running, toilet flushing, footsteps retreating. Door closing.
Silence.
We wait another full minute before either of us dares to exhale.
"That was close," I whisper.
