“I hate time,” he declares.
I laugh, helpless. “Same.”
He kisses me before I finish smiling.
It starts lazy, then turns hungry, his tongue sliding against mine, his fingers curling into my hair. He’s grinding down before either of us notices he’s doing it. His cock is thick and warm between us, still sensitive. Mine responds instantly. My hips jerk and Ollie gasps, mouth dragging away from mine as if he’s been burned.
“Rafe,” he whispers, high and breathless. “Fuck.”
“I know,” I rasp, hauling him closer by his waist. “God, I fucking know.”
He rocks once—just once—and we both choke on the sound it pulls out of us.
And then I get it together enough to grab his face with both hands.
“If you stay here,” I pant, “if you keep doing that, you will miss your flight, and I will never forgive myself.”
He collapses against me again with a defeated groan. “Why are you the responsible one right now?”
“I’m not,” I say honestly. “I’m just trying to save us both from future heartbreak.”
He sighs into my neck, clutching me tighter for a moment before he finally pushes up and sits back on his heels. The sheet falls to his hips, and I actually forget to breathe.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
He smirks sleepily. “What?”
“Nothing,” I lie. Absolutely not nothing. “Everything.”
He blushes—hard—and mutters, “Shut up,” while climbing out of bed.
We move around each other quietly, like we’re orbiting the same sun. Too soft, too aware, too fucking married to make jokes about it yet. Every time his hand brushes mine—by accident, but maybe not—my chest tightens.
He pulls on his boxers. I tug on mine. Then our eyes meet across the room, and something warm and stupidly sentimental pulses between us.
We’re still drunk on each other.
Still high off last night. Still slightly disbelieving.
We ended up talking for hours until sunrise—about music, about basketball, about fear, about dreams. We’d traced each other’s futures with fingertips and whispered confessions we’d never dare say sober. Then we’d kissed slow, sucked each other off under the sheets, whispered “I love you” like a secret and a promise.
Now, in the morning light, it doesn’t feel like drunk talk.
It feels inevitable.
He pulls on his jeans and stops, frowning. “My ring.”
I follow his gaze to the nightstand.
Two guitar-string wedding bands I’d reshaped half an hour before sunrise so they wouldn’t cut into us or slip off. I pick his up and cross the room to him.
“You can wear it on your finger,” I say softly, “if you want. But—you know. Cameras. Public. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
He swallows hard, looking at the small, imperfect circle on my palm.
“Give me your necklace,” he whispers.
My breath catches. “Are you sure?”
