The laugh that comes out of him is quiet and unguarded and gone too quickly. His shoulder bumps mine—light, accidental. I don’t move.
We fall silent again. The house thumps. The fence clicks. The night feels like it might look away if we do.
“Rafe,” he says, then stops like the word tripped him.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve never….” He swallows. I feel it like a tug in the center of my chest. “I shouldn’t?—”
I step in just a fingertip. Not crowding or even trapping, but enough to make the answer easy if he wants it, easier to refuse if he doesn’t.
“It’s just us,” I say, voice low. “No audience.”
His breath ghosts my cheek now. He’s close enough that I can count the freckles that only show up when he’s not under arena lights. Close enough to smell laundry soap and whatever clean thing he wears that isn’t cologne. His hand comes up and then lowers again, like it forgot what hands do.
“I’ve never,” he says again, and he’s not panicking. He’s telling the truth like he’s putting a puzzle piece on the table and asking me not to throw it away.
“Okay,” I say. “We don’t have to.” I lift a shoulder. “We can stand here and make fun of your whiskey selection.”
He huffs—half a laugh, half a breath. “We don’t have whiskey.”
“Even worse.”
Silence loosens its grip an inch. He looks at my mouth. It’s fast. If I blinked, I’d miss it. But I don’t blink; I was made for this kind of detail. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. His shoulders drop a millimeter, like he decided something he doesn’t have a playbook for.
“Show me,” he says, so quiet I feel the words more than hear them.
“Sure?” I ask, because surety is important.
He nods. It’s small, but it’s enough.
I move slowly, so there are no surprises. One step. My hand lifts, palm up, so he can see it, so he can choose. He looks at it, then at me, then sets his own hand there. It’s warm and steady despite the tremor in his fingers. He has to angle down to do it—he’s got inches on me, and the bend brings him closer, makes him seem even larger in the narrow strip of space between wall and fence.
I settle my other hand lightly at his waist, above his pocket, not pulling, just a point of contact so he knows where I am. Even under layers of denim and cotton, he’s solid. Broad. Built like the captain he is. His breathing goes higher, not faster. I can hear the house’s bassline through the wall and the quicker one under my palm.
“Okay?” I check.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
I lean in, closing the last inches until I’m tilting up into him. He lowers, bracing against the wall like he’s folding himself down to meet me. And then I press my mouth to his. Not hard,not asking for anything he hasn’t already given me. Just a kiss. The shape of one. The possibility.
He freezes. Not a flinch, not a shove—just locked, like his body hasn’t figured out the next command. For a second, I wonder if I misread it, if I should back off, but then I catch the sound of his breath leaving him, rough and shaky, like he’s been holding it since the world began.
His hand comes up to my shoulder. It doesn’t grip, doesn’t drag me closer. It just lands there, fingers stiff, uncertain. Testing. Like he’s never done this before, not this way, not with another man. Hell, maybe never with anyone.
I angle a fraction more, slow enough to give him space. His jaw works like he’s swallowing something too big, but then—hesitant—he leans in the last half inch. Our mouths meet again, and the spark we’ve been pretending not to carry flares to life.
It’s not fireworks. It’s a match in a dark room.
But that little flame feels like everything.
I pull back just a fraction. Not enough to break the spell. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, blinking like he’s trying to memorize every second. His lips are fuller, pinker, and he runs his tongue over the bottom one too fast, like the impulse startled him as much as me. His shoulders are rigid, his hand trembling where it still rests on me, as if he’s not sure whether to let go or hold tighter.
“I—” He starts, stops, swallows again. His voice is uneven, a rough scrape in his throat. “I shouldn’t.”
“Because?” I ask. Not as a dare, more like an invitation to set the fear down somewhere outside himself.
“Because I’m… me.” He winces at the words, like he knows they don’t explain half of it. “Because people expect things. Because once something exists, you can’t pretend it doesn’t. Because—” His breath shudders out, softer now. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”
