Tom offered Logan a brief smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaving him to his turbulent thoughts, which now resembled sharp rocks protruding from a tumultuous shoreline. Their group had gathered by the edge of the sand, boards stacked on the battered old bus, theocean glinting in the morning sun. Logan tried to focus on the water, on the thought of catching the day’s first wave, anything to steady his nerves—when a figure sprinted toward them, calling Adrian’s name with a familiarity that detonated inside Logan, like glass shattering through a hundred floors of silence, every shard finding its way into his heart.
The newcomer barely paused before crashing into Adrian, wrapping him in an embrace that felt too tight, too long, tooclose. Logan felt the flicker of a simmering, inexplicable rage take hold. This stranger didn’t hold Adrian like a friend would. The man hugged him fiercely, head bent, face hidden against Adrian’s shoulder. Logan watched, fists clenching, as this stranger’s hand drifted over Adrian’s back, possessive, caressing.
Logan’s voice was tight, edged with something raw. “So… he knows Adrian, then,” he muttered to Tom, forcing nonchalance even as his pulse pounded in his ears.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Tom replied with a sigh. “That’s Itay.”
Itay. He hated that name. The sound of it punched through him, jagged and merciless, as if it had been carved to wound. His chest tightened, something hot and volatile flooding his ribs, rising fast, unbearable. Each beat of his heart struck like stone splitting under pressure, ready to crack wide open.Itay, bronzed skin, sun-washed curls, long, lean muscles flexing as he held onto Adrian like he owned him, like Adrian wasn’t Logan’s world buthis. Itay finally pulled back, and Logan watched with a growing sense of helplessness as he gazed at Adrian with undisguised admiration, his blue eyes smoldering with something that stirred every instinct in Logan to step between them. Itay leaned in, murmuring something to Adrian in Hebrew, his hand lingering just a little too long on Adrian’s arm, as if staking a claim. Every fiber in Logan screamed to shove that hand away, totear Itay from him, to make clear that Adrian washis—if only he could admit it out loud.
Adrian’s eyes found Logan’s across the sand, an uncertain softness in them, almost like an apology. He stepped away from Itay’s grip, and Logan felt a flash of relief, a hope that maybe Adrian was pulling back, that this was all just a moment of awkward reunion. Adrian moved toward him, his focus fixed on Logan with an intensity that was both grounding and fragile, as if whatever was between them was written only in the way Adrian’s gaze sought his, unspoken but real.
“Itay, this is Logan,” Adrian said, eyes still on Logan as if Itay were an afterthought. “Logan, this is… Itay.”
But Adrian didn’t add a single word to explain. He didn’t saywhoItay was, or why the sight of him had twisted Logan’s heart into a vice. And before Logan could gather himself enough to respond, Tom jumped in, filling the silence.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be here,” Tom said to Itay, an edge of tension in his voice. “Didn’t you say you were off with Aaron, Dmitri and Luke today?”
Itay’s expression turned from feigned indifference to sharp irritation, his eyes flicking between Tom and Logan before landing back on Adrian. “Yeah, well… someone forgot to mention that Adrian would be here.” He spoke in Hebrew, and Tom, already on Logan’s side, translated right away.
The words hit Logan with an ache he didn’t want to acknowledge, and then Itay, without hesitation, slung his arm around Adrian’s back and shoulders, pulling him close, like he’d done it a thousand times before. The sight of it cut through Logan, each beat of his heart a painful reminder thatAdrian had belonged to someone else once, someone who still looked at him with open longing.
Logan’s fists clenched until his nails dug into his palms, his throat tight as he fought to keep his expression calm. But the sight of Itay’s arm around Adrian, the way his hand settled so comfortably on Adrian’s back, made his vision pulse with anger. He forced himself to breathe, jaw tight, every muscle twisted to the breaking point as he glared at the place where Itay’s hand lingered, resting on Adrian like a brand Logan wanted to rip away.
Adrian, noticing the tension, casually slipped from Itay’s grip, stepping out of his hold, but Itay didn’t flinch, didn’t seem fazed at all. He looked at Logan then, eyes narrowing in a way that felt like a challenge, and muttered something else in Hebrew, his gaze flicking up and down, assessing, dismissive.
“Speak English,” Adrian muttered, barely hiding his irritation.
Itay frowned, giving Logan a look full of quiet disdain. “Speak English, Logan doesn’t understand you,” Adrian insisted, voice clipped.
The indifference in Itay’s eyes dissolved into annoyance as he stared at Logan with the same dagger-sharp look, as if Logan were an interloper, a stranger trespassing into something sacred. Logan could feel his hands curling again, an instinct to retaliate thrumming under his skin, but he held himself back, watching with a barely contained fury as Itay’s expression turned smug.
Itay’s gaze roamed over Logan with a sharp, calculating intensity, as if measuring him, weighing the impact of his presence, gauging the intrusion he might represent. Then his eyes dropped, settling on Logan’s wrist—and in a heartbeat, his hand shot out, gripping Logan’s wrist with a force that was almost desperate. His face contorted as he stared at the bracelet, horrorflickering across his features before he turned to Adrian, his expression unraveling into something far more wounded, raw, a depth of pain Logan had yet to see.
Itay’s gaze lingered on Adrian, fractured, as though each look cost him something. His eyes glistened, catching the light, unshed tears brimming but refusing to fall, as though he were holding back a tide of words and memories too heavy to voice. In that moment, a silent exchange passed between them, a conversation spoken only in the fragile language of old hurt and shared history. Logan felt the power of it, felt himself pushed to the margins of a story he couldn’t understand, yet couldn’t escape.
“Yalla!” Dean called from the bus, snapping the tension. “C’mon, all of you. Boards are loaded, and we’re burning daylight!” Dean called in English.
Itay dropped Logan’s hand and walked away, the silence he’d left behind roaring.
The group started moving toward the bus, but Logan stayed back, grabbing Tom by the arm, hoping the thread of trust they’d begun to form would hold. “Wait,” he said, his voice low, rough. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Adrian and Itay, couldn’t shake the searing image of Itay’s hands on Adrian. “Are Itay and Adrian…?” He couldn’t finish the question; words faltered before the tumult of fear and anger simmering within him. Yet, the way Itay’s touch brushed Adrian’s skin, the gaze they exchanged, it whispered of depths unfathomable, a silent symphony of intimacy. The hurt shimmering in Itay’s eyes revealed a grief too profound for words, echoing the silent grief of a man mourning a lost loved one.
Tom hesitated, glancing at Adrian, who was busy talking to Dean. “Look, Logan, maybe you should talk to Adrian. It’s not my place,” hesaid softly, but Logan’s expression was relentless, silently demanding an answer.
With a resigned sigh, Tom looked back at him. “Itay… and Adrian. They were… Itay… he shouldn’t have come. They were…” Tom trailed off, his voice quiet, as if sharing a confession. But Logan barely heard him. His pulse drummed against his ribs, too loud, too uneven, as if his body had turned traitor. Heat gathered in his chest, not the clean burn of sun on skin, but something sourer, something that clenched his jaw tight.
Tom placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder, trying to steady him. “But whatever they had, it’s over,” he added, trying to calm the wildfire Logan could feel swelling in his chest.
Logan stalked toward the bus, each step heavy, anger and jealousy thrumming under his skin. He shoved his board into the bus’s trunk without looking, as if the motion could burn off the heat rising under his skin. His thoughts snagged on last night: the way Adrian had held him, touched him in the dark with a tenderness that felt unrepeatable, as if it belonged only to them. This morning, Adrian had been wrapped around him, breathing him in, tangled so closely that doubt had no room to breathe. But now he felt that connection slipping, tainted by the presence of someone who had once owned Adrian’s heart and, as it seemed, had no intention of letting him go.
Adrian caught Logan’s eye as he stepped onto the bus, something unspoken flickering there, half-question, half-concern. Logan held the look, his own gaze sharp, words of so many questions pressing at his throat like broken glass. He forced them down, lowered himself into the seat next to Adrian, the motion stiff, deliberate. Logan sat rigid, caught between the memory of Adrian’s hand on him last night and the echo of anotherman’s touch that morning, both clashing inside him until he could hardly breathe.
“Thanks,” he muttered, not trusting his voice to hold steady.
“Of course,” Adrian said softly. “You’re sitting with me.”
There was no playfulness in his tone, only quiet certainty. Logan felt a rush rise within him, as the warmth of Adrian’s shoulder brushing his, the closeness that sparked something deep in his chest, equal parts comfort and ache.
Itay and Dean had slipped into the row across from them, Itay making sure to snatch the aisle seat to be closer to Adrian. Logan noticed how Itay leaned over to speak, just loud enough to draw Adrian’s attention, their exchanges marked by an easy familiarity that unsettled Logan.
