I’m not used to being moved. Not like this.
My life has always been about control. Of my body, my game face, of whatever storm is waiting for me at home. With just a few chords, a few fractured notes, this stranger is undoing me like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Heat licks at my skin from the fire, the sticky press of summer clinging to me. My beer sweats in my hand and my shirt sticks to my back. Still, I can’t stop the goosebumps prickling over my arms, can’t stop the way my breath keeps hitching like it’s caught on something I can’t quite swallow.
It’s not logical. It doesn’t make sense. He’s just some guy at some party. He’s not even singing to me. But my heart is beatingwrong, and I can’t look away. The only thought circling my head is that if I close my eyes or do something even as simple as breathe or swallow, I’ll miss something I can’t ever get back.
The whole world falls away until it’s just him and that voice, curling through the firelight, spilling out towards the tide.
I can’t breathe right. Can’t move. I can’t do anything but stare. His voice wraps around me, raspy and warm, and I swear it feels like it’s inside me, likehe’sinside me, vibrating through my ribs, making my pulse stutter out of rhythm.
The guitar hums low and steady, until his voice thins out on the last word, fading into the crash of the waves. The fire pops, shooting sparks into the sky.
For a second, nobody moves. Not him. Not me. Not the people around us, who surely must have heard what he just did, but I can’t look away long enough to give them any notice. It’s just the ocean, the night, and the echo of his voice still working its way through my whole body.
Then he glances up, catches me staring again, and smirks like he knew I would be.
“What’s with that look?” He asks playfully, his voice still carrying that same rasp that makes my skin prickle. “Don’t like that song? I take requests.”
The words hit like a splash of cold water, jolting me out of whatever spell I’d been under. I blink, fumbling for anything to say. “Just wasn’t expectingthat.”
“What were you expecting?” His smile is playful and curious. He turns around to face me, the shiny varnish of his weathered black guitar reflecting the flickering flames.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, heat climbing the back of my neck. I gesture to his fadedRage Against The Machinet-shirt. “Don’t suppose I could expectBulls On Paradewith an acoustic guitar,” I laugh.
His grin widens, sharp with mischief, and a second later the first chords ring out across the fire.
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head as he leans into it just enough to make a point. “Seriously?”
“You got me started now,” he says, that rasp still curling around every word. Then, cocking an eyebrow, he switches to an impressive version ofKilling In The Name Of, using the strings all the way up the fretboard to pluck out the opening riff. I had no idea an acoustic guitar could do so much.
He laughs at my facial expression. “Still not a fan?”
I smile but hesitate, scratching at the label on my beer. “Honestly? I don’t know much about music, but I know enough to recognize that you’re really, really talented.”
He chuckles, soft but cutting, like I’ve confirmed something he already knew. “Careful, I’ll think you’re flirting with me.”
The words shouldn’t make me laugh, but they do. A short, surprised sound that catches in my throat. He grins at me over the fire, lip ring flashing, and just like that the air between us feels sharper. Brighter. Like we’ve stumbled into a private joke no one else around the circle even noticed.
We talk for I don’t know how long. About everything and nothing, alternating between joking around and watching him play. At some point, I notice that it’s quieter, the party having thinned out without me realizing. The only sounds left are thehush of the tide, the occasional snap of wood collapsing in the fire pit, and his smoky, rasping voice.
The fire’s burned lower now, more embers than flames, casting the beach in a softer glow. The air feels different. It’s thicker, heavier. Like we’re the only two people left in the world rather than just this beach.
He plucks a lazy pattern on the guitar, green eyes half-lidded, gaze flicking between the water and me. My pulse trips over itself every time his fingers drag across the strings, every time his lip ring flashes in the firelight. He looks to be deep in thought, mouthing some silent, unidentifiable words as he plays with an unfamiliar melody.
I don’t know when it happened, but I’ve moved closer to him. Or maybe he’s moved closer to me. Doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s close enough now that I could reach out and touch him. Close enough that when he twists to set his guitar down next to him, his arm brushes against mine. He turns to face me, and I feel a pull towards him like the tide is drawing me in.
I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe both of us. Suddenly, he’s right there, close enough for the smoke and salt on his skin to fill my lungs. His lips touch mine, light and unassuming, soft as breath.
It’s… different.
I’ve kissed people before, but never like this. Those other times felt like an obligation. Like going through the motions so I wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings, or because it was what I was supposed to do. What I was supposed to want. There was never any real passion or desire behind it. This is nothing like that.This is slow, careful, like he’s purposely making sure I have time to feel every second of it. And I do. Down to my toes.
I don’t even realize I’m the one leaning forward until I am. Until the kiss deepens, until his lip ring scrapes against my mouth, sharp and electric, sending a jolt straight through me. The sound I make, low and involuntary, betrays exactly what it does to me.
He smiles against my lips, the curve of it brushing warmly across my mouth. Then, voice rough and slightly restrained, he murmurs, “Are you staying here tonight?”
I blink, dazed. I feel like I’m floating somewhere outside myself. The question hangs in the air, simple but heavy. There’s no pressure or expectation. Without thinking, I reach for his hand. His fingers thread through mine, warm and certain, and I lead him away from the fire, up the worn steps towards the house.
