Page 70 of We Are Just Us

“Rory.”

“What? There’s sand.”

Kieran adjusted the angle, and Rory made a sound that was entirely too satisfied.

“Okay,” Kieran said, pulling the spray back. “You’re clean.”

Rory turned around and stepped closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

He kissed Kieran then, slow and intentional, hands sliding up to frame his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw.

When they finally pulled apart, Rory smiled. “For the record? The douche thing was really considerate.”

Kieran groaned. “Please never bring it up again.”

“No promises.”

They finished showering in easy silence, rinsing off the last of the salt and sand, and when they finally stepped out, Kieran’s foot still hurt, but the rest of him was…lighter.

Rory handed him a towel. “How’s the foot?”

“Still attached.”

“Progress.”

They dried off and padded back to the bedroom, and Kieran realized, with a strange, quiet certainty, that this was becoming routine.

Not the jellyfish. Not the chaos.

But this. The ease. The way Rory moved through his space like he belonged there.

But what happens when he sees the messy parts of me?

TWENTY-ONE

Kieran changed his shirt three times.

I have to stop doing this.

The first one was too try-hard—a fitted black button-down that made him look like he was auditioning for a cologne ad. The second was too casual, a faded Henley that said I forgot we had plans. The third was somewhere in between— a dark green linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. He studied himself in the bathroom mirror and decided it was the best he could do.

Hank watched him from the doorway with the patient resignation of a dog who’d seen this before.

“Don’t judge me,” Kieran said.

Hank yawned.

It was ridiculous, the nervousness. He was thirty-four years old. He’d been sleeping with Rory for weeks. They showered together, ate together, fell asleep tangled in each other’s sheets. But tonight was different, and Kieran knew it, and the knowing made his hands clumsy with the buttons.

Tonight was a date. A real one. Not beers on a porch, not a surf lesson that turned into something else, not falling into bed because proximity made it inevitable. He’d asked Rory. He’d blushed doing it. And now here he was, changing his shirt for the third time, as if the right one would make a difference.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

RORY NEIGHBOR: Hey. Stuck in La Jolla. Meeting ran long and I’m definitely going to hit traffic heading back up. Might be late tonight.

Kieran stared at the text. Told himself the small flicker of disappointment was normal and not pathetic. Typed back.

KIERAN: No worries. I’ll grab us a spot.