Chapter 3

3

Casablanca Lilies frame the pea gravel pathway, their pale blooms lit by the moon, brushing at our legs and suitcases, their sweet scent surrounding with that heavenly summer smell.

It feels like home here. I mean, Clua's different from where I grew up in California—I can already tell. It's more tropical here, warmer year-round and more humid, the foliage denser. But it's still the beach, still the ocean, with the moon shimmering across the water and that drift of plumeria.

I've missed this so much while in Colorado. Don't get me wrong, I've loved my time at IFU. But snow and mountains aren't what make me thrive. Honestly, I don't know if I would have stayed there if it weren't for Rory. Theo and Carter, too, but that first semester was pretty rough, especially with how challenging college can be for me, until Rory came along.

So I drag in another whiff of balmy, tropical night air as we step into a hallway leading to our rooms. Rory's ahead of me, reading the door numbers as we pass. He's been quiet since we left the beach, and maybe I keep looking at him too much.

So, I try to chat with Theo as we walk, the sand sticking between my toes, a layer of humidity across the back of my shoulders. I stripped off my shirt on the way back from the beach, loving the weight of the air on my skin.

Carter's bumping along behind Theo and me, making a ton of noise and talking about everything full-volume, like he does. He and Theo are shivering pretty hard now. I side-glance Theo, a little worried.

Ahead of me, Rory slows and pushes open our door.

Theo and Carter head across the hall. I'm about to say something to Carter about how cold Theo seems when Carter gives me a thumbs up and ushers Theo inside their room before hollering, "Good night, dudes!" and then slamming their door closed.

Rory's still standing in our open doorway, one hand tightened around the handle of his suitcase, the other holding onto the keycard.

His head whips to me as I stop next to him, and then he… blushes?

There's just enough illumination in the hallway to see it, a swell of pink under his freckles, branching out to his temples.

He shoves his keycard in his back pocket.

"Um," he says then disappears into the room.

So, that was strange.

I brush the sand off my feet before stepping in. "Hey, Rory. Is everything…"

I stop.

There's one bed.

One bed .

Holy fuck, YES.

Wait… yes ? Is that what I just thought?

It totally is. I don't know if I'm supposed to think that? But Jesus Fucking Christ, I am .

This is so good.

I mean, I love when we study together on my bed. Just relaxing, his bare feet stretched out—he's got cute, knobby toes—and I kinda sneak a smell of him whenever he moves closer.

And it's not the first time we've slept in a bed together. There have been road trips and concerts, and a couple of times when we crashed somewhere after drinking.

It's always so nice when it happens. Waking next to him, his hair deep red against white sheets. His freckles seem brighter in the morning, his eyes a darker gray. And once or twice, we might have woken up pretty close to each other.

One might, possibly, call it snuggling. Even though we rolled away pretty quickly, I still liked him being there.

Friends can snuggle, too.

Rory sets his suitcase next to the wall in the tiled entryway and gives me a tight smile. "This is awkward."

Fuck, is it?

Shit. I feel like a dick. If it's awkward for him, then it's awkward for me.

I don't know why though? We slept on the same bed before. What's changed since then?

Regardless, I'm not going to pressure him.

"I can sleep on…" I point to a weird, donut hole thing against the far wall. "...whatever that donut hole thing is."

His brows go up. "Donut hole?"

"That thing." It's honestly really strange. It's weirdly pink and lumpy, although it looks cushy. It might be comfortable. "I think it's a couch?"

I roll my suitcase next to his, set in the entryway, but I try not to crowd him. Salt clings to the tips of my hair. My pits are probably gross from that hot airplane. I'm sure I'm smelling intensely dude-like right now, and the last thing he wants is me snugged right next to him.

"You don't have to sleep there." Rory fiddles with the strap of his backpack before sliding it off. "That couch would kill your back. No lumbar support. It's more, uh, logical to share the bed. It's pretty big, anyway."

He surveys the room, which isn't all that interesting, one of those typical hotel rooms of neutral colors—other than the weird pink couch. But there's a sliding door that leads out to what looks like a private patio, surrounded by palms and more lilies.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"It's fine," he says, although there's a hint of tightness in his voice. "I want to get unpacked."

I scratch at the back of my neck. Okay, I'll go with the shared bed for now. Give him time to think, and then I'll check in again later. He can always change his mind. "What can I help with?"

"I think I'd like to do it." He's not fully looking at me—mostly concentrating on everything else in the room. "By myself."

Shit, I'm crowding him.

I need to get cleaned up, anyway. "Do you mind if I take a shower?"

He hovers over his bag. "Of course I don't mind."

"Alright." I snag my suitcase and zip it open, rooting around for some lounge pants and toiletries before heading into the bathroom. I take a piss, and then I flip on the shower, which is a gray-tiled extravagance with an open doorway, and I groan when I step under the rainwater shower head. I close my eyes, the water cooling my scalp and running over my shoulders, down my back, and dripping off my asscheeks.

I need to make a plan for the rest of the trip. Calm myself down around Rory.

I blow out a breath, trying to relax.

It was a good day. Getting packed this morning and taking the Uber to the airport with the guys. Finding our seats on the plane, the excitement of this last trip. A soft blush on Rory's cheeks when he looked at me during take-off, his seatbelt clipped over his lap. His wrist, with that bump of bone, and the soft hairs along his forearm, the swipe of his lashes on the inside of his glasses and the way it makes butterflies pop in my stomach, all crowded together like?—

Oh fuck, I'm fisting myself.

When did that happen? I literally didn't even realize until I take a slow stroke. I'm not fully hard, kinda relaxed in my hand. Except, with another stroke, that's changing and… what the fuck am I doing?

I can't… I shouldn't…

I…

In my mind's eye, his finger grazes along the edge of his reader. Then his thumb taps to turn the page. The slip of his tongue across his upper lip. And what he was reading. Docking. Oliver giving Leo that slow, delicious stroke.

Fuck, I do the same. Another stroke and my breath shallows. I look down to watch my hand moving.

I groan at the visual.

It feels like pure bliss as I pick up the pace, water clustering on my lashes, dripping down my nose and falling onto my hand as I bite back a louder moan. My hips start to move.

I let my brain spiral. For better or worse, I just do it—picturing everything that comes to mind. And half of it's not sexual at all . Like Rory packing this morning, with his clothes folded on his bed, checking off his list. Or waiting in the airport terminal, his reader in his lap. The sun beaming through those floor-to-ceiling airport windows, lighting his hair so it seemed almost aflame. Those late nights studying, sharing earbuds, chatting about a million different things. The way he listens to all my words.

Fuck. Fuck . Pressure grows deep in my pelvis, humming into my balls, my abs constricting. The gray-tiled shower fuzzes between my lashes.

" Rory ." I drive myself higher, clutching onto the edge of my orgasm, grinding out a too-loud moan as the images of him flash faster. His smile on the beach. Chasing him up the sand. A handful of water launched at my shirt.

My breaths become ragged, my release an uncontainable, building warmth.

I bite down as I come, my eyes squeezing shut, my chest collapsing with relief, my knees trembling, my hand finally loosening as everything relaxes in that euphoric after-release moment.

Holy shit, I just came to Rory.

I blink open my eyes, shaking my head as I wipe the water off my face and squint from the lights. Did it all while he's in the other?—

Wide gray eyes, red hair, parted lips, standing just outside the shower, clutching his checkerboard-patterned toiletry bag to his chest.

I believe for half a second that he's not really here. That I'm just imagining him.

"Rory?" I croak out.

He stumbles backward, feet shuffling as he shakes his head. He turns and darts out, swinging the door closed behind him.

I stand there, water pelting down my back, a heavy silence with nothing but the patter of the shower. I feel sick. I feel like a dickhole.

I feel like I messed up.

Fuck.