Page 21

Chapter twenty-one

Finn

I like watching him let go a little. Not in some dramatic, fall-apart way, but in the way his shoulders drop when he forgets to hold them so tight.

The way his mouth softens when he’s not guarding every word.

I get to see him, the real him, not the professor who many see daily.

It feels more intimate than anything we’ve done naked, and that’s saying something.

It’s not even about tearing down his walls. I’m not trying to crack him open or make him talk. It’s just...nice, seeing him settle. Like maybe, for once, he doesn’t feel like he has to brace for something or that someone needs something from him.

And for some reason, tonight, he lets me be the one he does that around.

Lets me close. Lets me warm him up. That should probably scare me because it means more.

Before, it might’ve made me run. But I want to be here.

Everyone’s got a past. How he lived before he met me doesn’t undo the fact that we’re here.

And as long as he’s not stuck back there, I’m not going to waste time looking over his shoulder.

We’ll talk about it in depth, eventually—when it matters.

What surprises me most is when he mentioned his husband.

Not the fact that he had one, or even that he told me.

It’s the look in his eyes when he said it.

That flicker of grief that passed so fast, most people would miss it.

But I didn’t. I felt it like a tug in my chest, the kind of feeling that creeps in just before something important happens.

Then that quiet whisper, and the sharp protectiveness snuck in before I could stop it.

I swirl what’s left of my beer, watching the bubbles vanish, trying to shake it off. But then I look at him and, yeah, there it is again.

It’s the way the light hits the side of his face, or the way he half-smiles when he’s trying not to show how much he’s thinking. I get the impression sometimes he thinks I’m not paying attention, but I always am.

It’s a habit, reading people the way I used to read water. Knowing the swell before it rises, feeling the shift in the air just before a break. It used to be instinct, second nature. Now I think I’ve started doing the same with him.

The pause before he answers a question. The tilt of his head like he’s trying to decide if I’m real or just a trick of the light. The sparkle in his eyes when he checks me out.

He’s not hard to read. He’s just not used to being seen.

And I see him.

There’s a weight to his stillness that says more than words can, and I’m drawn to it.

His strong jaw gives him charm, but his dark eyes give him an edge. And fuck, the glasses…they’re not always there—apparently they’re mostly for screens and reading—but I melt every time he slides them on or off, adjusts them.

I’m not surprised he’s been married. You don’t stumble into someone like him; you make a decision. You stay. Whoever it was, it’s his loss, and I already know Foxx deserves more than what he got.

Then he breaks the silence and asks, “So...am I allowed to ask about surfing?” He assesses my reaction and continues. “It’s just, your profile pictures are all of you on the beach or water. I feel like I’m missing important information about you.”

Cold clamps down on my spine, but I force myself to focus on his words, not the darkness in the corners of my mind.

“You’re allowed,” I say, voice a little hoarse from the effort it takes to keep my pulse steady.

I run my finger along the edge of the beer label, feeling it curl beneath the pressure.

“There’s not much to say, really,” I offer, and it’s technically true.

At least the version I give most people.

“I was good at it. Still am. It just…stopped being what I thought it was. Things went south, and I left.”

Foxx doesn’t interrupt. He nods and takes a sip of his beer, listening, and for some reason, it makes me want to continue.

“I started young,” I say, slower now, choosing every word like it might cost me. “Shit got serious fast during high school. I ended up spending every weekend at the coast. I competed, trained, lived and breathed it.” Me and Jared, we both did.

There’s a pressure in my ears now, that low thrum of adrenaline that doesn’t make sense.

Like I’m about to paddle into a wave too big for me, and I know I’m gonna wipe out, but I’m still doing it anyway.

“I loved it,” I say, and it slips out too weakly.

“Still do. But…sometimes things you love don’t always last.”

Foxx watches me, unblinking. And I think I see my words resonate with him when he nods thoughtfully, his thick eyebrows furrowing. “You ever think about going back? Trying again?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I admit. The real answer is always . Every day. Every night. Every time I see the ocean and my stomach knots like it’s calling me home and I won’t let myself answer. “But I’m not sure I’d be going back to something I still recognize,” I say. “Might be better to start fresh.”

Foxx’s assesses me. “You don’t seem like the type to run from things.”

The comment lands harder than it should.

And a fleeting thought has me considering telling him everything.

Telling him about Jared. About the comp.

About how the wave swallowed him and how I never saw him again.

About the nightmares, and the guilt, and how I stood on the shore afterward, feeling like I’d lost part of myself in the water that day and never got it back.

But I don’t.

I’m not ready for him to see me shattered. Not yet.

“You’d be surprised,” I say weakly. “But I’m trying not to anymore. I meant it, about starting fresh.”

Something in his posture eases a little. And maybe he really does understand more than I expected him to. Maybe he feels something in my grief that I thought I saw in him earlier. Or maybe he sees more than I’ve said.

“Starting fresh is good,” he says simply.

We sit in the quiet, just the buzz of the fridge and the last clink of his bottle hitting the counter. And then, like it’s the most natural domestic thing in the world, he stands and grabs our plates.

“I’ll wash,” he says, already moving toward the sink.

I follow, because sitting feels too far away from him now.

We stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim kitchen light, hands brushing now and then as we move around each other. Soap clings to his skin in soft white bubbles before slipping away under warm water, and each time our fingers brush when he passes me something to dry, goosebumps explode up my arm.

And then I realize, somewhere between drying the last fork and watching him stack the dishes like a perfectionist, that I’m comfortable here. He makes things easy, in his quiet, slightly stoic, insanely hot kinda way.

When I look at him again, he has a small splatter of sauce at the side of his mouth.

I reach up and wipe it away, dragging my thumb over the scruff of his beard, then moving my fingers to push along his jaw, cupping it.

Those pools of dark brown and gold swirl with a look I recognize as lust from him.

He wants me, and the feeling is mutual. I like that I’m beginning to collect pieces of him and how he is with me.

“Messy eater.” I press my teeth into my lower lip, letting my gaze flick between his mouth and his eyes.

He leans into my hand lightly, so I increase the pressure on his jaw, moving the tips of my fingers into his hairline and bringing his mouth to mine.

Our lips brush gently at first. The tickle of his beard will never get old.

My hand roams to the back of his head, gripping hair as I push my tongue inside his mouth, tasting, taking, wanting.

His lips part to let me in, his tongue caressing mine. Heat overtakes my body and mind as I tug at his hair slightly, moving him where I want him, and he moans into my mouth. God, the sounds he makes, so deep, throaty, and sexy as fuck.

I press in closer, letting my free hand slide under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skating over warm skin. His hips shift like instinct, and I know he’s already thinking about where this could go, how fast we could take it there, because I am too.

But after things we’ve talked about tonight, I slow things down, ease the pressure as I pull back, my forehead resting against his, both of us breathing hard.

“I should go,” I murmur, though my body clearly disagrees.

His hands stay on me, but he nods reluctantly. “Yeah, okay.”

Stepping back, I swipe my thumb across his lower lip once more. No sauce this time, just a reminder of my kissing him.

He catches my hand before I can fully pull away, his fingers curling loosely around mine.

Not enough to stop me, just enough to silently say he’s not quite ready for this to be over.

His gaze flicks down, then back up again, and when he looks at me, there’s something dormant there coming to life.

Something that makes my heart thud in my chest.

“Are you really leaving?” he asks, and I have to swallow the word ‘no’ rising in my throat. I inhale slowly and nod, even though every part of me is second-guessing it.

“Yeah,” I say. “But only because if I don’t, I’m not sure I will.”

That earns the tiniest smile from him.

“And I want to come back,” I say, my own vulnerability sneaking out for a second. I don’t need labels right now, but I need him to know that, at least. “If you want that too.”

“I do,” he rushes to say, and it makes us both laugh. Is that butterflies? Swarming, fluttering, heat blooming across my body. I think it is.

I squeeze his fingers once before slipping free. The walk to the door is short, but I feel every step like I’m walking through quicksand. When I glance back over my shoulder, he’s still standing there, watching me, arms loose at his sides, mouth kiss-bitten and a little stunned.

“Night, Foxx.”

The smile he gives me sticks itself right smack on my chest. “Night, Finn.”