Page 70 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Quinn

The

very

next

day,

they moved me in.

Theo stormed around my place with my suitcase slung over one shoulder, acting like he was single-handedly launching a military operation.

Every few minutes, he tossed insults at Nate for standing there like some trophy husband with one hand on my hip and the other sipping coffee like he’d done his part.

“I hired movers,” Nate kept saying, smug as hell. “Delegation is a skill, bro.”

It didn’t matter that my place was already a mess of half-packed boxes and chaos. Between Theo’s dramatic commentary and Nate’s calm efficiency, they had me out the door in under two hours.

Calling my landlord was the cherry on top.

He tried to guilt-trip me about the lease, whining about how little warning I’d given and some imaginary paperwork.

I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt and told him I wouldn’t be renewing because my boyfriends were rockstars and I had better places to be.

A long pause followed, then a muttered, “Right,” before he hung up.

I don’t think he believed me. I wouldn’t have either. But I never heard from him again.

They didn’t waste a second.

Nate hired someone to convert the spare room into a darkroom and insisted on painting the walls himself. He got more paint on his jeans than the walls, but it was endearing.

Meanwhile, Theo climbed a chair, cursed at the ceiling for twenty minutes, then strung fairy lights with the enthusiasm of a man assembling IKEA furniture blindfolded. Nate called them “fucking pointless”, but Theo immediately grinned when they lit up.

Now I find myself inside there, hands dipped in chemicals, seeing the images bloom under soft red light. Sometimes Nate appears, leaning against the wall, silent, eyes fixed on me like I’m the show. Drum-rough fingers twitching, lashes low, breathing slow.

Then comes Theo. Shirtless. Mouth full of chips. Demanding I print the one where he claims he looks “like a Greek god.” He flexes for emphasis. Completely ridiculous. And weirdly flattering.

I never imagined life could be so damn content. So full. I have both of them. Every day. Every night. And they have each other, too.

They always did. They just needed to stop pretending they didn’t.

And the sex… It’s fucking obscene.

They don’t ease up. They push. They ruin.

They fuck like it’s war. All teeth and hands and sweat and cum.

One of them will shatter me until I’m left trembling, and then the other’s already dragging me back under, flipping me over, shoving my thighs apart, whispering all the filthy things they want to do to me while I beg them not to stop.

They’re touching each other now.

Everything began with me telling them what I wanted. Showing them how fucking beautiful breaking together can be. How much it turns me on to watch them fall apart for each other.

Now it’s greedier. Hungrier. No hesitation.

Theo’s mouth trails down Nate’s neck, biting hard enough to leave marks, while his hand pumps Nate’s cock. Nate’s groans shatter against my shoulder, as he comes all over Theo’s hand.

Then Theo comes apart, spilling across his stomach, his body trembling from everything we’ve done to him, and I watch as Nate’s tongue drags through the mess, licking up every drop like he’s starved.

It’s hot. Messy. Wild and desperate. It’s fucking perfect.

They’ve turned my body into their playground, their battlefield, their religion. Every night, they come back hungry, greedy, determined to outdo each other. To see who can make me scream louder, fall apart faster, beg harder.

The other night, Theo pressed his mouth to my ear and growled that he was going to fuck me until I cried. Nate didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed my thigh, threw it over his shoulder, and said, “Then I’ll fuck her again while she’s still shaking.”

They meant every goddamn word. And I let them. Because nothing has ever come close to the way they make me feel.

I’ve been to every show. Every city. Every stadium packed so tight the air vibrates with sound.

I’m backstage with my camera, passes clipped to my belt. I tell myself I’m here to work. To document everything. To stay focused. But every time they step out on that stage, I forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.

Because I can’t take my eyes off them.

Nate behind the drums is sex on fire. His shirt clings to every hard line of his chest, sweat dripping down his neck, hair plastered to his forehead as he hammers the beat like the kit owes him something.

His thighs flex wide, shoulders tense with every strike, and an unholy rhythm drives the way his body moves.

Animalistic. Powerful. He throws his head back, lips parted, that wicked grin spreading across his face—the one that says he owns the fucking stage and everyone in the crowd knows it.

Theo stalks the stage with his bass slung low, hips rolling to a beat that makes the whole damn stadium feel dirty.

Sweat glistens on his skin, catching in the lights as he moves.

He doesn’t smile. He smirks, the kind that makes girls and guys lose their minds.

His fingers drag over the strings with obscene precision, coaxing a sound that thrums straight through your spine.

There’s no apology in the way he plays. No permission asked. He owns it. The stage. The crowd. Me.

Xander commands the crowd with nothing more than a smirk.

Shirt half-open. Voice soaked in sin. One verse in and thousands are his—pulled straight into his orbit, drunk on the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t flirt with the spotlight. He devours it.

Takes every cheer, every scream, and turns it into fire.

And then comes Ace. Always off to the side. Head bowed. Hands moving with violent grace. He doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. Every note he plays cuts deep. The sound spills out of him, gritty and bruised, music that bleeds before it burns.

Together, they’re sex in stereo.

All swagger and sweat, a four-part fever dream that doesn’t ask permission to crawl under your skin.

This isn’t a performance. This is a striptease for the soul, a slow burn scorching across soundwaves and stage lights.

They walk onstage and the room tilts. Bodies lean in.

Mouths part. Minds go blank. You don’t witness them, you ache for them.

They aren’t a band.

They’re a goddamn fantasy.

And I’m right in the middle of it.

You’d think I’d be jealous of the groupies.

Every city, there they are, crowding barricades with glitter-splattered signs, shouting Theo’s name like a battle cry, begging Nate to sign their tits while batting lashes.

Some press up against them in the chaos, trailing their nails along tattooed arms or slipping hotel keys or phone numbers into their pockets.

They flirt with no intention of stopping. Laugh too loud, touch too long, make promises with their eyes and fingers. They purr compliments, pretend they’re whispering secrets when they’re really issuing invitations. And every single one of them thinks she’ll be the one they’ll remember.

It’s never subtle. It’s grins too wide, dresses hiked too high, and vodka-laced breath purring things no girlfriend would ever let slide.

They ask Nate what he’s hiding under his jeans.

They pop the buttons on Theo’s shirt, dragging their fingers over the ink on his chest as though reading braille.

Some even have the nerve to look surprised when security escorts them out, as if grabbing at them wasn’t crossing a line.

And yeah, it’s a circus.

I don’t know how Poppy or Scarlet can stomach it.

Maybe they’ve taught their hearts to flinch quieter. Perhaps they’ve made peace with the circus.

But for me?

I’m drowning in it twice.

Twice the hunger clawing past security. I watch two men worshipped by strangers who want to turn screaming into something dirtier.

But I know they will never feel Nate’s hands the second the door shuts or wear the bruises his mouth leaves when the crowd’s roar fades.

They don’t know the sound Theo makes when he’s wrapped around me, breath tangled in my hair, hips pressed close, whispering broken things into the hollow of my neck.

They think the high is on that stage. They’ve never had the after. The sweat. The tremble. The fucking. The quiet. I get the parts no one else sees. I get the music when the stage has gone quiet.

Tour life is a beautiful chaotic mess. But in between the madness, Nate and Theo make time for me. For us.

Theo takes me on the most ridiculous dates.

Last night, he dragged me to an art gallery in this tiny Czech village.

He looked like a delinquent shoved into a tux.

I could tell he was bored out of his mind.

While I explored the exhibits, Theo set his sights on the poor girl carrying around a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

He kept sneaking snacks when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

But when she finally caught him mid-swipe, she didn’t scold him—she stayed and chatted with him for twenty minutes while he ate nearly everything on her tray.

That’s what I love about Theo. He doesn’t bend for the world. He brings the world to him.

Nate’s different.

He plans things. He’ll rent out a whole restaurant and tell the waitstaff to leave us alone, then spend the evening talking with his hands all over me.

One time, we didn’t make it out of the place before ending up in the bathroom, his mouth on mine, my back against the door, fucking, while both of us whispering that we’d missed each other even though we’d spent the whole day together.

Another night, we hit up a football game, Theo with one of those giant foam fingers, yelling insults at players he couldn’t name. I don’t think he even knew which team we were rooting for, but he screamed his heart out anyway. I couldn’t stop laughing.

And now it’s midnight in Prague.

I’m sitting by the window, knees tucked to my chest, watching the city lit up like it was painted in gold. The hotel window is cool against my skin as I watch the glow of ancient streets and cathedral spires stretch out beneath the stars. The air smells of rain and heat and old stone.

The guys are asleep in the king bed in the bedroom.

Nate is snoring softly, one leg hanging off the bed like always. Theo is curled around a pillow with his mouth slightly open. He’s finally able to sleep in the dark now.

It’s quiet here, peaceful in a way that seeps under your skin and makes you breathe slower.

This is when the truth always hits me.

Not during the chaos of the crowd screaming out their names. Not when I’ve got my camera raised, catching moments before they vanish.

In this stillness, the truth sinks in.

We’re okay.

That ache I used to carry—the one that clung to my ribs and made every breath feel cracked—doesn’t live here anymore.

It’s gone. Replaced by the steady rhythm of this life we’ve built. The easy kind of love that doesn’t need permission. The kind that doesn’t question whether we’ve earned it.

We laugh more now. Loud, ridiculous laughter that fills the walls and drowns out every silence that used to haunt us.

Nate’s always in the kitchen, losing himself in recipes for Theo and me to try. Theo’s always walking through the place half-naked, talking shit, leaving dirty little love notes scribbled on napkins.

And me—I wake up every morning knowing I’m safe. I’m seen. I’m loved.

But the ache isn’t pain anymore. What remains is a shared memory of a beautiful, wild girl we all loved with everything we had. She brought us together in our youth. And even in her death, she brought us back.

That day at her gravesite I couldn’t have predicted we’d find each other again. I had no sense that loss would lead me here, into something impossible and real all at once.

I have never loved anyone the way I love them. Not with this kind of burn. Not with this kind of ache.

I breathe them in, greedy for the taste, because I know what it means to live without. I hold that moment deep inside me, letting the weight sink into my bones. It’s wild, relentless and mine.

The door creaks behind me.

Nate steps in, shirtless, rubbing the heel of his hand over one eye. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” I say, my voice soft.

Theo follows. His hair is a mess, eyes hooded. He doesn’t speak, just lowers himself onto the window seat beside me.

Nate slips behind me, settling against the cushions.

I lean into him, my back pressing to his chest. He curls his arms around me, his lips brushing my shoulder before resting his chin on it.

Golden light from the window splashes across Theo’s face. It warms the curve of his mouth, the dark lashes casting shadows beneath his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him.

I always do.

Every time, the weight lands in his chest like a blow he can’t brace against. His lashes flicker, his breathing stumbles. I see the impact tear through him. No mask, no smirk, no quick-witted line to deflect the truth.

Because somewhere along the way, his father carved lies into his skin with every cruel word he threw at him.

But I will never stop saying the truth. I’ll whisper those words into his mouth with every kiss. I’ll breathe them against his neck when he’s asleep. I’ll tattoo the promise into every silence until the belief settles deep in his bones.

Because he is beautiful, and he’s mine.

His hand reaches for mine and then he leans forward and kisses me.

His lips brush mine, soft at first, nothing greedy. Nothing rushed. A kiss that says he’s here.

Theo pulls back, smirking. “You know your trouble, right?”

“Obviously,” I whisper.

Nate chuckles behind me, brushing a kiss to my shoulder. “She’s the best kind.”

They make me laugh, they make me feel.

This love we’ve built together is louder than the silence we once drowned in.

I stay tucked between them on the window seat.

Nate’s fingers trace gentle lines over my hip. No one speaks.

This is what I’ve wanted my whole life.

Arms wrapped around me.

Hands I trust.

Love that stays. Love that heals. A home I never thought I’d ever find.

And now because of them, I have it.

Is Xander and Poppy’s baby a boy or a girl?

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