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I wake in a white cloud. My contacts are stuck on my eyeballs, everything filmed in mist. I groan and roll over, trapped in the blanket. My memory of last night is like a drunken haze where you wake and scroll through your texts, pissing yourself when you realize what you’d typed.

Except I wasn’t drinking. I did that shit all on my own.

And the things I dreamed. Jesus, I don’t want to admit them.

I stretch onto my side, my spine stiff from the ballsack couch, then I freeze.

There’s a to-go cup and a light blue pastry bag on the coffee table.

They sit auspiciously on the pale wooden surface, staring at me, next to a pile of brochures that Carter snagged from the villa’s office. I snake a hand out from the blanket and brush my fingertips along the cup.

It’s warm.

Carter .

My heart does this jumping thing. Like it plasters itself against my ribs before retreating in confusion.

I twist to see the bed. No Carter. Just a lump of unmade sheets, the fitted one torn off at the corner, and the pillows in a chaotic mound.

I unwrap the blanket and settle my feet on the floor, spreading my toes into the carpet, my knee stiff and morning wood stiffer. Jesus, I need a relea?—

“I’m sorry.”

Carter’s voice comes from my right, and I flinch.

He’s sitting in front of the sliding door, a matching to-go cup in his hand and wearing the board shorts he’d bought for this trip, his bare chest moving steadily with his breath.

“About the bed,” he continues, tilting his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re uncomfortable. And I fucked it up. I’m sorry.”

I swallow, my throat dry. My voice is gonna crack, and it takes effort to push out a few words. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You don’t need to cover shit. I’d rather know. Just be straight with me. I can handle it.”

I still, my heart thumping, my mind churning.

Does he know? Does he really believe it was about the bed? Or is he giving me some kind of out? An excuse?

“I’m not uncomfortable.” I say. “I was just surprised.” And then I got hard for you in the shower.

And I dreamed. Wild dreams about you walking over here, bending down to grip my jaw and demanding that I open my mouth for you. And then you ? —

The images come back. The things I dreamed. They were beyond anything I’d thought I’d be into. Straight out of some kind of porn fantasy. He’d bent over me, his amber eyes on my blue ones. Opening his mouth, he spat a single stream of saliva into mine, getting me ready for his cock. He gripped my hair roughly and shoved all the way to the back of my throat, telling me…

I shiver and grip the blanket harder.

I don’t want to remember, but it all comes back anyway.

He was telling me… that I was perfect. That I was everything he wanted. That I was enough . Despite how fucked up everything is. How fucked up I am right now. That I’m still me .

And he did it all in that voice he uses when it’s just the two of us, the softer one that’s still somehow big, crowding out all the other errant thoughts so that there’s only Carter left.

I’d woken after that first dream, choking on my spit and shivering. Dick leaking all over the blanket and aching to fist myself and dive headfirst back into the fantasy.

“You’re so damn perfect, Theo. Everything is gonna be okay.”

And then when I fell onto my knees before him, he swept a hand into my hair, a strained whisper of, “ I love the way you tongue my cock.”

Holy fuck—I can’t believe my dreams. Imaginary shit that will never happen.

Not from Carter. Not easygoing, cheerful Carter . I mean, he’s sitting over there wearing board shorts with big yellow bananas all over them. He’s gonna be a kindergarten teacher for God’s sake. He’s not the guy who grabs your jaw and spits into your mouth, who tells you that you have the sexiest asshole he’s ever licked.

I bite down on my molars. I need to stop these thoughts.

“If you’re not uncomfortable…” He frowns thoughtfully. “Are you annoyed with me?"

“No.” I run a hand through my hair, pulling at the tangles. My fingers are shaking. “I’m not annoyed with you.”

He squeezes his thumb against his cup. “I just know that I can be kinda a lot sometimes. People get annoyed with me.”

My shoulders soften. “I swear I’m good,” I say. “You don’t annoy me, Carter. Not ever. And I’m the one who should apologize if I made you think you did anything wrong. You planned this entire trip, and I appreciate it so much.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He hesitates, looking like he wants to say more. If he asks about the shower, I don’t know what I’ll say.

I reach for the cup. “Is this for me?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Thanks, man.” I take a drink. “Oh, shit. You got me almond milk.”

A smile flips to his face, that dimple finally making an appearance. “You know, when penguins are friends, they give each other pebbles.”

“Uh, yeah.” Except that’s not entirely true. The penguins give rocks to their partners to help build a nest to protect the egg. It’s more than friendship. It’s courtship. And connection. And… love.

He nods at my cup. “But breakfast is so much freaking better.”

“Depends on if you’re a penguin or not.” I swallow another gulp, my forehead wrinkling. Where is he going with this? “Thanks.”

“Sure. Eat. I got you a donut. And then we’ll go find D n’ R.” He stands, stepping forward until he’s hovering over the couch, tremendous and ninety percent skin and smelling faintly of sunblock. “Hit the beach, yeah?”

“Okay.” I’m looking up at him, and… I don’t know… this light flits through his eyes. There one minute, gone the next. What does that mean? What’s he thinking?

He grabs the blue pastry bag and holds it out to me. “Pebble up, bro. The world awaits.”

I’m… lost. My breath sticks in my lungs, my thoughts churning.

He grins and tosses the bag in my lap, right over my aching dick, like it’s a fucking ring toss.

Then he laughs and heads toward the door, launching into some made-up song about penguins and pebbles, and I’m just sitting there, donut on my dick and so much on my brain that it hurts.

But I guess he’s right. The world awaits. And I really need to find it again, find me again.

So… I don’t know how to pick up a guy.

Rory throws me the football, and I catch his uneven spiral.

And I especially can’t figure out how to do this while hitting the beach with the guys.

To make it worse, Carter’s yellow banana shorts hug his ass. Tight around the muscular curve of his cheeks, digging a touch into his crack—enough that he has to adjust occasionally—and coming down to about mid thigh. The waistband lies just underneath that dusting of odd hair.

And why am I noticing that now ? We’ve been friends since freshman year. And I’ve fantasized about sucking a cock long before that. The first time I got the dildo was in high school.

I mean, I like Carter. I really do. But we’re friends.

I throw the ball a little harder than I should. Rory catches it with a grunt, then rubs at his chest.

“Sorry,” I call. I don’t look at Carter.

I already know what I’ll see.

He’s down the beach from us, a girl in a yellow bikini sitting on his shoulders, her slim legs hanging down his chest, her dark hair tumbling over his face in thick curls every time she looks down to talk to him.

It’s some weird-ass game of volleyball that he’s playing with Dorian—all these girls on the guys’ shoulders, everyone laughing like it’s the best time in the fucking world. Carter holds her knees to balance her when he runs for the ball, her thighs tightening against the sides of his neck.

He’s laughing too. Loud and happy.

My stomach tightens like a hard-shelled acorn is right in the middle of my abdomen. I guess that’s called a pit in the stomach.

I catch the ball, palming it with both hands. My fingertips slip along the laces before I toss it back.

Carter high-fives Dorian after they score a point, and I try not to roll my eyes. He’s so damn?—

A flash of brown zooms past. I stretch out, but the ball grazes my fingertips. My foot slips, a grunt shooting out as I slam, stomach first, into the sand.

Fuck. I push to my hands, then get to my feet, my knee screaming as I dust my legs off.

“You okay?” Rory jogs over, scanning me.

“Yeah.” I scoop to grab the ball, rolling my thumb over a gap in the stitching before tossing it back to him. “I think I’m gonna grab a drink.”

White temporary tents line the walkway on the far side of the beach. College kids are everywhere, going in and out, moving around. Hopefully, it’s far enough from the beach that if I talk with anyone, I’m not in full view. Maybe I can figure out how to?—

“I’ll go with you.” Rory tosses the ball on our towels.

Okay… so… plan failed.

But I’m glad as Rory and I fall into step next to each other, chatting about an editing job offer he got for after graduation in New York. Dorian’s heading back to California to work in his family’s flower shop. Carter’s looking for a teaching job.

All of us are going different ways, I guess.

Not that I know where I’m going.

We step under the first tent, and my eyes relax in the dim interior.

“What can I get you?” A guy behind the bar speaks in an accent I can’t place. I still, my heart clattering to a halt, my feet following.

Tattoos decorate the backs of his hands and curve along his forearms, over his shoulders to color his neck.

I can’t even sort out what I’m thinking. I just know that my eyes want to take all of him in, an inch at a time, all the way down to what’s hidden behind the bar. Although I doubt he would have those thighs like Carter, sticking out from his banana shorts, that flick of a dimple whenever he?—

Why the fuck am I thinking about Carter ?

I shove Carter to the back of my head, except he doesn’t go. He stays there in my thoughts, flinging out some jazz hands at the excitement of trying a new drink. Like how he is, I guess. Exuberant and loud and drawing all sorts of attention to himself.

“You good, mate?” The tattooed guy leans forward, his elbows falling on the bar, his voice with an edge of rasp.

“Ah…” I clear my throat. Rory’s talking to another bartender, ordering some kind of icy pink drink. I nod toward it. “One of those things, I guess.”

His brow arches. “A Pink Monstrosity?”

My mouth is dry. “That, ah, okay.”

“A’lrighty.” His eyes flick down, down, down. And then they linger. There is no fucking question what they’re lingering on. My cock twitches in response. He smiles. “One coming right up, handsome.”

He turns away from the bar, and I blink at his “Beach Hut” tank.

That was so fucking blatant .

Rory leans on the bar next to me.

Shit. Did he see ?

The bartender turns back and then sets a huge pink-filled cup in front of me. “This one’s on the house.”

“I can pay.” In my periphery, I’m hotly aware of Rory.

The bartender smiles, not seeming all that interested in helping anyone else or responding to my statement about paying. “Are you here on spring break?”

“Yep.”

“How long?”

“Four days.”

He tips his chin. “You should stop by again.”

“I should?” The dryness in my mouth is spreading to my throat.

“For sure.” He winks. “Ask for Maxim.”

I struggle to breathe. Struggle to realize that I’m still standing there.

I get a flash of images racing through my head. My fingers tugging at the tie of his shorts, his dark eyes on me, lips parting.

“You’re so damn perfect, Theo.”

Jesus, Carter . His voice is so damn cock-blocking loud in my head.

Rory’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump. Then we’re walking out, my toes sinking into the hot sand, the sweet taste of my pink monstrosity quenching my parched throat, the throb of my cock against the seam of my shorts. For the tattooed guy? For Carter?

“You’re so damn perfect, bro.”

Carter.

“That’s it. Take me to the back of your throat. Just like that.”

Carter.

“I love the way you tongue my cock.”

Carter.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Theo.”

I can’t get his imaginary words out of my head. Even through the entire pink monstrosity. And the second one, where I talk with Maxim a little more. The fucking third , where I find out he’s from New Zealand.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m even more clueless when Carter jogs over later, those bananas tight against his thighs. He reaches down to adjust his junk casually as he stops in front of my towel, grinning down at me.

I… fuck…

He plops down on my towel. “How many of those have you had?”

I lift my cup. “This is my third.”

“I’ll catch up.” His shoulder hits mine, warm from the sun.

We’re so close I can feel granules of sand on his skin rubbing against my biceps, see his amber eyes darkening. They’re so pretty. They show every emotion he has.

“You gonna hook up with that girl?” I bumble out, and fuck… did I just ask that?

His lips part, his shoulder stiffening against mine, people all around us, spring break craziness. But I’m so fucking tipsy that the only thing I can notice is Carter. His eyes. The way he looks at me.

If you told me to suck your cock right here, I would. I’d crawl onto my knees, the sand rough and warm against my kneecaps, and I’d shimmy off those banana shorts and lick along the full length of your shaft before swallowing you down. I’d do it in front of all these people, even though I have no clue what I’m doing. I’d do it for the first time. For you.

And if I told you that. If I let it out ? —

“Why would I?” His chest expands as he breathes.

I flinch, trying to sort out his meaning in my tipsy, not-sure-what-the-fuck-is-happening thoughts.

“I don’t understand,” I mumble.

“I don’t either.” His forehead wrinkles. “You’re hot. And then you’re cold. And then…”

“What?” Am I really so tipsy that I can’t sort out this conversation?

He groans, then shakes head. “Nothing, bro.”

Bro .

It’s a slap across the face. I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but it still stings.

We’re friends.

Friends.

Friends .

I shake my head, leaning away, when a shadow crosses over the top of us.

Yellow bikini girl is here. Perfect. And Carter’s suddenly laughing loudly and standing, dusting off the sand on his arms. Dorian’s there too, saying something about volleyball, and then Carter’s asking about the pink monstrosities before heading off toward the tents.

He doesn’t ask me to go.

I don’t want to fucking go.

I don’t know how to stop these thoughts. I can’t handle those fucking bananas on his shorts. Can’t handle that dimple. Can’t handle myself.

I half-avoid him for the rest of the day. Like an asshole. More like the guy I used to be—too cocky, too focused on himself. The guy who didn’t get what life was actually about.

But since he’s Carter, I hear him everywhere he goes. It’s impossible not to. He never once leaves my thoughts, no matter how many of those fucking drinks I suck down.

And when his arm loops over my shoulder later, smelling like sunblock and rum, and asks in my ear, “Are we good?”

I say, “Yes.”

Because it’s true.

No matter what I have to hide, or what I have to do, it’ll always be true.